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THE CONFIDENCE-MAN:
HIS MASQUERADE.

BY

HERMAN MELVILLE,



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I.

A mute goes aboard a boat on the Mississippi.


CHAPTER II.

Showing that many men have many minds.


CHAPTER III.

In which a variety of characters appear.


CHAPTER IV.

Renewal of old acquaintance.


CHAPTER V.

The man with the weed makes it an even question whether he be a great
sage or a great simpleton.


CHAPTER VI.

At the outset of which certain passengers prove deaf to the call of
charity.


CHAPTER VII.

A gentleman with gold sleeve-buttons.


CHAPTER VIII.

A charitable lady.


CHAPTER IX.

Two business men transact a little business.


CHAPTER X.

In the cabin.


CHAPTER XI.

Only a page or so.


CHAPTER XII.

The story of the unfortunate man, from which may be gathered whether or
no he has been justly so entitled.


CHAPTER XIII.

The man with the traveling-cap evinces much humanity, and in a way which
would seem to show him to be one of the most logical of optimists.


CHAPTER XIV.

Worth the consideration of those to whom it may prove worth considering.


CHAPTER XV.

An old miser, upon suitable representations, is prevailed upon to
venture an investment.


CHAPTER XVI.

A sick man, after some impatience, is induced to become a patient.


CHAPTER XVII.

Towards the end of which the Herb-Doctor proves himself a forgiver of
injuries.


CHAPTER XVIII.

Inquest into the true character of the Herb-Doctor.


CHAPTER XIX.

A soldier of fortune.


CHAPTER XX.

Reappearance of one who may be remembered.


CHAPTER XXI.

A hard case.


CHAPTER XXII.

In the polite spirit of the Tusculan disputations.


CHAPTER XXIII.

In which the powerful effect of natural scenery is evinced in the case
of the Missourian, who, in view of the region round about Cairo, has a
return of his chilly fit.


CHAPTER XXIV.

A philanthropist undertakes to convert a misanthrope, but does not get
beyond confuting him.


CHAPTER XXV.

The Cosmopolitan makes an acquaintance.


CHAPTER XXVI.

Containing the metaphysics of Indian-hating, according to the views of
one evidently not so prepossessed as Rousseau in favor of savages.


CHAPTER XXVII.

Some account of a man of questionable morality, but who, nevertheless,
would seem entitled to the esteem of that eminent English moralist who
said he liked a good hater.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

Moot points touching the late Colonel John Moredock.


CHAPTER XXIX.

The boon companions.


CHAPTER XXX.

Opening with a poetical eulogy of the Press, and continuing with talk
inspired by the same.


CHAPTER XXXI.

A metamorphosis more surprising than any in Ovid.


CHAPTER XXXII.

Showing that the age of music and magicians is not yet over.


CHAPTER XXXIII.

Which may pass for whatever it may prove to be worth.


CHAPTER XXXIV.

In which the Cosmopolitan tells the story of the gentleman-madman.


CHAPTER XXXV.

In which the Cosmopolitan strikingly evinces the artlessness of his
nature.


CHAPTER XXXVI.

In which the Cosmopolitan is accosted by a mystic, whereupon ensues
pretty much such talk as might be expected.


CHAPTER XXXVII.

The mystical master introduces the practical disciple.


CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The disciple unbends, and consents to act a social part.


CHAPTER XXXIX.

The hypothetical friends.


CHAPTER XL.

In which the story of China Aster is, at second-hand, told by one who,
while not disapproving the moral, disclaims the spirit of the style.


CHAPTER XLI.

Ending with a rupture of the hypothesis.


CHAPTER XLII.

Upon the heel of the last scene, the Cosmopolitan enters the barber's
shop, a benediction on his lips.


CHAPTER XLIII.

Very charming.


CHAPTER XLIV.

In which the last three words of the last chapter are made the text of
the discourse, which will be sure of receiving more or less attention
from those readers who do not skip it.


CHAPTER XLV.

The Cosmopolitan increases in seriousness.




CHAPTER I.

A MUTE GOES ABOARD A BOAT ON THE MISSISSIPPI.


At sunrise on a first of April, there appeared, suddenly as Manco Capac
at the lake Titicaca, a man in cream-colors, at the water-side in the
city of St. Louis.

His cheek was fair, his chin downy, his hair flaxen, his hat a white fur
one, with a long fleecy nap. He had neither trunk, valise, carpet-bag,
nor parcel. No porter followed him. He was unaccompanied by friends.
From the shrugged shoulders, titters, whispers, wonderings of the crowd,
it was plain that he was, in the extremest sense of the word, a
stranger.

In the same moment with his advent, he stepped aboard the favorite
steamer Fidèle, on the point of starting for New Orleans. Stared at, but
unsaluted, with the air of one neither courting nor shunning regard, but
evenly pursuing the path of duty, lead it through solitudes or cities,
he held on his way along the lower deck until he chanced to come to a
placard nigh the captain's office, offering a reward for the capture of
a mysterious impostor, supposed to have recently arrived from the East;
quite an original genius in his vocation, as would appear, though
wherein his originality consisted was not clearly given; but what
purported to be a careful description of his person followed.

As if it had been a theatre-bill, crowds were gathered about the
announcement, and among them certain chevaliers, whose eyes, it was
plain, were on the capitals, or, at least, earnestly seeking sight of
them from behind intervening coats; but as for their fingers, they were
enveloped in some myth; though, during a chance interval, one of these
chevaliers somewhat showed his hand in purchasing from another
chevalier, ex-officio a peddler of money-belts, one of his popular
safe-guards, while another peddler, who was still another versatile
chevalier, hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of Measan, the
bandit of Ohio, Murrel, the pirate of the Mississippi, and the brothers
Harpe, the Thugs of the Green River country, in Kentucky--creatures,
with others of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for
the most part, like the hunted generations of wolves in the same
regions, leaving comparatively few successors; which would seem cause
for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all except those who think
that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes
increase.

Pausing at this spot, the stranger so far succeeded in threading his
way, as at last to plant himself just beside the placard, when,
producing a small slate and tracing some words upon if, he held it up
before him on a level with the placard, so that they who read the one
might read the other. The words were these:--

"Charity thinketh no evil."

As, in gaining his place, some little perseverance, not to say
persistence, of a mildly inoffensive sort, had been unavoidable, it was
not with the best relish that the crowd regarded his apparent intrusion;
and upon a more attentive survey, perceiving no badge of authority about
him, but rather something quite the contrary--he being of an aspect so
singularly innocent; an aspect too, which they took to be somehow
inappropriate to the time and place, and inclining to the notion that
his writing was of much the same sort: in short, taking him for some
strange kind of simpleton, harmless enough, would he keep to himself,
but not wholly unobnoxious as an intruder--they made no scruple to
jostle him aside; while one, less kind than the rest, or more of a wag,
by an unobserved stroke, dexterously flattened down his fleecy hat upon
his head. Without readjusting it, the stranger quietly turned, and
writing anew upon the slate, again held it up:--

"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."

Illy pleased with his pertinacity, as they thought it, the crowd a
second time thrust him aside, and not without epithets and some buffets,
all of which were unresented. But, as if at last despairing of so
difficult an adventure, wherein one, apparently a non-resistant, sought
to impose his presence upon fighting characters, the stranger now moved
slowly away, yet not before altering his writing to this:--

"Charity endureth all things."

Shield-like bearing his slate before him, amid stares and jeers he moved
slowly up and down, at his turning points again changing his inscription
to--

"Charity believeth all things."

and then--

"Charity never faileth."

The word charity, as originally traced, remained throughout uneffaced,
not unlike the left-hand numeral of a printed date, otherwise left for
convenience in blank.

To some observers, the singularity, if not lunacy, of the stranger was
heightened by his muteness, and, perhaps also, by the contrast to his
proceedings afforded in the actions--quite in the wonted and sensible
order of things--of the barber of the boat, whose quarters, under a
smoking-saloon, and over against a bar-room, was next door but two to
the captain's office. As if the long, wide, covered deck, hereabouts
built up on both sides with shop-like windowed spaces, were some
Constantinople arcade or bazaar, where more than one trade is plied,
this river barber, aproned and slippered, but rather crusty-looking for
the moment, it may be from being newly out of bed, was throwing open
his premises for the day, and suitably arranging the exterior. With
business-like dispatch, having rattled down his shutters, and at a
palm-tree angle set out in the iron fixture his little ornamental pole,
and this without overmuch tenderness for the elbows and toes of the
crowd, he concluded his operations by bidding people stand still more
aside, when, jumping on a stool, he hung over his door, on the customary
nail, a gaudy sort of illuminated pasteboard sign, skillfully executed
by himself, gilt with the likeness of a razor elbowed in readiness to
shave, and also, for the public benefit, with two words not unfrequently
seen ashore gracing other shops besides barbers':--

"NO TRUST."

An inscription which, though in a sense not less intrusive than the
contrasted ones of the stranger, did not, as it seemed, provoke any
corresponding derision or surprise, much less indignation; and still
less, to all appearances, did it gain for the inscriber the repute of
being a simpleton.

Meanwhile, he with the slate continued moving slowly up and down, not
without causing some stares to change into jeers, and some jeers into
pushes, and some pushes into punches; when suddenly, in one of his
turns, he was hailed from behind by two porters carrying a large trunk;
but as the summons, though loud, was without effect, they accidentally
or otherwise swung their burden against him, nearly overthrowing him;
when, by a quick start, a peculiar inarticulate moan, and a pathetic
telegraphing of his fingers, he involuntarily betrayed that he was not
alone dumb, but also deaf.

Presently, as if not wholly unaffected by his reception thus far, he
went forward, seating himself in a retired spot on the forecastle, nigh
the foot of a ladder there leading to a deck above, up and down which
ladder some of the boatmen, in discharge of their duties, were
occasionally going.

From his betaking himself to this humble quarter, it was evident that,
as a deck-passenger, the stranger, simple though he seemed, was not
entirely ignorant of his place, though his taking a deck-passage might
have been partly for convenience; as, from his having no luggage, it was
probable that his destination was one of the small wayside landings
within a few hours' sail. But, though he might not have a long way to
go, yet he seemed already to have come from a very long distance.

Though neither soiled nor slovenly, his cream-colored suit had a tossed
look, almost linty, as if, traveling night and day from some far country
beyond the prairies, he had long been without the solace of a bed. His
aspect was at once gentle and jaded, and, from the moment of seating
himself, increasing in tired abstraction and dreaminess. Gradually
overtaken by slumber, his flaxen head drooped, his whole lamb-like
figure relaxed, and, half reclining against the ladder's foot, lay
motionless, as some sugar-snow in March, which, softly stealing down
over night, with its white placidity startles the brown farmer peering
out from his threshold at daybreak.




CHAPTER II.

SHOWING THAT MANY MEN HAVE MANY MINDS.


"Odd fish!"

"Poor fellow!"

"Who can he be?"

"Casper Hauser."

"Bless my soul!"

"Uncommon countenance."

"Green prophet from Utah."

"Humbug!"

"Singular innocence."

"Means something."

"Spirit-rapper."

"Moon-calf."

"Piteous."

"Trying to enlist interest."

"Beware of him."

"Fast asleep here, and, doubtless, pick-pockets on board."

"Kind of daylight Endymion."

"Escaped convict, worn out with dodging."

"Jacob dreaming at Luz."

Such the epitaphic comments, conflictingly spoken or thought, of a
miscellaneous company, who, assembled on the overlooking, cross-wise
balcony at the forward end of the upper deck near by, had not witnessed
preceding occurrences.

Meantime, like some enchanted man in his grave, happily oblivious of all
gossip, whether chiseled or chatted, the deaf and dumb stranger still
tranquilly slept, while now the boat started on her voyage.

The great ship-canal of Ving-King-Ching, in the Flowery Kingdom, seems
the Mississippi in parts, where, amply flowing between low, vine-tangled
banks, flat as tow-paths, it bears the huge toppling steamers, bedizened
and lacquered within like imperial junks.

Pierced along its great white bulk with two tiers of small
embrasure-like windows, well above the waterline, the Fiddle, though,
might at distance have been taken by strangers for some whitewashed fort
on a floating isle.

Merchants on 'change seem the passengers that buzz on her decks, while,
from quarters unseen, comes a murmur as of bees in the comb. Fine
promenades, domed saloons, long galleries, sunny balconies, confidential
passages, bridal chambers, state-rooms plenty as pigeon-holes, and
out-of-the-way retreats like secret drawers in an escritoire, present
like facilities for publicity or privacy. Auctioneer or coiner, with
equal ease, might somewhere here drive his trade.

Though her voyage of twelve hundred miles extends from apple to orange,
from clime to clime, yet, like any small ferry-boat, to right and left,
at every landing, the huge Fidèle still receives additional passengers
in exchange for those that disembark; so that, though always full of
strangers, she continually, in some degree, adds to, or replaces them
with strangers still more strange; like Rio Janeiro fountain, fed from
the Cocovarde mountains, which is ever overflowing with strange waters,
but never with the same strange particles in every part.

Though hitherto, as has been seen, the man in cream-colors had by no
means passed unobserved, yet by stealing into retirement, and there
going asleep and continuing so, he seemed to have courted oblivion, a
boon not often withheld from so humble an applicant as he. Those staring
crowds on the shore were now left far behind, seen dimly clustering like
swallows on eaves; while the passengers' attention was soon drawn away
to the rapidly shooting high bluffs and shot-towers on the Missouri
shore, or the bluff-looking Missourians and towering Kentuckians among
the throngs on the decks.

By-and-by--two or three random stoppages having been made, and the last
transient memory of the slumberer vanished, and he himself, not
unlikely, waked up and landed ere now--the crowd, as is usual, began in
all parts to break up from a concourse into various clusters or squads,
which in some cases disintegrated again into quartettes, trios, and
couples, or even solitaires; involuntarily submitting to that natural
law which ordains dissolution equally to the mass, as in time to the
member.

As among Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, or those oriental ones crossing
the Red Sea towards Mecca in the festival month, there was no lack of
variety. Natives of all sorts, and foreigners; men of business and men
of pleasure; parlor men and backwoodsmen; farm-hunters and fame-hunters;
heiress-hunters, gold-hunters, buffalo-hunters, bee-hunters,
happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener hunters after all
these hunters. Fine ladies in slippers, and moccasined squaws; Northern
speculators and Eastern philosophers; English, Irish, German, Scotch,
Danes; Santa Fé traders in striped blankets, and Broadway bucks in
cravats of cloth of gold; fine-looking Kentucky boatmen, and
Japanese-looking Mississippi cotton-planters; Quakers in full drab, and
United States soldiers in full regimentals; slaves, black, mulatto,
quadroon; modish young Spanish Creoles, and old-fashioned French Jews;
Mormons and Papists Dives and Lazarus; jesters and mourners, teetotalers
and convivialists, deacons and blacklegs; hard-shell Baptists and
clay-eaters; grinning negroes, and Sioux chiefs solemn as high-priests.
In short, a piebald parliament, an Anacharsis Cloots congress of all
kinds of that multiform pilgrim species, man.

As pine, beech, birch, ash, hackmatack, hemlock, spruce, bass-wood,
maple, interweave their foliage in the natural wood, so these mortals
blended their varieties of visage and garb. A Tartar-like
picturesqueness; a sort of pagan abandonment and assurance. Here reigned
the dashing and all-fusing spirit of the West, whose type is the
Mississippi itself, which, uniting the streams of the most distant and
opposite zones, pours them along, helter-skelter, in one cosmopolitan
and confident tide.




CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH A VARIETY OF CHARACTERS APPEAR.


In the forward part of the boat, not the least attractive object, for a
time, was a grotesque negro cripple, in tow-cloth attire and an old
coal-sifter of a tamborine in his hand, who, owing to something wrong
about his legs, was, in effect, cut down to the stature of a
Newfoundland dog; his knotted black fleece and good-natured, honest
black face rubbing against the upper part of people's thighs as he made
shift to shuffle about, making music, such as it was, and raising a
smile even from the gravest. It was curious to see him, out of his very
deformity, indigence, and houselessness, so cheerily endured, raising
mirth in some of that crowd, whose own purses, hearths, hearts, all
their possessions, sound limbs included, could not make gay.

"What is your name, old boy?" said a purple-faced drover, putting his
large purple hand on the cripple's bushy wool, as if it were the curled
forehead of a black steer.

"Der Black Guinea dey calls me, sar."

"And who is your master, Guinea?"

"Oh sar, I am der dog widout massa."

"A free dog, eh? Well, on your account, I'm sorry for that, Guinea. Dogs
without masters fare hard."

"So dey do, sar; so dey do. But you see, sar, dese here legs? What
ge'mman want to own dese here legs?"

"But where do you live?"

"All 'long shore, sar; dough now. I'se going to see brodder at der
landing; but chiefly I libs in dey city."

"St. Louis, ah? Where do you sleep there of nights?"

"On der floor of der good baker's oven, sar."

"In an oven? whose, pray? What baker, I should like to know, bakes such
black bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. Who is
that too charitable baker, pray?"

"Dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his
head.

"The sun is the baker, eh?"

"Yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie
when he sleeps out on der pabements o' nights."

"But that must be in the summer only, old boy. How about winter, when
the cold Cossacks come clattering and jingling? How about winter, old
boy?"

"Den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, I tell you, sar. Oh sar, oh!
don't speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver,
shuffling off into the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black
sheep nudging itself a cozy berth in the heart of the white flock.

Thus far not very many pennies had been given him, and, used at last to
his strange looks, the less polite passengers of those in that part of
the boat began to get their fill of him as a curious object; when
suddenly the negro more than revived their first interest by an
expedient which, whether by chance or design, was a singular temptation
at once to _diversion_ and charity, though, even more than his crippled
limbs, it put him on a canine footing. In short, as in appearance he
seemed a dog, so now, in a merry way, like a dog he began to be treated.
Still shuffling among the crowd, now and then he would pause, throwing
back his head and, opening his mouth like an elephant for tossed apples
at a menagerie; when, making a space before him, people would have a
bout at a strange sort of pitch-penny game, the cripple's mouth being at
once target and purse, and he hailing each expertly-caught copper with a
cracked bravura from his tambourine. To be the subject of alms-giving is
trying, and to feel in duty bound to appear cheerfully grateful under
the trial, must be still more so; but whatever his secret emotions, he
swallowed them, while still retaining each copper this side the
oesophagus. And nearly always he grinned, and only once or twice did
he wince, which was when certain coins, tossed by more playful almoners,
came inconveniently nigh to his teeth, an accident whose unwelcomeness
was not unedged by the circumstance that the pennies thus thrown proved
buttons.

While this game of charity was yet at its height, a limping,
gimlet-eyed, sour-faced person--it may be some discharged custom-house
officer, who, suddenly stripped of convenient means of support, had
concluded to be avenged on government and humanity by making himself
miserable for life, either by hating or suspecting everything and
everybody--this shallow unfortunate, after sundry sorry observations of
the negro, began to croak out something about his deformity being a
sham, got up for financial purposes, which immediately threw a damp upon
the frolic benignities of the pitch-penny players.

But that these suspicions came from one who himself on a wooden leg went
halt, this did not appear to strike anybody present. That cripples,
above all men should be companionable, or, at least, refrain from
picking a fellow-limper to pieces, in short, should have a little
sympathy in common misfortune, seemed not to occur to the company.

Meantime, the negro's countenance, before marked with even more than
patient good-nature, drooped into a heavy-hearted expression, full of
the most painful distress. So far abased beneath its proper physical
level, that Newfoundland-dog face turned in passively hopeless appeal,
as if instinct told it that the right or the wrong might not have
overmuch to do with whatever wayward mood superior intelligences might
yield to.

But instinct, though knowing, is yet a teacher set below reason, which
itself says, in the grave words of Lysander in the comedy, after Puck
has made a sage of him with his spell:--

"The will of man is by his reason swayed."

So that, suddenly change as people may, in their dispositions, it is not
always waywardness, but improved judgment, which, as in Lysander's case,
or the present, operates with them.

Yes, they began to scrutinize the negro curiously enough; when,
emboldened by this evidence of the efficacy of his words, the
wooden-legged man hobbled up to the negro, and, with the air of a
beadle, would, to prove his alleged imposture on the spot, have stripped
him and then driven him away, but was prevented by the crowd's clamor,
now taking part with the poor fellow, against one who had just before
turned nearly all minds the other way. So he with the wooden leg was
forced to retire; when the rest, finding themselves left sole judges in
the case, could not resist the opportunity of acting the part: not
because it is a human weakness to take pleasure in sitting in judgment
upon one in a box, as surely this unfortunate negro now was, but that it
strangely sharpens human perceptions, when, instead of standing by and
having their fellow-feelings touched by the sight of an alleged culprit
severely handled by some one justiciary, a crowd suddenly come to be all
justiciaries in the same case themselves; as in Arkansas once, a man
proved guilty, by law, of murder, but whose condemnation was deemed
unjust by the people, so that they rescued him to try him themselves;
whereupon, they, as it turned out, found him even guiltier than the
court had done, and forthwith proceeded to execution; so that the
gallows presented the truly warning spectacle of a man hanged by his
friends.

But not to such extremities, or anything like them, did the present
crowd come; they, for the time, being content with putting the negro
fairly and discreetly to the question; among other things, asking him,
had he any documentary proof, any plain paper about him, attesting that
his case was not a spurious one.

"No, no, dis poor ole darkie haint none o' dem waloable papers," he
wailed.

"But is there not some one who can speak a good word for you?" here said
a person newly arrived from another part of the boat, a young Episcopal
clergyman, in a long, straight-bodied black coat; small in stature, but
manly; with a clear face and blue eye; innocence, tenderness, and good
sense triumvirate in his air.

"Oh yes, oh yes, ge'mmen," he eagerly answered, as if his memory, before
suddenly frozen up by cold charity, as suddenly thawed back into
fluidity at the first kindly word. "Oh yes, oh yes, dar is aboard here a
werry nice, good ge'mman wid a weed, and a ge'mman in a gray coat and
white tie, what knows all about me; and a ge'mman wid a big book, too;
and a yarb-doctor; and a ge'mman in a yaller west; and a ge'mman wid a
brass plate; and a ge'mman in a wiolet robe; and a ge'mman as is a
sodjer; and ever so many good, kind, honest ge'mmen more aboard what
knows me and will speak for me, God bress 'em; yes, and what knows me as
well as dis poor old darkie knows hisself, God bress him! Oh, find 'em,
find 'em," he earnestly added, "and let 'em come quick, and show you
all, ge'mmen, dat dis poor ole darkie is werry well wordy of all you
kind ge'mmen's kind confidence."

"But how are we to find all these people in this great crowd?" was the
question of a bystander, umbrella in hand; a middle-aged person, a
country merchant apparently, whose natural good-feeling had been made at
least cautious by the unnatural ill-feeling of the discharged
custom-house officer.

"Where are we to find them?" half-rebukefully echoed the young Episcopal
clergymen. "I will go find one to begin with," he quickly added, and,
with kind haste suiting the action to the word, away he went.

"Wild goose chase!" croaked he with the wooden leg, now again drawing
nigh. "Don't believe there's a soul of them aboard. Did ever beggar have
such heaps of fine friends? He can walk fast enough when he tries, a
good deal faster than I; but he can lie yet faster. He's some white
operator, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. He and his friends are
all humbugs."

"Have you no charity, friend?" here in self-subdued tones, singularly
contrasted with his unsubdued person, said a Methodist minister,
advancing; a tall, muscular, martial-looking man, a Tennessean by birth,
who in the Mexican war had been volunteer chaplain to a volunteer
rifle-regiment.

"Charity is one thing, and truth is another," rejoined he with the
wooden leg: "he's a rascal, I say."

"But why not, friend, put as charitable a construction as one can upon
the poor fellow?" said the soldierlike Methodist, with increased
difficulty maintaining a pacific demeanor towards one whose own asperity
seemed so little to entitle him to it: "he looks honest, don't he?"

"Looks are one thing, and facts are another," snapped out the other
perversely; "and as to your constructions, what construction can you put
upon a rascal, but that a rascal he is?"

"Be not such a Canada thistle," urged the Methodist, with something less
of patience than before. "Charity, man, charity."

"To where it belongs with your charity! to heaven with it!" again
snapped out the other, diabolically; "here on earth, true charity dotes,
and false charity plots. Who betrays a fool with a kiss, the charitable
fool has the charity to believe is in love with him, and the charitable
knave on the stand gives charitable testimony for his comrade in the
box."

"Surely, friend," returned the noble Methodist, with much ado
restraining his still waxing indignation--"surely, to say the least, you
forget yourself. Apply it home," he continued, with exterior calmness
tremulous with inkept emotion. "Suppose, now, I should exercise no
charity in judging your own character by the words which have fallen
from you; what sort of vile, pitiless man do you think I would take you
for?"

"No doubt"--with a grin--"some such pitiless man as has lost his piety
in much the same way that the jockey loses his honesty."

"And how is that, friend?" still conscientiously holding back the old
Adam in him, as if it were a mastiff he had by the neck.

"Never you mind how it is"--with a sneer; "but all horses aint virtuous,
no more than all men kind; and come close to, and much dealt with, some
things are catching. When you find me a virtuous jockey, I will find you
a benevolent wise man."

"Some insinuation there."

"More fool you that are puzzled by it."

"Reprobate!" cried the other, his indignation now at last almost boiling
over; "godless reprobate! if charity did not restrain me, I could call
you by names you deserve."

"Could you, indeed?" with an insolent sneer.

"Yea, and teach you charity on the spot," cried the goaded Methodist,
suddenly catching this exasperating opponent by his shabby coat-collar,
and shaking him till his timber-toe clattered on the deck like a
nine-pin. "You took me for a non-combatant did you?--thought, seedy
coward that you are, that you could abuse a Christian with impunity. You
find your mistake"--with another hearty shake.

"Well said and better done, church militant!" cried a voice.

"The white cravat against the world!" cried another.

"Bravo, bravo!" chorused many voices, with like enthusiasm taking sides
with the resolute champion.

"You fools!" cried he with the wooden leg, writhing himself loose and
inflamedly turning upon the throng; "you flock of fools, under this
captain of fools, in this ship of fools!"

With which exclamations, followed by idle threats against his
admonisher, this condign victim to justice hobbled away, as disdaining
to hold further argument with such a rabble. But his scorn was more than
repaid by the hisses that chased him, in which the brave Methodist,
satisfied with the rebuke already administered, was, to omit still
better reasons, too magnanimous to join. All he said was, pointing
towards the departing recusant, "There he shambles off on his one lone
leg, emblematic of his one-sided view of humanity."

"But trust your painted decoy," retorted the other from a distance,
pointing back to the black cripple, "and I have my revenge."

"But we aint agoing to trust him!" shouted back a voice.

"So much the better," he jeered back. "Look you," he added, coming to a
dead halt where he was; "look you, I have been called a Canada thistle.
Very good. And a seedy one: still better. And the seedy Canada thistle
has been pretty well shaken among ye: best of all. Dare say some seed
has been shaken out; and won't it spring though? And when it does
spring, do you cut down the young thistles, and won't they spring the
more? It's encouraging and coaxing 'em. Now, when with my thistles your
farms shall be well stocked, why then--you may abandon 'em!"

"What does all that mean, now?" asked the country merchant, staring.

"Nothing; the foiled wolf's parting howl," said the Methodist. "Spleen,
much spleen, which is the rickety child of his evil heart of unbelief:
it has made him mad. I suspect him for one naturally reprobate. Oh,
friends," raising his arms as in the pulpit, "oh beloved, how are we
admonished by the melancholy spectacle of this raver. Let us profit by
the lesson; and is it not this: that if, next to mistrusting Providence,
there be aught that man should pray against, it is against mistrusting
his fellow-man. I have been in mad-houses full of tragic mopers, and
seen there the end of suspicion: the cynic, in the moody madness
muttering in the corner; for years a barren fixture there; head lopped
over, gnawing his own lip, vulture of himself; while, by fits and
starts, from the corner opposite came the grimace of the idiot at him."

"What an example," whispered one.

"Might deter Timon," was the response.

"Oh, oh, good ge'mmen, have you no confidence in dis poor ole darkie?"
now wailed the returning negro, who, during the late scene, had stumped
apart in alarm.

"Confidence in you?" echoed he who had whispered, with abruptly changed
air turning short round; "that remains to be seen."

"I tell you what it is, Ebony," in similarly changed tones said he who
had responded to the whisperer, "yonder churl," pointing toward the
wooden leg in the distance, "is, no doubt, a churlish fellow enough, and
I would not wish to be like him; but that is no reason why you may not
be some sort of black Jeremy Diddler."

"No confidence in dis poor ole darkie, den?"

"Before giving you our confidence," said a third, "we will wait the
report of the kind gentleman who went in search of one of your friends
who was to speak for you."

"Very likely, in that case," said a fourth, "we shall wait here till
Christmas. Shouldn't wonder, did we not see that kind gentleman again.
After seeking awhile in vain, he will conclude he has been made a fool
of, and so not return to us for pure shame. Fact is, I begin to feel a
little qualmish about the darkie myself. Something queer about this
darkie, depend upon it."

Once more the negro wailed, and turning in despair from the last
speaker, imploringly caught the Methodist by the skirt of his coat. But
a change had come over that before impassioned intercessor. With an
irresolute and troubled air, he mutely eyed the suppliant; against whom,
somehow, by what seemed instinctive influences, the distrusts first set
on foot were now generally reviving, and, if anything, with added
severity.

"No confidence in dis poor ole darkie," yet again wailed the negro,
letting go the coat-skirts and turning appealingly all round him.

"Yes, my poor fellow _I_ have confidence in you," now exclaimed the
country merchant before named, whom the negro's appeal, coming so
piteously on the heel of pitilessness, seemed at last humanely to have
decided in his favor. "And here, here is some proof of my trust," with
which, tucking his umbrella under his arm, and diving down his hand into
his pocket, he fished forth a purse, and, accidentally, along with it,
his business card, which, unobserved, dropped to the deck. "Here, here,
my poor fellow," he continued, extending a half dollar.

Not more grateful for the coin than the kindness, the cripple's face
glowed like a polished copper saucepan, and shuffling a pace nigher,
with one upstretched hand he received the alms, while, as unconsciously,
his one advanced leather stump covered the card.

Done in despite of the general sentiment, the good deed of the merchant
was not, perhaps, without its unwelcome return from the crowd, since
that good deed seemed somehow to convey to them a sort of reproach.
Still again, and more pertinaciously than ever, the cry arose against
the negro, and still again he wailed forth his lament and appeal among
other things, repeating that the friends, of whom already he had
partially run off the list, would freely speak for him, would anybody go
find them.

"Why don't you go find 'em yourself?" demanded a gruff boatman.

"How can I go find 'em myself? Dis poor ole game-legged darkie's friends
must come to him. Oh, whar, whar is dat good friend of dis darkie's, dat
good man wid de weed?"

At this point, a steward ringing a bell came along, summoning all
persons who had not got their tickets to step to the captain's office;
an announcement which speedily thinned the throng about the black
cripple, who himself soon forlornly stumped out of sight, probably on
much the same errand as the rest.




CHAPTER IV.

RENEWAL OF OLD ACQUAINTANCE.


"How do you do, Mr. Roberts?"

"Eh?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, certainly."

The crowd about the captain's office, having in good time melted away,
the above encounter took place in one of the side balconies astern,
between a man in mourning clean and respectable, but none of the
glossiest, a long weed on his hat, and the country-merchant
before-mentioned, whom, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, the
former had accosted.

"Is it possible, my dear sir," resumed he with the weed, "that you do
not recall my countenance? why yours I recall distinctly as if but half
an hour, instead of half an age, had passed since I saw you. Don't you
recall me, now? Look harder."

"In my conscience--truly--I protest," honestly bewildered, "bless my
soul, sir, I don't know you--really, really. But stay, stay," he
hurriedly added, not without gratification, glancing up at the crape on
the stranger's hat, "stay--yes--seems to me, though I have not the
pleasure of personally knowing you, yet I am pretty sure I have at least
_heard_ of you, and recently too, quite recently. A poor negro aboard
here referred to you, among others, for a character, I think."

"Oh, the cripple. Poor fellow. I know him well. They found me. I have
said all I could for him. I think I abated their distrust. Would I could
have been of more substantial service. And apropos, sir," he added, "now
that it strikes me, allow me to ask, whether the circumstance of one
man, however humble, referring for a character to another man, however
afflicted, does not argue more or less of moral worth in the latter?"

The good merchant looked puzzled.

"Still you don't recall my countenance?"

"Still does truth compel me to say that I cannot, despite my best
efforts," was the reluctantly-candid reply.

"Can I be so changed? Look at me. Or is it I who am mistaken?--Are you
not, sir, Henry Roberts, forwarding merchant, of Wheeling, Pennsylvania?
Pray, now, if you use the advertisement of business cards, and happen to
have one with you, just look at it, and see whether you are not the man
I take you for."

"Why," a bit chafed, perhaps, "I hope I know myself."

"And yet self-knowledge is thought by some not so easy. Who knows, my
dear sir, but for a time you may have taken yourself for somebody else?
Stranger things have happened."

The good merchant stared.

"To come to particulars, my dear sir, I met you, now some six years
back, at Brade Brothers & Co's office, I think. I was traveling for a
Philadelphia house. The senior Brade introduced us, you remember; some
business-chat followed, then you forced me home with you to a family
tea, and a family time we had. Have you forgotten about the urn, and
what I said about Werter's Charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that
capital story you told of the large loaf. A hundred times since, I have
laughed over it. At least you must recall my name--Ringman, John
Ringman."

"Large loaf? Invited you to tea? Ringman? Ringman? Ring? Ring?"

"Ah sir," sadly smiling, "don't ring the changes that way. I see you
have a faithless memory, Mr. Roberts. But trust in the faithfulness of
mine."

"Well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory aint of the very
best," was the honest rejoinder. "But still," he perplexedly added,
"still I----"

"Oh sir, suffice it that it is as I say. Doubt not that we are all well
acquainted."

"But--but I don't like this going dead against my own memory; I----"

"But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of
yours is a little faithless? Now, those who have faithless memories,
should they not have some little confidence in the less faithless
memories of others?"

"But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the slightest----"

"I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray, sir," with a sudden
illumination, "about six years back, did it happen to you to receive any
injury on the head? Surprising effects have arisen from such a cause.
Not alone unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less time
immediately subsequent to the injury, but likewise--strange to
add--oblivion, entire and incurable, as to events embracing a longer or
shorter period immediately preceding it; that is, when the mind at the
time was perfectly sensible of them, and fully competent also to
register them in the memory, and did in fact so do; but all in vain, for
all was afterwards bruised out by the injury."

After the first start, the merchant listened with what appeared more
than ordinary interest. The other proceeded:

"In my boyhood I was kicked by a horse, and lay insensible for a long
time. Upon recovering, what a blank! No faintest trace in regard to how
I had come near the horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or
that it was a horse at all that had brought me to that pass. For the
knowledge of those particulars I am indebted solely to my friends, in
whose statements, I need not say, I place implicit reliance, since
particulars of some sort there must have been, and why should they
deceive me? You see sir, the mind is ductile, very much so: but images,
ductilely received into it, need a certain time to harden and bake in
their impressions, otherwise such a casualty as I speak of will in an
instant obliterate them, as though they had never been. We are but clay,
sir, potter's clay, as the good book says, clay, feeble, and
too-yielding clay. But I will not philosophize. Tell me, was it your
misfortune to receive any concussion upon the brain about the period I
speak of? If so, I will with pleasure supply the void in your memory by
more minutely rehearsing the circumstances of our acquaintance."

The growing interest betrayed by the merchant had not relaxed as the
other proceeded. After some hesitation, indeed, something more than
hesitation, he confessed that, though he had never received any injury
of the sort named, yet, about the time in question, he had in fact been
taken with a brain fever, losing his mind completely for a considerable
interval. He was continuing, when the stranger with much animation
exclaimed:

"There now, you see, I was not wholly mistaken. That brain fever
accounts for it all."

"Nay; but----"

"Pardon me, Mr. Roberts," respectfully interrupting him, "but time is
short, and I have something private and particular to say to you. Allow
me."

Mr. Roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the two having silently
walked to a less public spot, the manner of the man with the weed
suddenly assumed a seriousness almost painful. What might be called a
writhing expression stole over him. He seemed struggling with some
disastrous necessity inkept. He made one or two attempts to speak, but
words seemed to choke him. His companion stood in humane surprise,
wondering what was to come. At length, with an effort mastering his
feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he spoke:

"If I remember, you are a mason, Mr. Roberts?"

"Yes, yes."

Averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return of agitation, the
stranger grasped the other's hand; "and would you not loan a brother a
shilling if he needed it?"

The merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat.

"Ah, Mr. Roberts, I trust you are not one of those business men, who
make a business of never having to do with unfortunates. For God's sake
don't leave me. I have something on my heart--on my heart. Under
deplorable circumstances thrown among strangers, utter strangers. I want
a friend in whom I may confide. Yours, Mr. Roberts, is almost the first
known face I've seen for many weeks."

It was so sudden an outburst; the interview offered such a contrast to
the scene around, that the merchant, though not used to be very
indiscreet, yet, being not entirely inhumane, remained not entirely
unmoved.

The other, still tremulous, resumed:

"I need not say, sir, how it cuts me to the soul, to follow up a social
salutation with such words as have just been mine. I know that I
jeopardize your good opinion. But I can't help it: necessity knows no
law, and heeds no risk. Sir, we are masons, one more step aside; I will
tell you my story."

In a low, half-suppressed tone, he began it. Judging from his auditor's
expression, it seemed to be a tale of singular interest, involving
calamities against which no integrity, no forethought, no energy, no
genius, no piety, could guard.

At every disclosure, the hearer's commiseration increased. No
sentimental pity. As the story went on, he drew from his wallet a bank
note, but after a while, at some still more unhappy revelation, changed
it for another, probably of a somewhat larger amount; which, when the
story was concluded, with an air studiously disclamatory of alms-giving,
he put into the stranger's hands; who, on his side, with an air
studiously disclamatory of alms-taking, put it into his pocket.

Assistance being received, the stranger's manner assumed a kind and
degree of decorum which, under the circumstances, seemed almost
coldness. After some words, not over ardent, and yet not exactly
inappropriate, he took leave, making a bow which had one knows not what
of a certain chastened independence about it; as if misery, however
burdensome, could not break down self-respect, nor gratitude, however
deep, humiliate a gentleman.

He was hardly yet out of sight, when he paused as if thinking; then with
hastened steps returning to the merchant, "I am just reminded that the
president, who is also transfer-agent, of the Black Rapids Coal Company,
happens to be on board here, and, having been subpoenaed as witness in a
stock case on the docket in Kentucky, has his transfer-book with him. A
month since, in a panic contrived by artful alarmists, some credulous
stock-holders sold out; but, to frustrate the aim of the alarmists, the
Company, previously advised of their scheme, so managed it as to get
into its own hands those sacrificed shares, resolved that, since a
spurious panic must be, the panic-makers should be no gainers by it. The
Company, I hear, is now ready, but not anxious, to redispose of those
shares; and having obtained them at their depressed value, will now sell
them at par, though, prior to the panic, they were held at a handsome
figure above. That the readiness of the Company to do this is not
generally known, is shown by the fact that the stock still stands on the
transfer-book in the Company's name, offering to one in funds a rare
chance for investment. For, the panic subsiding more and more every day,
it will daily be seen how it originated; confidence will be more than
restored; there will be a reaction; from the stock's descent its rise
will be higher than from no fall, the holders trusting themselves to
fear no second fate."

Having listened at first with curiosity, at last with interest, the
merchant replied to the effect, that some time since, through friends
concerned with it, he had heard of the company, and heard well of it,
but was ignorant that there had latterly been fluctuations. He added
that he was no speculator; that hitherto he had avoided having to do
with stocks of any sort, but in the present case he really felt
something like being tempted. "Pray," in conclusion, "do you think that
upon a pinch anything could be transacted on board here with the
transfer-agent? Are you acquainted with him?"

"Not personally. I but happened to hear that he was a passenger. For the
rest, though it might be somewhat informal, the gentleman might not
object to doing a little business on board. Along the Mississippi, you
know, business is not so ceremonious as at the East."

"True," returned the merchant, and looked down a moment in thought,
then, raising his head quickly, said, in a tone not so benign as his
wonted one, "This would seem a rare chance, indeed; why, upon first
hearing it, did you not snatch at it? I mean for yourself!"

"I?--would it had been possible!"

Not without some emotion was this said, and not without some
embarrassment was the reply. "Ah, yes, I had forgotten."

Upon this, the stranger regarded him with mild gravity, not a little
disconcerting; the more so, as there was in it what seemed the aspect
not alone of the superior, but, as it were, the rebuker; which sort of
bearing, in a beneficiary towards his benefactor, looked strangely
enough; none the less, that, somehow, it sat not altogether unbecomingly
upon the beneficiary, being free from anything like the appearance of
assumption, and mixed with a kind of painful conscientiousness, as
though nothing but a proper sense of what he owed to himself swayed him.
At length he spoke:

"To reproach a penniless man with remissness in not availing himself of
an opportunity for pecuniary investment--but, no, no; it was
forgetfulness; and this, charity will impute to some lingering effect of
that unfortunate brain-fever, which, as to occurrences dating yet
further back, disturbed Mr. Roberts's memory still more seriously."

"As to that," said the merchant, rallying, "I am not----"

"Pardon me, but you must admit, that just now, an unpleasant distrust,
however vague, was yours. Ah, shallow as it is, yet, how subtle a thing
is suspicion, which at times can invade the humanest of hearts and
wisest of heads. But, enough. My object, sir, in calling your attention
to this stock, is by way of acknowledgment of your goodness. I but seek
to be grateful; if my information leads to nothing, you must remember
the motive."

He bowed, and finally retired, leaving Mr. Roberts not wholly without
self-reproach, for having momentarily indulged injurious thoughts
against one who, it was evident, was possessed of a self-respect which
forbade his indulging them himself.




CHAPTER V

THE MAN WITH THE WEED MAKES IT AN EVEN QUESTION WHETHER HE BE A GREAT
SAGE OR A GREAT SIMPLETON.


"Well, there is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness that
is not greenness, either, no more than sorrow is. Dear good man. Poor
beating heart!"

It was the man with the weed, not very long after quitting the merchant,
murmuring to himself with his hand to his side like one with the
heart-disease.

Meditation over kindness received seemed to have softened him something,
too, it may be, beyond what might, perhaps, have been looked for from
one whose unwonted self-respect in the hour of need, and in the act of
being aided, might have appeared to some not wholly unlike pride out of
place; and pride, in any place, is seldom very feeling. But the truth,
perhaps, is, that those who are least touched with that vice, besides
being not unsusceptible to goodness, are sometimes the ones whom a
ruling sense of propriety makes appear cold, if not thankless, under a
favor. For, at such a time, to be full of warm, earnest words, and
heart-felt protestations, is to create a scene; and well-bred people
dislike few things more than that; which would seem to look as if the
world did not relish earnestness; but, not so; because the world, being
earnest itself, likes an earnest scene, and an earnest man, very well,
but only in their place--the stage. See what sad work they make of it,
who, ignorant of this, flame out in Irish enthusiasm and with Irish
sincerity, to a benefactor, who, if a man of sense and respectability,
as well as kindliness, can but be more or less annoyed by it; and, if of
a nervously fastidious nature, as some are, may be led to think almost
as much less favorably of the beneficiary paining him by his gratitude,
as if he had been guilty of its contrary, instead only of an
indiscretion. But, beneficiaries who know better, though they may feel
as much, if not more, neither inflict such pain, nor are inclined to run
any risk of so doing. And these, being wise, are the majority. By which
one sees how inconsiderate those persons are, who, from the absence of
its officious manifestations in the world, complain that there is not
much gratitude extant; when the truth is, that there is as much of it as
there is of modesty; but, both being for the most part votarists of the
shade, for the most part keep out of sight.

What started this was, to account, if necessary, for the changed air of
the man with the weed, who, throwing off in private the cold garb of
decorum, and so giving warmly loose to his genuine heart, seemed almost
transformed into another being. This subdued air of softness, too, was
toned with melancholy, melancholy unreserved; a thing which, however at
variance with propriety, still the more attested his earnestness; for
one knows not how it is, but it sometimes happens that, where
earnestness is, there, also, is melancholy.

At the time, he was leaning over the rail at the boat's side, in his
pensiveness, unmindful of another pensive figure near--a young gentleman
with a swan-neck, wearing a lady-like open shirt collar, thrown back,
and tied with a black ribbon. From a square, tableted-broach, curiously
engraved with Greek characters, he seemed a collegian--not improbably, a
sophomore--on his travels; possibly, his first. A small book bound in
Roman vellum was in his hand.

Overhearing his murmuring neighbor, the youth regarded him with some
surprise, not to say interest. But, singularly for a collegian, being
apparently of a retiring nature, he did not speak; when the other still
more increased his diffidence by changing from soliloquy to colloquy, in
a manner strangely mixed of familiarity and pathos.

"Ah, who is this? You did not hear me, my young friend, did you? Why,
you, too, look sad. My melancholy is not catching!"

"Sir, sir," stammered the other.

"Pray, now," with a sort of sociable sorrowfulness, slowly sliding along
the rail, "Pray, now, my young friend, what volume have you there? Give
me leave," gently drawing it from him. "Tacitus!" Then opening it at
random, read: "In general a black and shameful period lies before me."
"Dear young sir," touching his arm alarmedly, "don't read this book. It
is poison, moral poison. Even were there truth in Tacitus, such truth
would have the operation of falsity, and so still be poison, moral
poison. Too well I know this Tacitus. In my college-days he came near
souring me into cynicism. Yes, I began to turn down my collar, and go
about with a disdainfully joyless expression."

"Sir, sir, I--I--"

"Trust me. Now, young friend, perhaps you think that Tacitus, like me,
is only melancholy; but he's more--he's ugly. A vast difference, young
sir, between the melancholy view and the ugly. The one may show the
world still beautiful, not so the other. The one may be compatible with
benevolence, the other not. The one may deepen insight, the other
shallows it. Drop Tacitus. Phrenologically, my young friend, you would
seem to have a well-developed head, and large; but cribbed within the
ugly view, the Tacitus view, your large brain, like your large ox in the
contracted field, will but starve the more. And don't dream, as some of
you students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the deeper
meanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. Drop
Tacitus. His subtlety is falsity, To him, in his double-refined anatomy
of human nature, is well applied the Scripture saying--'There is a
subtle man, and the same is deceived.' Drop Tacitus. Come, now, let me
throw the book overboard."

"Sir, I--I--"

"Not a word; I know just what is in your mind, and that is just what I
am speaking to. Yes, learn from me that, though the sorrows of the world
are great, its wickedness--that is, its ugliness--is small. Much cause
to pity man, little to distrust him. I myself have known adversity, and
know it still. But for that, do I turn cynic? No, no: it is small beer
that sours. To my fellow-creatures I owe alleviations. So, whatever I
may have undergone, it but deepens my confidence in my kind. Now, then"
(winningly), "this book--will you let me drown it for you?"

"Really, sir--I--"

"I see, I see. But of course you read Tacitus in order to aid you in
understanding human nature--as if truth was ever got at by libel. My
young friend, if to know human nature is your object, drop Tacitus and
go north to the cemeteries of Auburn and Greenwood."

"Upon my word, I--I--"

"Nay, I foresee all that. But you carry Tacitus, that shallow Tacitus.
What do _I_ carry? See"--producing a pocket-volume--"Akenside--his
'Pleasures of Imagination.' One of these days you will know it. Whatever
our lot, we should read serene and cheery books, fitted to inspire love
and trust. But Tacitus! I have long been of opinion that these classics
are the bane of colleges; for--not to hint of the immorality of Ovid,
Horace, Anacreon, and the rest, and the dangerous theology of Eschylus
and others--where will one find views so injurious to human nature as in
Thucydides, Juvenal, Lucian, but more particularly Tacitus? When I
consider that, ever since the revival of learning, these classics have
been the favorites of successive generations of students and studious
men, I tremble to think of that mass of unsuspected heresy on every
vital topic which for centuries must have simmered unsurmised in the
heart of Christendom. But Tacitus--he is the most extraordinary example
of a heretic; not one iota of confidence in his kind. What a mockery
that such an one should be reputed wise, and Thucydides be esteemed the
statesman's manual! But Tacitus--I hate Tacitus; not, though, I trust,
with the hate that sins, but a righteous hate. Without confidence
himself, Tacitus destroys it in all his readers. Destroys confidence,
paternal confidence, of which God knows that there is in this world none
to spare. For, comparatively inexperienced as you are, my dear young
friend, did you never observe how little, very little, confidence, there
is? I mean between man and man--more particularly between stranger and
stranger. In a sad world it is the saddest fact. Confidence! I have
sometimes almost thought that confidence is fled; that confidence is the
New Astrea--emigrated--vanished--gone." Then softly sliding nearer, with
the softest air, quivering down and looking up, "could you now, my dear
young sir, under such circumstances, by way of experiment, simply have
confidence in _me_?"

From the outset, the sophomore, as has been seen, had struggled with an
ever-increasing embarrassment, arising, perhaps, from such strange
remarks coming from a stranger--such persistent and prolonged remarks,
too. In vain had he more than once sought to break the spell by
venturing a deprecatory or leave-taking word. In vain. Somehow, the
stranger fascinated him. Little wonder, then, that, when the appeal
came, he could hardly speak, but, as before intimated, being apparently
of a retiring nature, abruptly retired from the spot, leaving the
chagrined stranger to wander away in the opposite direction.




CHAPTER VI.

AT THE OUTSET OF WHICH CERTAIN PASSENGERS PROVE DEAF TO THE CALL OF
CHARITY.


----"You--pish! Why will the captain suffer these begging fellows on
board?";

These pettish words were breathed by a well-to-do gentleman in a
ruby-colored velvet vest, and with a ruby-colored cheek, a ruby-headed
cane in his hand, to a man in a gray coat and white tie, who, shortly
after the interview last described, had accosted him for contributions
to a Widow and Orphan Asylum recently founded among the Seminoles. Upon
a cursory view, this last person might have seemed, like the man with
the weed, one of the less unrefined children of misfortune; but, on a
closer observation, his countenance revealed little of sorrow, though
much of sanctity.

With added words of touchy disgust, the well-to-do gentleman hurried
away. But, though repulsed, and rudely, the man in gray did not
reproach, for a time patiently remaining in the chilly loneliness to
which he had been left, his countenance, however, not without token of
latent though chastened reliance.

At length an old gentleman, somewhat bulky, drew nigh, and from him also
a contribution was sought.

"Look, you," coming to a dead halt, and scowling upon him. "Look, you,"
swelling his bulk out before him like a swaying balloon, "look, you, you
on others' behalf ask for money; you, a fellow with a face as long as my
arm. Hark ye, now: there is such a thing as gravity, and in condemned
felons it may be genuine; but of long faces there are three sorts; that
of grief's drudge, that of the lantern-jawed man, and that of the
impostor. You know best which yours is."

"Heaven give you more charity, sir."

"And you less hypocrisy, sir."

With which words, the hard-hearted old gentleman marched off.

While the other still stood forlorn, the young clergyman, before
introduced, passing that way, catching a chance sight of him, seemed
suddenly struck by some recollection; and, after a moment's pause,
hurried up with: "Your pardon, but shortly since I was all over looking
for you."

"For me?" as marveling that one of so little account should be sought
for.

"Yes, for you; do you know anything about the negro, apparently a
cripple, aboard here? Is he, or is he not, what he seems to be?"

"Ah, poor Guinea! have you, too, been distrusted? you, upon whom nature
has placarded the evidence of your claims?"

"Then you do really know him, and he is quite worthy? It relieves me to
hear it--much relieves me. Come, let us go find him, and see what can be
done."

"Another instance that confidence may come too late. I am sorry to say
that at the last landing I myself--just happening to catch sight of him
on the gangway-plank--assisted the cripple ashore. No time to talk, only
to help. He may not have told you, but he has a brother in that
vicinity.

"Really, I regret his going without my seeing him again; regret it,
more, perhaps, than you can readily think. You see, shortly after
leaving St. Louis, he was on the forecastle, and there, with many
others, I saw him, and put trust in him; so much so, that, to convince
those who did not, I, at his entreaty, went in search of you, you being
one of several individuals he mentioned, and whose personal appearance
he more or less described, individuals who he said would willingly speak
for him. But, after diligent search, not finding you, and catching no
glimpse of any of the others he had enumerated, doubts were at last
suggested; but doubts indirectly originating, as I can but think, from
prior distrust unfeelingly proclaimed by another. Still, certain it is,
I began to suspect."

"Ha, ha, ha!"

A sort of laugh more like a groan than a laugh; and yet, somehow, it
seemed intended for a laugh.

Both turned, and the young clergyman started at seeing the wooden-legged
man close behind him, morosely grave as a criminal judge with a
mustard-plaster on his back. In the present case the mustard-plaster
might have been the memory of certain recent biting rebuffs and
mortifications.

"Wouldn't think it was I who laughed would you?"

"But who was it you laughed at? or rather, tried to laugh at?" demanded
the young clergyman, flushing, "me?"

"Neither you nor any one within a thousand miles of you. But perhaps you
don't believe it."

"If he were of a suspicious temper, he might not," interposed the man in
gray calmly, "it is one of the imbecilities of the suspicious person to
fancy that every stranger, however absent-minded, he sees so much as
smiling or gesturing to himself in any odd sort of way, is secretly
making him his butt. In some moods, the movements of an entire street,
as the suspicious man walks down it, will seem an express pantomimic
jeer at him. In short, the suspicious man kicks himself with his own
foot."

"Whoever can do that, ten to one he saves other folks' sole-leather,"
said the wooden-legged man with a crusty attempt at humor. But with
augmented grin and squirm, turning directly upon the young clergyman,
"you still think it was _you_ I was laughing at, just now. To prove your
mistake, I will tell you what I _was_ laughing at; a story I happened to
call to mind just then."

Whereupon, in his porcupine way, and with sarcastic details, unpleasant
to repeat, he related a story, which might, perhaps, in a good-natured
version, be rendered as follows:

A certain Frenchman of New Orleans, an old man, less slender in purse
than limb, happening to attend the theatre one evening, was so charmed
with the character of a faithful wife, as there represented to the life,
that nothing would do but he must marry upon it. So, marry he did, a
beautiful girl from Tennessee, who had first attracted his attention by
her liberal mould, and was subsequently recommended to him through her
kin, for her equally liberal education and disposition. Though large,
the praise proved not too much. For, ere long, rumor more than
corroborated it, by whispering that the lady was liberal to a fault. But
though various circumstances, which by most Benedicts would have been
deemed all but conclusive, were duly recited to the old Frenchman by his
friends, yet such was his confidence that not a syllable would he
credit, till, chancing one night to return unexpectedly from a journey,
upon entering his apartment, a stranger burst from the alcove: "Begar!"
cried he, "now I _begin_ to suspec."

His story told, the wooden-legged man threw back his head, and gave vent
to a long, gasping, rasping sort of taunting cry, intolerable as that of
a high-pressure engine jeering off steam; and that done, with apparent
satisfaction hobbled away.

"Who is that scoffer," said the man in gray, not without warmth. "Who is
he, who even were truth on his tongue, his way of speaking it would make
truth almost offensive as falsehood. Who is he?"

"He who I mentioned to you as having boasted his suspicion of the
negro," replied the young clergyman, recovering from disturbance, "in
short, the person to whom I ascribe the origin of my own distrust; he
maintained that Guinea was some white scoundrel, betwisted and painted
up for a decoy. Yes, these were his very words, I think."

"Impossible! he could not be so wrong-headed. Pray, will you call him
back, and let me ask him if he were really in earnest?"

The other complied; and, at length, after no few surly objections,
prevailed upon the one-legged individual to return for a moment. Upon
which, the man in gray thus addressed him: "This reverend gentleman
tells me, sir, that a certain cripple, a poor negro, is by you
considered an ingenious impostor. Now, I am not unaware that there are
some persons in this world, who, unable to give better proof of being
wise, take a strange delight in showing what they think they have
sagaciously read in mankind by uncharitable suspicions of them. I hope
you are not one of these. In short, would you tell me now, whether you
were not merely joking in the notion you threw out about the negro.
Would you be so kind?"

"No, I won't be so kind, I'll be so cruel."

"As you please about that."

"Well, he's just what I said he was."

"A white masquerading as a black?"

"Exactly."

The man in gray glanced at the young clergyman a moment, then quietly
whispered to him, "I thought you represented your friend here as a very
distrustful sort of person, but he appears endued with a singular
credulity.--Tell me, sir, do you really think that a white could look
the negro so? For one, I should call it pretty good acting."

"Not much better than any other man acts."

"How? Does all the world act? Am _I_, for instance, an actor? Is my
reverend friend here, too, a performer?"

"Yes, don't you both perform acts? To do, is to act; so all doers are
actors."

"You trifle.--I ask again, if a white, how could he look the negro so?"

"Never saw the negro-minstrels, I suppose?"

"Yes, but they are apt to overdo the ebony; exemplifying the old saying,
not more just than charitable, that 'the devil is never so black as he
is painted.' But his limbs, if not a cripple, how could he twist his
limbs so?"

"How do other hypocritical beggars twist theirs? Easy enough to see how
they are hoisted up."

"The sham is evident, then?"

"To the discerning eye," with a horrible screw of his gimlet one.

"Well, where is Guinea?" said the man in gray; "where is he? Let us at
once find him, and refute beyond cavil this injurious hypothesis."

"Do so," cried the one-eyed man, "I'm just in the humor now for having
him found, and leaving the streaks of these fingers on his paint, as the
lion leaves the streaks of his nails on a Caffre. They wouldn't let me
touch him before. Yes, find him, I'll make wool fly, and him after."

"You forget," here said the young clergyman to the man in gray, "that
yourself helped poor Guinea ashore."

"So I did, so I did; how unfortunate. But look now," to the other, "I
think that without personal proof I can convince you of your mistake.
For I put it to you, is it reasonable to suppose that a man with brains,
sufficient to act such a part as you say, would take all that trouble,
and run all that hazard, for the mere sake of those few paltry coppers,
which, I hear, was all he got for his pains, if pains they were?"

"That puts the case irrefutably," said the young clergyman, with a
challenging glance towards the one-legged man.

"You two green-horns! Money, you think, is the sole motive to pains and
hazard, deception and deviltry, in this world. How much money did the
devil make by gulling Eve?"

Whereupon he hobbled off again with a repetition of his intolerable
jeer.

The man in gray stood silently eying his retreat a while, and then,
turning to his companion, said: "A bad man, a dangerous man; a man to be
put down in any Christian community.--And this was he who was the means
of begetting your distrust? Ah, we should shut our ears to distrust, and
keep them open only for its opposite."

"You advance a principle, which, if I had acted upon it this morning, I
should have spared myself what I now feel.--That but one man, and he
with one leg, should have such ill power given him; his one sour word
leavening into congenial sourness (as, to my knowledge, it did) the
dispositions, before sweet enough, of a numerous company. But, as I
hinted, with me at the time his ill words went for nothing; the same as
now; only afterwards they had effect; and I confess, this puzzles me."

"It should not. With humane minds, the spirit of distrust works
something as certain potions do; it is a spirit which may enter such
minds, and yet, for a time, longer or shorter, lie in them quiescent;
but only the more deplorable its ultimate activity."

"An uncomfortable solution; for, since that baneful man did but just now
anew drop on me his bane, how shall I be sure that my present exemption
from its effects will be lasting?"

"You cannot be sure, but you can strive against it."

"How?"

"By strangling the least symptom of distrust, of any sort, which
hereafter, upon whatever provocation, may arise in you."

"I will do so." Then added as in soliloquy, "Indeed, indeed, I was to
blame in standing passive under such influences as that one-legged
man's. My conscience upbraids me.--The poor negro: You see him
occasionally, perhaps?"

"No, not often; though in a few days, as it happens, my engagements will
call me to the neighborhood of his present retreat; and, no doubt,
honest Guinea, who is a grateful soul, will come to see me there."

"Then you have been his benefactor?"

"His benefactor? I did not say that. I have known him."

"Take this mite. Hand it to Guinea when you see him; say it comes from
one who has full belief in his honesty, and is sincerely sorry for
having indulged, however transiently, in a contrary thought."

"I accept the trust. And, by-the-way, since you are of this truly
charitable nature, you will not turn away an appeal in behalf of the
Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum?"

"I have not heard of that charity."

"But recently founded."

After a pause, the clergyman was irresolutely putting his hand in his
pocket, when, caught by something in his companion's expression, he eyed
him inquisitively, almost uneasily.

"Ah, well," smiled the other wanly, "if that subtle bane, we were
speaking of but just now, is so soon beginning to work, in vain my
appeal to you. Good-by."

"Nay," not untouched, "you do me injustice; instead of indulging present
suspicions, I had rather make amends for previous ones. Here is
something for your asylum. Not much; but every drop helps. Of course you
have papers?"

"Of course," producing a memorandum book and pencil. "Let me take down
name and amount. We publish these names. And now let me give you a
little history of our asylum, and the providential way in which it was
started."




CHAPTER VII.

A GENTLEMAN WITH GOLD SLEEVE-BUTTONS.


At an interesting point of the narration, and at the moment when, with
much curiosity, indeed, urgency, the narrator was being particularly
questioned upon that point, he was, as it happened, altogether diverted
both from it and his story, by just then catching sight of a gentleman
who had been standing in sight from the beginning, but, until now, as it
seemed, without being observed by him.

"Pardon me," said he, rising, "but yonder is one who I know will
contribute, and largely. Don't take it amiss if I quit you."

"Go: duty before all things," was the conscientious reply.

The stranger was a man of more than winsome aspect. There he stood apart
and in repose, and yet, by his mere look, lured the man in gray from his
story, much as, by its graciousness of bearing, some full-leaved elm,
alone in a meadow, lures the noon sickleman to throw down his sheaves,
and come and apply for the alms of its shade.

But, considering that goodness is no such rare thing among men--the
world familiarly know the noun; a common one in every language--it was
curious that what so signalized the stranger, and made him look like a
kind of foreigner, among the crowd (as to some it make him appear more
or less unreal in this portraiture), was but the expression of so
prevalent a quality. Such goodness seemed his, allied with such fortune,
that, so far as his own personal experience could have gone, scarcely
could he have known ill, physical or moral; and as for knowing or
suspecting the latter in any serious degree (supposing such degree of it
to be), by observation or philosophy; for that, probably, his nature, by
its opposition, imperfectly qualified, or from it wholly exempted. For
the rest, he might have been five and fifty, perhaps sixty, but tall,
rosy, between plump and portly, with a primy, palmy air, and for the
time and place, not to hint of his years, dressed with a strangely
festive finish and elegance. The inner-side of his coat-skirts was of
white satin, which might have looked especially inappropriate, had it
not seemed less a bit of mere tailoring than something of an emblem, as
it were; an involuntary emblem, let us say, that what seemed so good
about him was not all outside; no, the fine covering had a still finer
lining. Upon one hand he wore a white kid glove, but the other hand,
which was ungloved, looked hardly less white. Now, as the Fidèle, like
most steamboats, was upon deck a little soot-streaked here and there,
especially about the railings, it was marvel how, under such
circumstances, these hands retained their spotlessness. But, if you
watched them a while, you noticed that they avoided touching anything;
you noticed, in short, that a certain negro body-servant, whose hands
nature had dyed black, perhaps with the same purpose that millers wear
white, this negro servant's hands did most of his master's handling for
him; having to do with dirt on his account, but not to his prejudices.
But if, with the same undefiledness of consequences to himself, a
gentleman could also sin by deputy, how shocking would that be! But it
is not permitted to be; and even if it were, no judicious moralist would
make proclamation of it.

This gentleman, therefore, there is reason to affirm, was one who, like
the Hebrew governor, knew how to keep his hands clean, and who never in
his life happened to be run suddenly against by hurrying house-painter,
or sweep; in a word, one whose very good luck it was to be a very good
man.

Not that he looked as if he were a kind of Wilberforce at all; that
superior merit, probably, was not his; nothing in his manner bespoke him
righteous, but only good, and though to be good is much below being
righteous, and though there is a difference between the two, yet not, it
is to be hoped, so incompatible as that a righteous man can not be a
good man; though, conversely, in the pulpit it has been with much
cogency urged, that a merely good man, that is, one good merely by his
nature, is so far from there by being righteous, that nothing short of a
total change and conversion can make him so; which is something which no
honest mind, well read in the history of righteousness, will care to
deny; nevertheless, since St. Paul himself, agreeing in a sense with the
pulpit distinction, though not altogether in the pulpit deduction, and
also pretty plainly intimating which of the two qualities in question
enjoys his apostolic preference; I say, since St. Paul has so meaningly
said, that, "scarcely for a righteous man will one die, yet peradventure
for a good man some would even dare to die;" therefore, when we repeat
of this gentleman, that he was only a good man, whatever else by severe
censors may be objected to him, it is still to be hoped that his
goodness will not at least be considered criminal in him. At all events,
no man, not even a righteous man, would think it quite right to commit
this gentleman to prison for the crime, extraordinary as he might deem
it; more especially, as, until everything could be known, there would be
some chance that the gentleman might after all be quite as innocent of
it as he himself.

It was pleasant to mark the good man's reception of the salute of the
righteous man, that is, the man in gray; his inferior, apparently, not
more in the social scale than in stature. Like the benign elm again, the
good man seemed to wave the canopy of his goodness over that suitor, not
in conceited condescension, but with that even amenity of true majesty,
which can be kind to any one without stooping to it.

To the plea in behalf of the Seminole widows and orphans, the gentleman,
after a question or two duly answered, responded by producing an ample
pocket-book in the good old capacious style, of fine green French
morocco and workmanship, bound with silk of the same color, not to omit
bills crisp with newness, fresh from the bank, no muckworms' grime upon
them. Lucre those bills might be, but as yet having been kept unspotted
from the world, not of the filthy sort. Placing now three of those
virgin bills in the applicant's hands, he hoped that the smallness of
the contribution would be pardoned; to tell the truth, and this at last
accounted for his toilet, he was bound but a short run down the river,
to attend, in a festive grove, the afternoon wedding of his niece: so
did not carry much money with him.

The other was about expressing his thanks when the gentleman in his
pleasant way checked him: the gratitude was on the other side. To him,
he said, charity was in one sense not an effort, but a luxury; against
too great indulgence in which his steward, a humorist, had sometimes
admonished him.

In some general talk which followed, relative to organized modes of
doing good, the gentleman expressed his regrets that so many benevolent
societies as there were, here and there isolated in the land, should not
act in concert by coming together, in the way that already in each
society the individuals composing it had done, which would result, he
thought, in like advantages upon a larger scale. Indeed, such a
confederation might, perhaps, be attended with as happy results as
politically attended that of the states.

Upon his hitherto moderate enough companion, this suggestion had an
effect illustrative in a sort of that notion of Socrates, that the soul
is a harmony; for as the sound of a flute, in any particular key, will,
it is said, audibly affect the corresponding chord of any harp in good
tune, within hearing, just so now did some string in him respond, and
with animation.

Which animation, by the way, might seem more or less out of character in
the man in gray, considering his unsprightly manner when first
introduced, had he not already, in certain after colloquies, given
proof, in some degree, of the fact, that, with certain natures, a
soberly continent air at times, so far from arguing emptiness of stuff,
is good proof it is there, and plenty of it, because unwasted, and may
be used the more effectively, too, when opportunity offers. What now
follows on the part of the man in gray will still further exemplify,
perhaps somewhat strikingly, the truth, or what appears to be such, of
this remark.

"Sir," said he eagerly, "I am before you. A project, not dissimilar to
yours, was by me thrown out at the World's Fair in London."

"World's Fair? You there? Pray how was that?"

"First, let me----"

"Nay, but first tell me what took you to the Fair?"

"I went to exhibit an invalid's easy-chair I had invented."

"Then you have not always been in the charity business?"

"Is it not charity to ease human suffering? I am, and always have been,
as I always will be, I trust, in the charity business, as you call it;
but charity is not like a pin, one to make the head, and the other the
point; charity is a work to which a good workman may be competent in all
its branches. I invented my Protean easy-chair in odd intervals stolen
from meals and sleep."

"You call it the Protean easy-chair; pray describe it."

"My Protean easy-chair is a chair so all over bejointed, behinged, and
bepadded, everyway so elastic, springy, and docile to the airiest touch,
that in some one of its endlessly-changeable accommodations of back,
seat, footboard, and arms, the most restless body, the body most racked,
nay, I had almost added the most tormented conscience must, somehow and
somewhere, find rest. Believing that I owed it to suffering humanity to
make known such a chair to the utmost, I scraped together my little
means and off to the World's Fair with it."

"You did right. But your scheme; how did you come to hit upon that?"

"I was going to tell you. After seeing my invention duly catalogued and
placed, I gave myself up to pondering the scene about me. As I dwelt
upon that shining pageant of arts, and moving concourse of nations, and
reflected that here was the pride of the world glorying in a glass
house, a sense of the fragility of worldly grandeur profoundly impressed
me. And I said to myself, I will see if this occasion of vanity cannot
supply a hint toward a better profit than was designed. Let some
world-wide good to the world-wide cause be now done. In short, inspired
by the scene, on the fourth day I issued at the World's Fair my
prospectus of the World's Charity."

"Quite a thought. But, pray explain it."

"The World's Charity is to be a society whose members shall comprise
deputies from every charity and mission extant; the one object of the
society to be the methodization of the world's benevolence; to which
end, the present system of voluntary and promiscuous contribution to be
done away, and the Society to be empowered by the various governments to
levy, annually, one grand benevolence tax upon all mankind; as in
Augustus Cæsar's time, the whole world to come up to be taxed; a tax
which, for the scheme of it, should be something like the income-tax in
England, a tax, also, as before hinted, to be a consolidation-tax of all
possible benevolence taxes; as in America here, the state-tax, and the
county-tax, and the town-tax, and the poll-tax, are by the assessors
rolled into one. This tax, according to my tables, calculated with care,
would result in the yearly raising of a fund little short of eight
hundred millions; this fund to be annually applied to such objects, and
in such modes, as the various charities and missions, in general
congress represented, might decree; whereby, in fourteen years, as I
estimate, there would have been devoted to good works the sum of eleven
thousand two hundred millions; which would warrant the dissolution of
the society, as that fund judiciously expended, not a pauper or heathen
could remain the round world over."

"Eleven thousand two hundred millions! And all by passing round a _hat_,
as it were."

"Yes, I am no Fourier, the projector of an impossible scheme, but a
philanthropist and a financier setting forth a philanthropy and a
finance which are practicable."

"Practicable?"

"Yes. Eleven thousand two hundred millions; it will frighten none but a
retail philanthropist. What is it but eight hundred millions for each of
fourteen years? Now eight hundred millions--what is that, to average it,
but one little dollar a head for the population of the planet? And who
will refuse, what Turk or Dyak even, his own little dollar for sweet
charity's sake? Eight hundred millions! More than that sum is yearly
expended by mankind, not only in vanities, but miseries. Consider that
bloody spendthrift, War. And are mankind so stupid, so wicked, that,
upon the demonstration of these things they will not, amending their
ways, devote their superfluities to blessing the world instead of
cursing it? Eight hundred millions! They have not to make it, it is
theirs already; they have but to direct it from ill to good. And to
this, scarce a self-denial is demanded. Actually, they would not in the
mass be one farthing the poorer for it; as certainly would they be all
the better and happier. Don't you see? But admit, as you must, that
mankind is not mad, and my project is practicable. For, what creature
but a madman would not rather do good than ill, when it is plain that,
good or ill, it must return upon himself?"

"Your sort of reasoning," said the good gentleman, adjusting his gold
sleeve-buttons, "seems all reasonable enough, but with mankind it wont
do."

"Then mankind are not reasoning beings, if reason wont do with them."

"That is not to the purpose. By-the-way, from the manner in which you
alluded to the world's census, it would appear that, according to your
world-wide scheme, the pauper not less than the nabob is to contribute
to the relief of pauperism, and the heathen not less than the Christian
to the conversion of heathenism. How is that?"

"Why, that--pardon me--is quibbling. Now, no philanthropist likes to be
opposed with quibbling."

"Well, I won't quibble any more. But, after all, if I understand your
project, there is little specially new in it, further than the
magnifying of means now in operation."

"Magnifying and energizing. For one thing, missions I would thoroughly
reform. Missions I would quicken with the Wall street spirit."

"The Wall street spirit?"

"Yes; for if, confessedly, certain spiritual ends are to be gained but
through the auxiliary agency of worldly means, then, to the surer
gaining of such spiritual ends, the example of worldly policy in worldly
projects should not by spiritual projectors be slighted. In brief, the
conversion of the heathen, so far, at least, as depending on human
effort, would, by the world's charity, be let out on contract. So much
by bid for converting India, so much for Borneo, so much for Africa.
Competition allowed, stimulus would be given. There would be no
lethargy of monopoly. We should have no mission-house or tract-house of
which slanderers could, with any plausibility, say that it had
degenerated in its clerkships into a sort of custom-house. But the main
point is the Archimedean money-power that would be brought to bear."

"You mean the eight hundred million power?"

"Yes. You see, this doing good to the world by driblets amounts to just
nothing. I am for doing good to the world with a will. I am for doing
good to the world once for all and having done with it. Do but think, my
dear sir, of the eddies and maëlstroms of pagans in China. People here
have no conception of it. Of a frosty morning in Hong Kong, pauper
pagans are found dead in the streets like so many nipped peas in a bin
of peas. To be an immortal being in China is no more distinction than to
be a snow-flake in a snow-squall. What are a score or two of
missionaries to such a people? A pinch of snuff to the kraken. I am for
sending ten thousand missionaries in a body and converting the Chinese
_en masse_ within six months of the debarkation. The thing is then done,
and turn to something else."

"I fear you are too enthusiastic."

"A philanthropist is necessarily an enthusiast; for without enthusiasm
what was ever achieved but commonplace? But again: consider the poor in
London. To that mob of misery, what is a joint here and a loaf there? I
am for voting to them twenty thousand bullocks and one hundred thousand
barrels of flour to begin with. They are then comforted, and no more
hunger for one while among the poor of London. And so all round."

"Sharing the character of your general project, these things, I take it,
are rather examples of wonders that were to be wished, than wonders that
will happen."

"And is the age of wonders passed? Is the world too old? Is it barren?
Think of Sarah."

"Then I am Abraham reviling the angel (with a smile). But still, as to
your design at large, there seems a certain audacity."

"But if to the audacity of the design there be brought a commensurate
circumspectness of execution, how then?"

"Why, do you really believe that your world's charity will ever go into
operation?"

"I have confidence that it will."

"But may you not be over-confident?"

"For a Christian to talk so!"

"But think of the obstacles!"

"Obstacles? I have confidence to remove obstacles, though mountains.
Yes, confidence in the world's charity to that degree, that, as no
better person offers to supply the place, I have nominated myself
provisional treasurer, and will be happy to receive subscriptions, for
the present to be devoted to striking off a million more of my
prospectuses."

The talk went on; the man in gray revealed a spirit of benevolence
which, mindful of the millennial promise, had gone abroad over all the
countries of the globe, much as the diligent spirit of the husbandman,
stirred by forethought of the coming seed-time, leads him, in March
reveries at his fireside, over every field of his farm. The master chord
of the man in gray had been touched, and it seemed as if it would never
cease vibrating. A not unsilvery tongue, too, was his, with gestures
that were a Pentecost of added ones, and persuasiveness before which
granite hearts might crumble into gravel.

Strange, therefore, how his auditor, so singularly good-hearted as he
seemed, remained proof to such eloquence; though not, as it turned out,
to such pleadings. For, after listening a while longer with pleasant
incredulity, presently, as the boat touched his place of destination,
the gentleman, with a look half humor, half pity, put another bank-note
into his hands; charitable to the last, if only to the dreams of
enthusiasm.




CHAPTER VIII.

A CHARITABLE LADY.


If a drunkard in a sober fit is the dullest of mortals, an enthusiast in
a reason-fit is not the most lively. And this, without prejudice to his
greatly improved understanding; for, if his elation was the height of
his madness, his despondency is but the extreme of his sanity. Something
thus now, to all appearance, with the man in gray. Society his stimulus,
loneliness was his lethargy. Loneliness, like the sea breeze, blowing
off from a thousand leagues of blankness, he did not find, as veteran
solitaires do, if anything, too bracing. In short, left to himself, with
none to charm forth his latent lymphatic, he insensibly resumes his
original air, a quiescent one, blended of sad humility and demureness.

Ere long he goes laggingly into the ladies' saloon, as in spiritless
quest of somebody; but, after some disappointed glances about him, seats
himself upon a sofa with an air of melancholy exhaustion and depression.

At the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant person, whose aspect
seems to hint that, if she have any weak point, it must be anything
rather than her excellent heart. From her twilight dress, neither dawn
nor dark, apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis of her
mourning. A small gilt testament is in her hand, which she has just been
reading. Half-relinquished, she holds the book in reverie, her finger
inserted at the xiii. of 1st Corinthians, to which chapter possibly her
attention might have recently been turned, by witnessing the scene of
the monitory mute and his slate.

The sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at evening, when for a
time the western hills shine on though the sun be set, her thoughtful
face retains its tenderness though the teacher is forgotten.

Meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as ere long to attract
her glance. But no responsive one. Presently, in her somewhat
inquisitive survey, her volume drops. It is restored. No encroaching
politeness in the act, but kindness, unadorned. The eyes of the lady
sparkle. Evidently, she is not now unprepossessed. Soon, bending over,
in a low, sad tone, full of deference, the stranger breathes, "Madam,
pardon my freedom, but there is something in that face which strangely
draws me. May I ask, are you a sister of the Church?"

"Why--really--you--"

In concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve it, but, without
seeming so to do. "It is very solitary for a brother here," eying the
showy ladies brocaded in the background, "I find none to mingle souls
with. It may be wrong--I _know_ it is--but I cannot force myself to be
easy with the people of the world. I prefer the company, however
silent, of a brother or sister in good standing. By the way, madam, may
I ask if you have confidence?"

"Really, sir--why, sir--really--I--"

"Could you put confidence in _me_ for instance?"

"Really, sir--as much--I mean, as one may wisely put in a--a--stranger,
an entire stranger, I had almost said," rejoined the lady, hardly yet at
ease in her affability, drawing aside a little in body, while at the
same time her heart might have been drawn as far the other way. A
natural struggle between charity and prudence.

"Entire stranger!" with a sigh. "Ah, who would be a stranger? In vain, I
wander; no one will have confidence in me."

"You interest me," said the good lady, in mild surprise. "Can I any way
befriend you?"

"No one can befriend me, who has not confidence."

"But I--I have--at least to that degree--I mean that----"

"Nay, nay, you have none--none at all. Pardon, I see it. No confidence.
Fool, fond fool that I am to seek it!"

"You are unjust, sir," rejoins the good lady with heightened interest;
"but it may be that something untoward in your experiences has unduly
biased you. Not that I would cast reflections. Believe me, I--yes,
yes--I may say--that--that----"

"That you have confidence? Prove it. Let me have twenty dollars."

"Twenty dollars!"

"There, I told you, madam, you had no confidence."

The lady was, in an extraordinary way, touched. She sat in a sort of
restless torment, knowing not which way to turn. She began twenty
different sentences, and left off at the first syllable of each. At
last, in desperation, she hurried out, "Tell me, sir, for what you want
the twenty dollars?"

"And did I not----" then glancing at her half-mourning, "for the widow
and the fatherless. I am traveling agent of the Widow and Orphan Asylum,
recently founded among the Seminoles."

"And why did you not tell me your object before?" As not a little
relieved. "Poor souls--Indians, too--those cruelly-used Indians. Here,
here; how could I hesitate. I am so sorry it is no more."

"Grieve not for that, madam," rising and folding up the bank-notes.
"This is an inconsiderable sum, I admit, but," taking out his pencil and
book, "though I here but register the amount, there is another register,
where is set down the motive. Good-bye; you have confidence. Yea, you
can say to me as the apostle said to the Corinthians, 'I rejoice that I
have confidence in you in all things.'"




CHAPTER IX.

TWO BUSINESS MEN TRANSACT A LITTLE BUSINESS.


----"Pray, sir, have you seen a gentleman with a weed hereabouts, rather
a saddish gentleman? Strange where he can have gone to. I was talking
with him not twenty minutes since."

By a brisk, ruddy-cheeked man in a tasseled traveling-cap, carrying
under his arm a ledger-like volume, the above words were addressed to
the collegian before introduced, suddenly accosted by the rail to which
not long after his retreat, as in a previous chapter recounted, he had
returned, and there remained.

"Have you seen him, sir?"

Rallied from his apparent diffidence by the genial jauntiness of the
stranger, the youth answered with unwonted promptitude: "Yes, a person
with a weed was here not very long ago."

"Saddish?"

"Yes, and a little cracked, too, I should say."

"It was he. Misfortune, I fear, has disturbed his brain. Now quick,
which way did he go?"

"Why just in the direction from which you came, the gangway yonder."

"Did he? Then the man in the gray coat, whom I just met, said right: he
must have gone ashore. How unlucky!"

He stood vexedly twitching at his cap-tassel, which fell over by his
whisker, and continued: "Well, I am very sorry. In fact, I had something
for him here."--Then drawing nearer, "you see, he applied to me for
relief, no, I do him injustice, not that, but he began to intimate, you
understand. Well, being very busy just then, I declined; quite rudely,
too, in a cold, morose, unfeeling way, I fear. At all events, not three
minutes afterwards I felt self-reproach, with a kind of prompting, very
peremptory, to deliver over into that unfortunate man's hands a
ten-dollar bill. You smile. Yes, it may be superstition, but I can't
help it; I have my weak side, thank God. Then again," he rapidly went
on, "we have been so very prosperous lately in our affairs--by we, I
mean the Black Rapids Coal Company--that, really, out of my abundance,
associative and individual, it is but fair that a charitable investment
or two should be made, don't you think so?"

"Sir," said the collegian without the least embarrassment, "do I
understand that you are officially connected with the Black Rapids Coal
Company?"

"Yes, I happen to be president and transfer-agent."

"You are?"

"Yes, but what is it to you? You don't want to invest?"

"Why, do you sell the stock?"

"Some might be bought, perhaps; but why do you ask? you don't want to
invest?"

"But supposing I did," with cool self-collectedness, "could you do up
the thing for me, and here?"

"Bless my soul," gazing at him in amaze, "really, you are quite a
business man. Positively, I feel afraid of you."

"Oh, no need of that.--You could sell me some of that stock, then?"

"I don't know, I don't know. To be sure, there are a few shares under
peculiar circumstances bought in by the Company; but it would hardly be
the thing to convert this boat into the Company's office. I think you
had better defer investing. So," with an indifferent air, "you have seen
the unfortunate man I spoke of?"

"Let the unfortunate man go his ways.--What is that large book you have
with you?"

"My transfer-book. I am subpoenaed with it to court."

"Black Rapids Coal Company," obliquely reading the gilt inscription on
the back; "I have heard much of it. Pray do you happen to have with you
any statement of the condition of your company."

"A statement has lately been printed."

"Pardon me, but I am naturally inquisitive. Have you a copy with you?"

"I tell you again, I do not think that it would be suitable to convert
this boat into the Company's office.--That unfortunate man, did you
relieve him at all?"

"Let the unfortunate man relieve himself.--Hand me the statement."

"Well, you are such a business-man, I can hardly deny you. Here,"
handing a small, printed pamphlet.

The youth turned it over sagely.

"I hate a suspicious man," said the other, observing him; "but I must
say I like to see a cautious one."

"I can gratify you there," languidly returning the pamphlet; "for, as I
said before, I am naturally inquisitive; I am also circumspect. No
appearances can deceive me. Your statement," he added "tells a very fine
story; but pray, was not your stock a little heavy awhile ago? downward
tendency? Sort of low spirits among holders on the subject of that
stock?"

"Yes, there was a depression. But how came it? who devised it? The
'bears,' sir. The depression of our stock was solely owing to the
growling, the hypocritical growling, of the bears."

"How, hypocritical?"

"Why, the most monstrous of all hypocrites are these bears: hypocrites
by inversion; hypocrites in the simulation of things dark instead of
bright; souls that thrive, less upon depression, than the fiction of
depression; professors of the wicked art of manufacturing depressions;
spurious Jeremiahs; sham Heraclituses, who, the lugubrious day done,
return, like sham Lazaruses among the beggars, to make merry over the
gains got by their pretended sore heads--scoundrelly bears!"

"You are warm against these bears?"

"If I am, it is less from the remembrance of their stratagems as to our
stock, than from the persuasion that these same destroyers of
confidence, and gloomy philosophers of the stock-market, though false in
themselves, are yet true types of most destroyers of confidence and
gloomy philosophers, the world over. Fellows who, whether in stocks,
politics, bread-stuffs, morals, metaphysics, religion--be it what it
may--trump up their black panics in the naturally-quiet brightness,
solely with a view to some sort of covert advantage. That corpse of
calamity which the gloomy philosopher parades, is but his
Good-Enough-Morgan."

"I rather like that," knowingly drawled the youth. "I fancy these gloomy
souls as little as the next one. Sitting on my sofa after a champagne
dinner, smoking my plantation cigar, if a gloomy fellow come to me--what
a bore!"

"You tell him it's all stuff, don't you?"

"I tell him it ain't natural. I say to him, you are happy enough, and
you know it; and everybody else is as happy as you, and you know that,
too; and we shall all be happy after we are no more, and you know that,
too; but no, still you must have your sulk."

"And do you know whence this sort of fellow gets his sulk? not from
life; for he's often too much of a recluse, or else too young to have
seen anything of it. No, he gets it from some of those old plays he sees
on the stage, or some of those old books he finds up in garrets. Ten to
one, he has lugged home from auction a musty old Seneca, and sets about
stuffing himself with that stale old hay; and, thereupon, thinks it
looks wise and antique to be a croaker, thinks it's taking a stand-way
above his kind."

"Just so," assented the youth. "I've lived some, and seen a good many
such ravens at second hand. By the way, strange how that man with the
weed, you were inquiring for, seemed to take me for some soft
sentimentalist, only because I kept quiet, and thought, because I had a
copy of Tacitus with me, that I was reading him for his gloom, instead
of his gossip. But I let him talk. And, indeed, by my manner humored
him."

"You shouldn't have done that, now. Unfortunate man, you must have made
quite a fool of him."

"His own fault if I did. But I like prosperous fellows, comfortable
fellows; fellows that talk comfortably and prosperously, like you. Such
fellows are generally honest. And, I say now, I happen to have a
superfluity in my pocket, and I'll just----"

"----Act the part of a brother to that unfortunate man?"

"Let the unfortunate man be his own brother. What are you dragging him
in for all the time? One would think you didn't care to register any
transfers, or dispose of any stock--mind running on something else. I
say I will invest."

"Stay, stay, here come some uproarious fellows--this way, this way."

And with off-handed politeness the man with the book escorted his
companion into a private little haven removed from the brawling swells
without.

Business transacted, the two came forth, and walked the deck.

"Now tell me, sir," said he with the book, "how comes it that a young
gentleman like you, a sedate student at the first appearance, should
dabble in stocks and that sort of thing?"

"There are certain sophomorean errors in the world," drawled the
sophomore, deliberately adjusting his shirt-collar, "not the least of
which is the popular notion touching the nature of the modern scholar,
and the nature of the modern scholastic sedateness."

"So it seems, so it seems. Really, this is quite a new leaf in my
experience."

"Experience, sir," originally observed the sophomore, "is the only
teacher."

"Hence am I your pupil; for it's only when experience speaks, that I can
endure to listen to speculation."

"My speculations, sir," dryly drawing himself up, "have been chiefly
governed by the maxim of Lord Bacon; I speculate in those philosophies
which come home to my business and bosom--pray, do you know of any other
good stocks?"

"You wouldn't like to be concerned in the New Jerusalem, would you?"

"New Jerusalem?"

"Yes, the new and thriving city, so called, in northern Minnesota. It
was originally founded by certain fugitive Mormons. Hence the name. It
stands on the Mississippi. Here, here is the map," producing a roll.
"There--there, you see are the public buildings--here the landing--there
the park--yonder the botanic gardens--and this, this little dot here, is
a perpetual fountain, you understand. You observe there are twenty
asterisks. Those are for the lyceums. They have lignum-vitae rostrums."

"And are all these buildings now standing?"

"All standing--bona fide."

"These marginal squares here, are they the water-lots?"

"Water-lots in the city of New Jerusalem? All terra firma--you don't
seem to care about investing, though?"

"Hardly think I should read my title clear, as the law students say,"
yawned the collegian.

"Prudent--you are prudent. Don't know that you are wholly out, either.
At any rate, I would rather have one of your shares of coal stock than
two of this other. Still, considering that the first settlement was by
two fugitives, who had swum over naked from the opposite shore--it's a
surprising place. It is, _bona fide_.--But dear me, I must go. Oh, if by
possibility you should come across that unfortunate man----"

"--In that case," with drawling impatience, "I will send for the
steward, and have him and his misfortunes consigned overboard."

"Ha ha!--now were some gloomy philosopher here, some theological bear,
forever taking occasion to growl down the stock of human nature (with
ulterior views, d'ye see, to a fat benefice in the gift of the
worshipers of Ariamius), he would pronounce that the sign of a hardening
heart and a softening brain. Yes, that would be his sinister
construction. But it's nothing more than the oddity of a genial
humor--genial but dry. Confess it. Good-bye."




CHAPTER X.

IN THE CABIN.


Stools, settees, sofas, divans, ottomans; occupying them are clusters of
men, old and young, wise and simple; in their hands are cards spotted
with diamonds, spades, clubs, hearts; the favorite games are whist,
cribbage, and brag. Lounging in arm-chairs or sauntering among the
marble-topped tables, amused with the scene, are the comparatively few,
who, instead of having hands in the games, for the most part keep their
hands in their pockets. These may be the philosophes. But here and
there, with a curious expression, one is reading a small sort of
handbill of anonymous poetry, rather wordily entitled:--

  "ODE
  ON THE INTIMATIONS
  OF
  DISTRUST IN MAN,
  UNWILLINGLY INFERRED FROM REPEATED REPULSES,
  IN DISINTERESTED ENDEAVORS
  TO PROCURE HIS
  CONFIDENCE."

On the floor are many copies, looking as if fluttered down from a
balloon. The way they came there was this: A somewhat elderly person, in
the quaker dress, had quietly passed through the cabin, and, much in
the manner of those railway book-peddlers who precede their proffers of
sale by a distribution of puffs, direct or indirect, of the volumes to
follow, had, without speaking, handed about the odes, which, for the
most part, after a cursory glance, had been disrespectfully tossed
aside, as no doubt, the moonstruck production of some wandering
rhapsodist.

In due time, book under arm, in trips the ruddy man with the
traveling-cap, who, lightly moving to and fro, looks animatedly about
him, with a yearning sort of gratulatory affinity and longing,
expressive of the very soul of sociality; as much as to say, "Oh, boys,
would that I were personally acquainted with each mother's son of you,
since what a sweet world, to make sweet acquaintance in, is ours, my
brothers; yea, and what dear, happy dogs are we all!"

And just as if he had really warbled it forth, he makes fraternally up
to one lounging stranger or another, exchanging with him some pleasant
remark.

"Pray, what have you there?" he asked of one newly accosted, a little,
dried-up man, who looked as if he never dined.

"A little ode, rather queer, too," was the reply, "of the same sort you
see strewn on the floor here."

"I did not observe them. Let me see;" picking one up and looking it
over. "Well now, this is pretty; plaintive, especially the opening:--

    'Alas for man, he hath small sense
    Of genial trust and confidence.'

--If it be so, alas for him, indeed. Runs off very smoothly, sir.
Beautiful pathos. But do you think the sentiment just?"

"As to that," said the little dried-up man, "I think it a kind of queer
thing altogether, and yet I am almost ashamed to add, it really has set
me to thinking; yes and to feeling. Just now, somehow, I feel as it were
trustful and genial. I don't know that ever I felt so much so before. I
am naturally numb in my sensibilities; but this ode, in its way, works
on my numbness not unlike a sermon, which, by lamenting over my lying
dead in trespasses and sins, thereby stirs me up to be all alive in
well-doing."

"Glad to hear it, and hope you will do well, as the doctors say. But who
snowed the odes about here?"

"I cannot say; I have not been here long."

"Wasn't an angel, was it? Come, you say you feel genial, let us do as
the rest, and have cards."

"Thank you, I never play cards."

"A bottle of wine?"

"Thank you, I never drink wine."

"Cigars?"

"Thank you, I never smoke cigars."

"Tell stories?"

"To speak truly, I hardly think I know one worth telling."

"Seems to me, then, this geniality you say you feel waked in you, is as
water-power in a land without mills. Come, you had better take a genial
hand at the cards. To begin, we will play for as small a sum as you
please; just enough to make it interesting."

"Indeed, you must excuse me. Somehow I distrust cards."

"What, distrust cards? Genial cards? Then for once I join with our sad
Philomel here:--

    'Alas for man, he hath small sense
    Of genial trust and confidence.'

Good-bye!"

Sauntering and chatting here and there, again, he with the book at
length seems fatigued, looks round for a seat, and spying a
partly-vacant settee drawn up against the side, drops down there; soon,
like his chance neighbor, who happens to be the good merchant, becoming
not a little interested in the scene more immediately before him; a
party at whist; two cream-faced, giddy, unpolished youths, the one in a
red cravat, the other in a green, opposed to two bland, grave, handsome,
self-possessed men of middle age, decorously dressed in a sort of
professional black, and apparently doctors of some eminence in the civil
law.

By-and-by, after a preliminary scanning of the new comer next him the
good merchant, sideways leaning over, whispers behind a crumpled copy of
the Ode which he holds: "Sir, I don't like the looks of those two, do
you?"

"Hardly," was the whispered reply; "those colored cravats are not in the
best taste, at least not to mine; but my taste is no rule for all."

"You mistake; I mean the other two, and I don't refer to dress, but
countenance. I confess I am not familiar with such gentry any further
than reading about them in the papers--but those two are--are sharpers,
aint they?"

"Far be from us the captious and fault-finding spirit, my dear sir."

"Indeed, sir, I would not find fault; I am little given that way: but
certainly, to say the least, these two youths can hardly be adepts,
while the opposed couple may be even more."

"You would not hint that the colored cravats would be so bungling as to
lose, and the dark cravats so dextrous as to cheat?--Sour imaginations,
my dear sir. Dismiss them. To little purpose have you read the Ode you
have there. Years and experience, I trust, have not sophisticated you. A
fresh and liberal construction would teach us to regard those four
players--indeed, this whole cabin-full of players--as playing at games
in which every player plays fair, and not a player but shall win."

"Now, you hardly mean that; because games in which all may win, such
games remain as yet in this world uninvented, I think."

"Come, come," luxuriously laying himself back, and casting a free glance
upon the players, "fares all paid; digestion sound; care, toil, penury,
grief, unknown; lounging on this sofa, with waistband relaxed, why not
be cheerfully resigned to one's fate, nor peevishly pick holes in the
blessed fate of the world?"

Upon this, the good merchant, after staring long and hard, and then
rubbing his forehead, fell into meditation, at first uneasy, but at last
composed, and in the end, once more addressed his companion: "Well, I
see it's good to out with one's private thoughts now and then. Somehow,
I don't know why, a certain misty suspiciousness seems inseparable from
most of one's private notions about some men and some things; but once
out with these misty notions, and their mere contact with other men's
soon dissipates, or, at least, modifies them."

"You think I have done you good, then? may be, I have. But don't
thank me, don't thank me. If by words, casually delivered in the
social hour, I do any good to right or left, it is but involuntary
influence--locust-tree sweetening the herbage under it; no merit at
all; mere wholesome accident, of a wholesome nature.--Don't you see?"

Another stare from the good merchant, and both were silent again.

Finding his book, hitherto resting on his lap, rather irksome there, the
owner now places it edgewise on the settee, between himself and
neighbor; in so doing, chancing to expose the lettering on the
back--"_Black Rapids Coal Company_"--which the good merchant,
scrupulously honorable, had much ado to avoid reading, so directly would
it have fallen under his eye, had he not conscientiously averted it. On
a sudden, as if just reminded of something, the stranger starts up, and
moves away, in his haste leaving his book; which the merchant observing,
without delay takes it up, and, hurrying after, civilly returns it; in
which act he could not avoid catching sight by an involuntary glance of
part of the lettering.

"Thank you, thank you, my good sir," said the other, receiving the
volume, and was resuming his retreat, when the merchant spoke: "Excuse
me, but are you not in some way connected with the--the Coal Company I
have heard of?"

"There is more than one Coal Company that may be heard of, my good sir,"
smiled the other, pausing with an expression of painful impatience,
disinterestedly mastered.

"But you are connected with one in particular.--The 'Black Rapids,' are
you not?"

"How did you find that out?"

"Well, sir, I have heard rather tempting information of your Company."

"Who is your informant, pray," somewhat coldly.

"A--a person by the name of Ringman."

"Don't know him. But, doubtless, there are plenty who know our Company,
whom our Company does not know; in the same way that one may know an
individual, yet be unknown to him.--Known this Ringman long? Old friend,
I suppose.--But pardon, I must leave you."

"Stay, sir, that--that stock."

"Stock?"

"Yes, it's a little irregular, perhaps, but----"

"Dear me, you don't think of doing any business with me, do you? In my
official capacity I have not been authenticated to you. This
transfer-book, now," holding it up so as to bring the lettering in
sight, "how do you know that it may not be a bogus one? And I, being
personally a stranger to you, how can you have confidence in me?"

"Because," knowingly smiled the good merchant, "if you were other than I
have confidence that you are, hardly would you challenge distrust that
way."

"But you have not examined my book."

"What need to, if already I believe that it is what it is lettered to
be?"

"But you had better. It might suggest doubts."

"Doubts, may be, it might suggest, but not knowledge; for how, by
examining the book, should I think I knew any more than I now think I
do; since, if it be the true book, I think it so already; and since if
it be otherwise, then I have never seen the true one, and don't know
what that ought to look like."

"Your logic I will not criticize, but your confidence I admire, and
earnestly, too, jocose as was the method I took to draw it out. Enough,
we will go to yonder table, and if there be any business which, either
in my private or official capacity, I can help you do, pray command
me."




CHAPTER XI.

ONLY A PAGE OR SO.


The transaction concluded, the two still remained seated, falling into
familiar conversation, by degrees verging into that confidential sort of
sympathetic silence, the last refinement and luxury of unaffected good
feeling. A kind of social superstition, to suppose that to be truly
friendly one must be saying friendly words all the time, any more than
be doing friendly deeds continually. True friendliness, like true
religion, being in a sort independent of works.

At length, the good merchant, whose eyes were pensively resting upon the
gay tables in the distance, broke the spell by saying that, from the
spectacle before them, one would little divine what other quarters of
the boat might reveal. He cited the case, accidentally encountered but
an hour or two previous, of a shrunken old miser, clad in shrunken old
moleskin, stretched out, an invalid, on a bare plank in the emigrants'
quarters, eagerly clinging to life and lucre, though the one was gasping
for outlet, and about the other he was in torment lest death, or some
other unprincipled cut-purse, should be the means of his losing it; by
like feeble tenure holding lungs and pouch, and yet knowing and
desiring nothing beyond them; for his mind, never raised above mould,
was now all but mouldered away. To such a degree, indeed, that he had no
trust in anything, not even in his parchment bonds, which, the better to
preserve from the tooth of time, he had packed down and sealed up, like
brandy peaches, in a tin case of spirits.

The worthy man proceeded at some length with these dispiriting
particulars. Nor would his cheery companion wholly deny that there might
be a point of view from which such a case of extreme want of confidence
might, to the humane mind, present features not altogether welcome as
wine and olives after dinner. Still, he was not without compensatory
considerations, and, upon the whole, took his companion to task for
evincing what, in a good-natured, round-about way, he hinted to be a
somewhat jaundiced sentimentality. Nature, he added, in Shakespeare's
words, had meal and bran; and, rightly regarded, the bran in its way was
not to be condemned.

The other was not disposed to question the justice of Shakespeare's
thought, but would hardly admit the propriety of the application in this
instance, much less of the comment. So, after some further temperate
discussion of the pitiable miser, finding that they could not entirely
harmonize, the merchant cited another case, that of the negro cripple.
But his companion suggested whether the alleged hardships of that
alleged unfortunate might not exist more in the pity of the observer
than the experience of the observed. He knew nothing about the cripple,
nor had seen him, but ventured to surmise that, could one but get at the
real state of his heart, he would be found about as happy as most men,
if not, in fact, full as happy as the speaker himself. He added that
negroes were by nature a singularly cheerful race; no one ever heard of
a native-born African Zimmermann or Torquemada; that even from religion
they dismissed all gloom; in their hilarious rituals they danced, so to
speak, and, as it were, cut pigeon-wings. It was improbable, therefore,
that a negro, however reduced to his stumps by fortune, could be ever
thrown off the legs of a laughing philosophy.

Foiled again, the good merchant would not desist, but ventured still a
third case, that of the man with the weed, whose story, as narrated by
himself, and confirmed and filled out by the testimony of a certain man
in a gray coat, whom the merchant had afterwards met, he now proceeded
to give; and that, without holding back those particulars disclosed by
the second informant, but which delicacy had prevented the unfortunate
man himself from touching upon.

But as the good merchant could, perhaps, do better justice to the man
than the story, we shall venture to tell it in other words than his,
though not to any other effect.




CHAPTER XII.

STORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE MAN, FROM WHICH MAY BE GATHERED WHETHER OR NO
HE HAS BEEN JUSTLY SO ENTITLED.


It appeared that the unfortunate man had had for a wife one of those
natures, anomalously vicious, which would almost tempt a metaphysical
lover of our species to doubt whether the human form be, in all cases,
conclusive evidence of humanity, whether, sometimes, it may not be a
kind of unpledged and indifferent tabernacle, and whether, once for all
to crush the saying of Thrasea, (an unaccountable one, considering that
he himself was so good a man) that "he who hates vice, hates humanity,"
it should not, in self-defense, be held for a reasonable maxim, that
none but the good are human.

Goneril was young, in person lithe and straight, too straight, indeed,
for a woman, a complexion naturally rosy, and which would have been
charmingly so, but for a certain hardness and bakedness, like that of
the glazed colors on stone-ware. Her hair was of a deep, rich chestnut,
but worn in close, short curls all round her head. Her Indian figure was
not without its impairing effect on her bust, while her mouth would have
been pretty but for a trace of moustache. Upon the whole, aided by the
resources of the toilet, her appearance at distance was such, that some
might have thought her, if anything, rather beautiful, though of a style
of beauty rather peculiar and cactus-like.

It was happy for Goneril that her more striking peculiarities were less
of the person than of temper and taste. One hardly knows how to reveal,
that, while having a natural antipathy to such things as the breast of
chicken, or custard, or peach, or grape, Goneril could yet in private
make a satisfactory lunch on hard crackers and brawn of ham. She liked
lemons, and the only kind of candy she loved were little dried sticks of
blue clay, secretly carried in her pocket. Withal she had hard, steady
health like a squaw's, with as firm a spirit and resolution. Some other
points about her were likewise such as pertain to the women of savage
life. Lithe though she was, she loved supineness, but upon occasion
could endure like a stoic. She was taciturn, too. From early morning
till about three o'clock in the afternoon she would seldom speak--it
taking that time to thaw her, by all accounts, into but talking terms
with humanity. During the interval she did little but look, and keep
looking out of her large, metallic eyes, which her enemies called cold
as a cuttle-fish's, but which by her were esteemed gazelle-like; for
Goneril was not without vanity. Those who thought they best knew her,
often wondered what happiness such a being could take in life, not
considering the happiness which is to be had by some natures in the very
easy way of simply causing pain to those around them. Those who suffered
from Goneril's strange nature, might, with one of those hyberboles to
which the resentful incline, have pronounced her some kind of toad; but
her worst slanderers could never, with any show of justice, have accused
her of being a toady. In a large sense she possessed the virtue of
independence of mind. Goneril held it flattery to hint praise even of
the absent, and even if merited; but honesty, to fling people's imputed
faults into their faces. This was thought malice, but it certainly was
not passion. Passion is human. Like an icicle-dagger, Goneril at once
stabbed and froze; so at least they said; and when she saw frankness and
innocence tyrannized into sad nervousness under her spell, according to
the same authority, inly she chewed her blue clay, and you could mark
that she chuckled. These peculiarities were strange and unpleasing; but
another was alleged, one really incomprehensible. In company she had a
strange way of touching, as by accident, the arm or hand of comely young
men, and seemed to reap a secret delight from it, but whether from the
humane satisfaction of having given the evil-touch, as it is called, or
whether it was something else in her, not equally wonderful, but quite
as deplorable, remained an enigma.

Needless to say what distress was the unfortunate man's, when, engaged
in conversation with company, he would suddenly perceive his Goneril
bestowing her mysterious touches, especially in such cases where the
strangeness of the thing seemed to strike upon the touched person,
notwithstanding good-breeding forbade his proposing the mystery, on the
spot, as a subject of discussion for the company. In these cases, too,
the unfortunate man could never endure so much as to look upon the
touched young gentleman afterwards, fearful of the mortification of
meeting in his countenance some kind of more or less quizzingly-knowing
expression. He would shudderingly shun the young gentleman. So that
here, to the husband, Goneril's touch had the dread operation of the
heathen taboo. Now Goneril brooked no chiding. So, at favorable times,
he, in a wary manner, and not indelicately, would venture in private
interviews gently to make distant allusions to this questionable
propensity. She divined him. But, in her cold loveless way, said it was
witless to be telling one's dreams, especially foolish ones; but if the
unfortunate man liked connubially to rejoice his soul with such
chimeras, much connubial joy might they give him. All this was sad--a
touching case--but all might, perhaps, have been borne by the
unfortunate man--conscientiously mindful of his vow--for better or for
worse--to love and cherish his dear Goneril so long as kind heaven might
spare her to him--but when, after all that had happened, the devil of
jealousy entered her, a calm, clayey, cakey devil, for none other could
possess her, and the object of that deranged jealousy, her own child, a
little girl of seven, her father's consolation and pet; when he saw
Goneril artfully torment the little innocent, and then play the maternal
hypocrite with it, the unfortunate man's patient long-suffering gave
way. Knowing that she would neither confess nor amend, and might,
possibly, become even worse than she was, he thought it but duty as a
father, to withdraw the child from her; but, loving it as he did, he
could not do so without accompanying it into domestic exile himself.
Which, hard though it was, he did. Whereupon the whole female
neighborhood, who till now had little enough admired dame Goneril, broke
out in indignation against a husband, who, without assigning a cause,
could deliberately abandon the wife of his bosom, and sharpen the sting
to her, too, by depriving her of the solace of retaining her offspring.
To all this, self-respect, with Christian charity towards Goneril, long
kept the unfortunate man dumb. And well had it been had he continued so;
for when, driven to desperation, he hinted something of the truth of the
case, not a soul would credit it; while for Goneril, she pronounced all
he said to be a malicious invention. Ere long, at the suggestion of some
woman's-rights women, the injured wife began a suit, and, thanks to able
counsel and accommodating testimony, succeeded in such a way, as not
only to recover custody of the child, but to get such a settlement
awarded upon a separation, as to make penniless the unfortunate man (so
he averred), besides, through the legal sympathy she enlisted, effecting
a judicial blasting of his private reputation. What made it yet more
lamentable was, that the unfortunate man, thinking that, before the
court, his wisest plan, as well as the most Christian besides, being, as
he deemed, not at variance with the truth of the matter, would be to put
forth the plea of the mental derangement of Goneril, which done, he
could, with less of mortification to himself, and odium to her, reveal
in self-defense those eccentricities which had led to his retirement
from the joys of wedlock, had much ado in the end to prevent this charge
of derangement from fatally recoiling upon himself--especially, when,
among other things, he alleged her mysterious teachings. In vain did his
counsel, striving to make out the derangement to be where, in fact, if
anywhere, it was, urge that, to hold otherwise, to hold that such a
being as Goneril was sane, this was constructively a libel upon
womankind. Libel be it. And all ended by the unfortunate man's
subsequently getting wind of Goneril's intention to procure him to be
permanently committed for a lunatic. Upon which he fled, and was now an
innocent outcast, wandering forlorn in the great valley of the
Mississippi, with a weed on his hat for the loss of his Goneril; for he
had lately seen by the papers that she was dead, and thought it but
proper to comply with the prescribed form of mourning in such cases. For
some days past he had been trying to get money enough to return to his
child, and was but now started with inadequate funds.

Now all of this, from the beginning, the good merchant could not but
consider rather hard for the unfortunate man.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE MAN WITH THE TRAVELING-CAP EVINCES MUCH HUMANITY, AND IN A WAY WHICH
WOULD SEEM TO SHOW HIM TO BE ONE OF THE MOST LOGICAL OF OPTIMISTS.


Years ago, a grave American savant, being in London, observed at an
evening party there, a certain coxcombical fellow, as he thought, an
absurd ribbon in his lapel, and full of smart persiflage, whisking about
to the admiration of as many as were disposed to admire. Great was the
savan's disdain; but, chancing ere long to find himself in a corner with
the jackanapes, got into conversation with him, when he was somewhat
ill-prepared for the good sense of the jackanapes, but was altogether
thrown aback, upon subsequently being whispered by a friend that the
jackanapes was almost as great a savan as himself, being no less a
personage than Sir Humphrey Davy.

The above anecdote is given just here by way of an anticipative reminder
to such readers as, from the kind of jaunty levity, or what may have
passed for such, hitherto for the most part appearing in the man with
the traveling-cap, may have been tempted into a more or less hasty
estimate of him; that such readers, when they find the same person, as
they presently will, capable of philosophic and humanitarian
discourse--no mere casual sentence or two as heretofore at times, but
solidly sustained throughout an almost entire sitting; that they may
not, like the American savan, be thereupon betrayed into any surprise
incompatible with their own good opinion of their previous penetration.

The merchant's narration being ended, the other would not deny but that
it did in some degree affect him. He hoped he was not without proper
feeling for the unfortunate man. But he begged to know in what spirit he
bore his alleged calamities. Did he despond or have confidence?

The merchant did not, perhaps, take the exact import of the last member
of the question; but answered, that, if whether the unfortunate man was
becomingly resigned under his affliction or no, was the point, he could
say for him that resigned he was, and to an exemplary degree: for not
only, so far as known, did he refrain from any one-sided reflections
upon human goodness and human justice, but there was observable in him
an air of chastened reliance, and at times tempered cheerfulness.

Upon which the other observed, that since the unfortunate man's alleged
experience could not be deemed very conciliatory towards a view of human
nature better than human nature was, it largely redounded to his
fair-mindedness, as well as piety, that under the alleged dissuasives,
apparently so, from philanthropy, he had not, in a moment of excitement,
been warped over to the ranks of the misanthropes. He doubted not,
also, that with such a man his experience would, in the end, act by a
complete and beneficent inversion, and so far from shaking his
confidence in his kind, confirm it, and rivet it. Which would the more
surely be the case, did he (the unfortunate man) at last become
satisfied (as sooner or later he probably would be) that in the
distraction of his mind his Goneril had not in all respects had fair
play. At all events, the description of the lady, charity could not but
regard as more or less exaggerated, and so far unjust. The truth
probably was that she was a wife with some blemishes mixed with some
beauties. But when the blemishes were displayed, her husband, no adept
in the female nature, had tried to use reason with her, instead of
something far more persuasive. Hence his failure to convince and
convert. The act of withdrawing from her, seemed, under the
circumstances, abrupt. In brief, there were probably small faults on
both sides, more than balanced by large virtues; and one should not be
hasty in judging.

When the merchant, strange to say, opposed views so calm and impartial,
and again, with some warmth, deplored the case of the unfortunate man,
his companion, not without seriousness, checked him, saying, that this
would never do; that, though but in the most exceptional case, to admit
the existence of unmerited misery, more particularly if alleged to have
been brought about by unhindered arts of the wicked, such an admission
was, to say the least, not prudent; since, with some, it might
unfavorably bias their most important persuasions. Not that those
persuasions were legitimately servile to such influences. Because,
since the common occurrences of life could never, in the nature of
things, steadily look one way and tell one story, as flags in the
trade-wind; hence, if the conviction of a Providence, for instance, were
in any way made dependent upon such variabilities as everyday events,
the degree of that conviction would, in thinking minds, be subject to
fluctuations akin to those of the stock-exchange during a long and
uncertain war. Here he glanced aside at his transfer-book, and after a
moment's pause continued. It was of the essence of a right conviction of
the divine nature, as with a right conviction of the human, that, based
less on experience than intuition, it rose above the zones of weather.

When now the merchant, with all his heart, coincided with this (as being
a sensible, as well as religious person, he could not but do), his
companion expressed satisfaction, that, in an age of some distrust on
such subjects, he could yet meet with one who shared with him, almost to
the full, so sound and sublime a confidence.

Still, he was far from the illiberality of denying that philosophy duly
bounded was not permissible. Only he deemed it at least desirable that,
when such a case as that alleged of the unfortunate man was made the
subject of philosophic discussion, it should be so philosophized upon,
as not to afford handles to those unblessed with the true light. For,
but to grant that there was so much as a mystery about such a case,
might by those persons be held for a tacit surrender of the question.
And as for the apparent license temporarily permitted sometimes, to the
bad over the good (as was by implication alleged with regard to Goneril
and the unfortunate man), it might be injudicious there to lay too much
polemic stress upon the doctrine of future retribution as the
vindication of present impunity. For though, indeed, to the right-minded
that doctrine was true, and of sufficient solace, yet with the perverse
the polemic mention of it might but provoke the shallow, though
mischievous conceit, that such a doctrine was but tantamount to the one
which should affirm that Providence was not now, but was going to be. In
short, with all sorts of cavilers, it was best, both for them and
everybody, that whoever had the true light should stick behind the
secure Malakoff of confidence, nor be tempted forth to hazardous
skirmishes on the open ground of reason. Therefore, he deemed it
unadvisable in the good man, even in the privacy of his own mind, or in
communion with a congenial one, to indulge in too much latitude of
philosophizing, or, indeed, of compassionating, since this might, beget
an indiscreet habit of thinking and feeling which might unexpectedly
betray him upon unsuitable occasions. Indeed, whether in private or
public, there was nothing which a good man was more bound to guard
himself against than, on some topics, the emotional unreserve of his
natural heart; for, that the natural heart, in certain points, was not
what it might be, men had been authoritatively admonished.

But he thought he might be getting dry.

The merchant, in his good-nature, thought otherwise, and said that he
would be glad to refresh himself with such fruit all day. It was sitting
under a ripe pulpit, and better such a seat than under a ripe
peach-tree.

The other was pleased to find that he had not, as he feared, been
prosing; but would rather not be considered in the formal light of a
preacher; he preferred being still received in that of the equal and
genial companion. To which end, throwing still more of sociability into
his manner, he again reverted to the unfortunate man. Take the very
worst view of that case; admit that his Goneril was, indeed, a Goneril;
how fortunate to be at last rid of this Goneril, both by nature and by
law? If he were acquainted with the unfortunate man, instead of
condoling with him, he would congratulate him. Great good fortune had
this unfortunate man. Lucky dog, he dared say, after all.

To which the merchant replied, that he earnestly hoped it might be so,
and at any rate he tried his best to comfort himself with the persuasion
that, if the unfortunate man was not happy in this world, he would, at
least, be so in another.

His companion made no question of the unfortunate man's happiness in
both worlds; and, presently calling for some champagne, invited the
merchant to partake, upon the playful plea that, whatever notions other
than felicitous ones he might associate with the unfortunate man, a
little champagne would readily bubble away.

At intervals they slowly quaffed several glasses in silence and
thoughtfulness. At last the merchant's expressive face flushed, his eye
moistly beamed, his lips trembled with an imaginative and feminine
sensibility. Without sending a single fume to his head, the wine seemed
to shoot to his heart, and begin soothsaying there. "Ah," he cried,
pushing his glass from him, "Ah, wine is good, and confidence is good;
but can wine or confidence percolate down through all the stony strata
of hard considerations, and drop warmly and ruddily into the cold cave
of truth? Truth will _not_ be comforted. Led by dear charity, lured by
sweet hope, fond fancy essays this feat; but in vain; mere dreams and
ideals, they explode in your hand, leaving naught but the scorching
behind!"

"Why, why, why!" in amaze, at the burst: "bless me, if _In vino veritas_
be a true saying, then, for all the fine confidence you professed with
me, just now, distrust, deep distrust, underlies it; and ten thousand
strong, like the Irish Rebellion, breaks out in you now. That wine, good
wine, should do it! Upon my soul," half seriously, half humorously,
securing the bottle, "you shall drink no more of it. Wine was meant to
gladden the heart, not grieve it; to heighten confidence, not depress
it."

Sobered, shamed, all but confounded, by this raillery, the most telling
rebuke under such circumstances, the merchant stared about him, and
then, with altered mien, stammeringly confessed, that he was almost as
much surprised as his companion, at what had escaped him. He did not
understand it; was quite at a loss to account for such a rhapsody
popping out of him unbidden. It could hardly be the champagne; he felt
his brain unaffected; in fact, if anything, the wine had acted upon it
something like white of egg in coffee, clarifying and brightening.

"Brightening? brightening it may be, but less like the white of egg in
coffee, than like stove-lustre on a stove--black, brightening seriously,
I repent calling for the champagne. To a temperament like yours,
champagne is not to be recommended. Pray, my dear sir, do you feel quite
yourself again? Confidence restored?"

"I hope so; I think I may say it is so. But we have had a long talk, and
I think I must retire now."

So saying, the merchant rose, and making his adieus, left the table with
the air of one, mortified at having been tempted by his own honest
goodness, accidentally stimulated into making mad disclosures--to
himself as to another--of the queer, unaccountable caprices of his
natural heart.




CHAPTER XIV.

WORTH THE CONSIDERATION OF THOSE TO WHOM IT MAY PROVE WORTH CONSIDERING.


As the last chapter was begun with a reminder looking forwards, so the
present must consist of one glancing backwards.

To some, it may raise a degree of surprise that one so full of
confidence, as the merchant has throughout shown himself, up to the
moment of his late sudden impulsiveness, should, in that instance, have
betrayed such a depth of discontent. He may be thought inconsistent, and
even so he is. But for this, is the author to be blamed? True, it may be
urged that there is nothing a writer of fiction should more carefully
see to, as there is nothing a sensible reader will more carefully look
for, than that, in the depiction of any character, its consistency
should be preserved. But this, though at first blush, seeming reasonable
enough, may, upon a closer view, prove not so much so. For how does it
couple with another requirement--equally insisted upon, perhaps--that,
while to all fiction is allowed some play of invention, yet, fiction
based on fact should never be contradictory to it; and is it not a fact,
that, in real life, a consistent character is a _rara avis_? Which
being so, the distaste of readers to the contrary sort in books, can
hardly arise from any sense of their untrueness. It may rather be from
perplexity as to understanding them. But if the acutest sage be often at
his wits' ends to understand living character, shall those who are not
sages expect to run and read character in those mere phantoms which flit
along a page, like shadows along a wall? That fiction, where every
character can, by reason of its consistency, be comprehended at a
glance, either exhibits but sections of character, making them appear
for wholes, or else is very untrue to reality; while, on the other hand,
that author who draws a character, even though to common view
incongruous in its parts, as the flying-squirrel, and, at different
periods, as much at variance with itself as the butterfly is with the
caterpillar into which it changes, may yet, in so doing, be not false
but faithful to facts.

If reason be judge, no writer has produced such inconsistent characters
as nature herself has. It must call for no small sagacity in a reader
unerringly to discriminate in a novel between the inconsistencies of
conception and those of life as elsewhere. Experience is the only guide
here; but as no one man can be coextensive with _what is_, it may be
unwise in every ease to rest upon it. When the duck-billed beaver of
Australia was first brought stuffed to England, the naturalists,
appealing to their classifications, maintained that there was, in
reality, no such creature; the bill in the specimen must needs be, in
some way, artificially stuck on.

But let nature, to the perplexity of the naturalists, produce her
duck-billed beavers as she may, lesser authors some may hold, have no
business to be perplexing readers with duck-billed characters. Always,
they should represent human nature not in obscurity, but transparency,
which, indeed, is the practice with most novelists, and is, perhaps, in
certain cases, someway felt to be a kind of honor rendered by them to
their kind. But, whether it involve honor or otherwise might be mooted,
considering that, if these waters of human nature can be so readily seen
through, it may be either that they are very pure or very shallow. Upon
the whole, it might rather be thought, that he, who, in view of its
inconsistencies, says of human nature the same that, in view of its
contrasts, is said of the divine nature, that it is past finding out,
thereby evinces a better appreciation of it than he who, by always
representing it in a clear light, leaves it to be inferred that he
clearly knows all about it.

But though there is a prejudice against inconsistent characters in
books, yet the prejudice bears the other way, when what seemed at first
their inconsistency, afterwards, by the skill of the writer, turns out
to be their good keeping. The great masters excel in nothing so much as
in this very particular. They challenge astonishment at the tangled web
of some character, and then raise admiration still greater at their
satisfactory unraveling of it; in this way throwing open, sometimes to
the understanding even of school misses, the last complications of that
spirit which is affirmed by its Creator to be fearfully and wonderfully
made.

At least, something like this is claimed for certain psychological
novelists; nor will the claim be here disputed. Yet, as touching this
point, it may prove suggestive, that all those sallies of ingenuity,
having for their end the revelation of human nature on fixed principles,
have, by the best judges, been excluded with contempt from the ranks of
the sciences--palmistry, physiognomy, phrenology, psychology. Likewise,
the fact, that in all ages such conflicting views have, by the most
eminent minds, been taken of mankind, would, as with other topics, seem
some presumption of a pretty general and pretty thorough ignorance of
it. Which may appear the less improbable if it be considered that, after
poring over the best novels professing to portray human nature, the
studious youth will still run risk of being too often at fault upon
actually entering the world; whereas, had he been furnished with a true
delineation, it ought to fare with him something as with a stranger
entering, map in hand, Boston town; the streets may be very crooked, he
may often pause; but, thanks to his true map, he does not hopelessly
lose his way. Nor, to this comparison, can it be an adequate objection,
that the twistings of the town are always the same, and those of human
nature subject to variation. The grand points of human nature are the
same to-day they were a thousand years ago. The only variability in them
is in expression, not in feature.

But as, in spite of seeming discouragement, some mathematicians are yet
in hopes of hitting upon an exact method of determining the longitude,
the more earnest psychologists may, in the face of previous failures,
still cherish expectations with regard to some mode of infallibly
discovering the heart of man.

But enough has been said by way of apology for whatever may have seemed
amiss or obscure in the character of the merchant; so nothing remains
but to turn to our comedy, or, rather, to pass from the comedy of
thought to that of action.




CHAPTER XV.

AN OLD MISER, UPON SUITABLE REPRESENTATIONS, IS PREVAILED UPON TO
VENTURE AN INVESTMENT.


The merchant having withdrawn, the other remained seated alone for a
time, with the air of one who, after having conversed with some
excellent man, carefully ponders what fell from him, however
intellectually inferior it may be, that none of the profit may be lost;
happy if from any honest word he has heard he can derive some hint,
which, besides confirming him in the theory of virtue, may, likewise,
serve for a finger-post to virtuous action.

Ere long his eye brightened, as if some such hint was now caught. He
rises, book in hand, quits the cabin, and enters upon a sort of
corridor, narrow and dim, a by-way to a retreat less ornate and cheery
than the former; in short, the emigrants' quarters; but which, owing to
the present trip being a down-river one, will doubtless be found
comparatively tenantless. Owing to obstructions against the side
windows, the whole place is dim and dusky; very much so, for the most
part; yet, by starts, haggardly lit here and there by narrow, capricious
sky-lights in the cornices. But there would seem no special need for
light, the place being designed more to pass the night in, than the day;
in brief, a pine barrens dormitory, of knotty pine bunks, without
bedding. As with the nests in the geometrical towns of the associate
penguin and pelican, these bunks were disposed with Philadelphian
regularity, but, like the cradle of the oriole, they were pendulous,
and, moreover, were, so to speak, three-story cradles; the description
of one of which will suffice for all.

Four ropes, secured to the ceiling, passed downwards through auger-holes
bored in the corners of three rough planks, which at equal distances
rested on knots vertically tied in the ropes, the lowermost plank but an
inch or two from the floor, the whole affair resembling, on a large
scale, rope book-shelves; only, instead of hanging firmly against a
wall, they swayed to and fro at the least suggestion of motion, but were
more especially lively upon the provocation of a green emigrant
sprawling into one, and trying to lay himself out there, when the
cradling would be such as almost to toss him back whence he came. In
consequence, one less inexperienced, essaying repose on the uppermost
shelf, was liable to serious disturbance, should a raw beginner select a
shelf beneath. Sometimes a throng of poor emigrants, coming at night in
a sudden rain to occupy these oriole nests, would--through ignorance of
their peculiarity--bring about such a rocking uproar of carpentry,
joining to it such an uproar of exclamations, that it seemed as if some
luckless ship, with all its crew, was being dashed to pieces among the
rocks. They were beds devised by some sardonic foe of poor travelers,
to deprive them of that tranquility which should precede, as well as
accompany, slumber.--Procrustean beds, on whose hard grain humble worth
and honesty writhed, still invoking repose, while but torment responded.
Ah, did any one make such a bunk for himself, instead of having it made
for him, it might be just, but how cruel, to say, You must lie on it!

But, purgatory as the place would appear, the stranger advances into it:
and, like Orpheus in his gay descent to Tartarus, lightly hums to
himself an opera snatch.

Suddenly there is a rustling, then a creaking, one of the cradles swings
out from a murky nook, a sort of wasted penguin-flipper is
supplicatingly put forth, while a wail like that of Dives is
heard:--"Water, water!"

It was the miser of whom the merchant had spoken.

Swift as a sister-of-charity, the stranger hovers over him:--

"My poor, poor sir, what can I do for you?"

"Ugh, ugh--water!"

Darting out, he procures a glass, returns, and, holding it to the
sufferer's lips, supports his head while he drinks: "And did they let
you lie here, my poor sir, racked with this parching thirst?"

The miser, a lean old man, whose flesh seemed salted cod-fish, dry as
combustibles; head, like one whittled by an idiot out of a knot; flat,
bony mouth, nipped between buzzard nose and chin; expression, flitting
between hunks and imbecile--now one, now the other--he made no response.
His eyes were closed, his cheek lay upon an old white moleskin coat,
rolled under his head like a wizened apple upon a grimy snow-bank.

Revived at last, he inclined towards his ministrant, and, in a voice
disastrous with a cough, said:--"I am old and miserable, a poor beggar,
not worth a shoestring--how can I repay you?"

"By giving me your confidence."

"Confidence!" he squeaked, with changed manner, while the pallet swung,
"little left at my age, but take the stale remains, and welcome."

"Such as it is, though, you give it. Very good. Now give me a hundred
dollars."

Upon this the miser was all panic. His hands groped towards his
waist, then suddenly flew upward beneath his moleskin pillow, and
there lay clutching something out of sight. Meantime, to himself he
incoherently mumbled:--"Confidence? Cant, gammon! Confidence? hum,
bubble!--Confidence? fetch, gouge!--Hundred dollars?--hundred devils!"

Half spent, he lay mute awhile, then feebly raising himself, in a voice
for the moment made strong by the sarcasm, said, "A hundred dollars?
rather high price to put upon confidence. But don't you see I am a poor,
old rat here, dying in the wainscot? You have served me; but, wretch
that I am, I can but cough you my thanks,--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

This time his cough was so violent that its convulsions were imparted to
the plank, which swung him about like a stone in a sling preparatory to
its being hurled.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"What a shocking cough. I wish, my friend, the herb-doctor was here now;
a box of his Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would do you good."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I've a good mind to go find him. He's aboard somewhere. I saw his long,
snuff-colored surtout. Trust me, his medicines are the best in the
world."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, how sorry I am."

"No doubt of it," squeaked the other again, "but go, get your charity
out on deck. There parade the pursy peacocks; they don't cough down here
in desertion and darkness, like poor old me. Look how scaly a pauper I
am, clove with this churchyard cough. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Again, how sorry I feel, not only for your cough, but your poverty.
Such a rare chance made unavailable. Did you have but the sum named, how
I could invest it for you. Treble profits. But confidence--I fear that,
even had you the precious cash, you would not have the more precious
confidence I speak of."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" flightily raising himself. "What's that? How, how? Then
you don't want the money for yourself?"

"My dear, _dear_ sir, how could you impute to me such preposterous
self-seeking? To solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred
dollars from a perfect stranger? I am not mad, my dear sir."

"How, how?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world,
gratis, seeking to invest people's money for them?"

"My humble profession, sir. I live not for myself; but the world will
not have confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain."

"But, but," in a kind of vertigo, "what do--do you do--do with people's
money? Ugh, ugh! How is the gain made?"

"To tell that would ruin me. That known, every one would be going into
the business, and it would be overdone. A secret, a mystery--all I have
to do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do
with me is, in due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling
profits."

"What, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers,
the vouchers," suddenly hunkish again.

"Honesty's best voucher is honesty's face."

"Can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity.

From this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back,
sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical
turn. Eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself--

"One hundred, one hundred--two hundred, two hundred--three hundred,
three hundred."

He opened his eyes, feebly stared, and still more feebly said--

"It's a little dim here, ain't it? Ugh, ugh! But, as well as my poor old
eyes can see, you look honest."

"I am glad to hear that."

"If--if, now, I should put"--trying to raise himself, but vainly,
excitement having all but exhausted him--"if, if now, I should put,
put----"

"No ifs. Downright confidence, or none. So help me heaven, I will have
no half-confidences."

He said it with an indifferent and superior air, and seemed moving to
go.

"Don't, don't leave me, friend; bear with me; age can't help some
distrust; it can't, friend, it can't. Ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh, I am so old and
miserable. I ought to have a guardian. Tell me, if----"

"If? No more!"

"Stay! how soon--ugh, ugh!--would my money be trebled? How soon,
friend?"

"You won't confide. Good-bye!"

"Stay, stay," falling back now like an infant, "I confide, I confide;
help, friend, my distrust!"

From an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded
eagles, tarnished into the appearance of ten old horn-buttons, were
taken, and half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered.

"I know not whether I should accept this slack confidence," said the
other coldly, receiving the gold, "but an eleventh-hour confidence, a
sick-bed confidence, a distempered, death-bed confidence, after all.
Give me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits
about them. But let that pass. All right. Good-bye!"

"Nay, back, back--receipt, my receipt! Ugh, ugh, ugh! Who are you? What
have I done? Where go you? My gold, my gold! Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

But, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now
beyond ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a
call.




CHAPTER XVI.

A SICK MAN, AFTER SOME IMPATIENCE, IS INDUCED TO BECOME A PATIENT


The sky slides into blue, the bluffs into bloom; the rapid Mississippi
expands; runs sparkling and gurgling, all over in eddies; one magnified
wake of a seventy-four. The sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his
tent, flashing his helm on the world. All things, warmed in the
landscape, leap. Speeds the dædal boat as a dream.

But, withdrawn in a corner, wrapped about in a shawl, sits an
unparticipating man, visited, but not warmed, by the sun--a plant whose
hour seems over, while buds are blowing and seeds are astir. On a stool
at his left sits a stranger in a snuff-colored surtout, the collar
thrown back; his hand waving in persuasive gesture, his eye beaming with
hope. But not easily may hope be awakened in one long tranced into
hopelessness by a chronic complaint.

To some remark the sick man, by word or look, seemed to have just made
an impatiently querulous answer, when, with a deprecatory air, the other
resumed:

"Nay, think not I seek to cry up my treatment by crying down that of
others. And yet, when one is confident he has truth on his side, and
that is not on the other, it is no very easy thing to be charitable; not
that temper is the bar, but conscience; for charity would beget
toleration, you know, which is a kind of implied permitting, and in
effect a kind of countenancing; and that which is countenanced is so far
furthered. But should untruth be furthered? Still, while for the world's
good I refuse to further the cause of these mineral doctors, I would
fain regard them, not as willful wrong-doers, but good Samaritans
erring. And is this--I put it to you, sir--is this the view of an
arrogant rival and pretender?"

His physical power all dribbled and gone, the sick man replied not by
voice or by gesture; but, with feeble dumb-show of his face, seemed to
be saying "Pray leave me; who was ever cured by talk?"

But the other, as if not unused to make allowances for such despondency,
proceeded; and kindly, yet firmly:

"You tell me, that by advice of an eminent physiologist in Louisville,
you took tincture of iron. For what? To restore your lost energy. And
how? Why, in healthy subjects iron is naturally found in the blood, and
iron in the bar is strong; ergo, iron is the source of animal
invigoration. But you being deficient in vigor, it follows that the
cause is deficiency of iron. Iron, then, must be put into you; and so
your tincture. Now as to the theory here, I am mute. But in modesty
assuming its truth, and then, as a plain man viewing that theory in
practice, I would respectfully question your eminent physiologist:
'Sir,' I would say, 'though by natural processes, lifeless natures taken
as nutriment become vitalized, yet is a lifeless nature, under any
circumstances, capable of a living transmission, with all its qualities
as a lifeless nature unchanged? If, sir, nothing can be incorporated
with the living body but by assimilation, and if that implies the
conversion of one thing to a different thing (as, in a lamp, oil is
assimilated into flame), is it, in this view, likely, that by banqueting
on fat, Calvin Edson will fatten? That is, will what is fat on the board
prove fat on the bones? If it will, then, sir, what is iron in the vial
will prove iron in the vein.' Seems that conclusion too confident?"

But the sick man again turned his dumb-show look, as much as to say,
"Pray leave me. Why, with painful words, hint the vanity of that which
the pains of this body have too painfully proved?"

But the other, as if unobservant of that querulous look, went on:

"But this notion, that science can play farmer to the flesh, making
there what living soil it pleases, seems not so strange as that other
conceit--that science is now-a-days so expert that, in consumptive
cases, as yours, it can, by prescription of the inhalation of certain
vapors, achieve the sublimest act of omnipotence, breathing into all but
lifeless dust the breath of life. For did you not tell me, my poor sir,
that by order of the great chemist in Baltimore, for three weeks you
were never driven out without a respirator, and for a given time of
every day sat bolstered up in a sort of gasometer, inspiring vapors
generated by the burning of drugs? as if this concocted atmosphere of
man were an antidote to the poison of God's natural air. Oh, who can
wonder at that old reproach against science, that it is atheistical? And
here is my prime reason for opposing these chemical practitioners, who
have sought out so many inventions. For what do their inventions
indicate, unless it be that kind and degree of pride in human skill,
which seems scarce compatible with reverential dependence upon the power
above? Try to rid my mind of it as I may, yet still these chemical
practitioners with their tinctures, and fumes, and braziers, and occult
incantations, seem to me like Pharaoh's vain sorcerers, trying to beat
down the will of heaven. Day and night, in all charity, I intercede for
them, that heaven may not, in its own language, be provoked to anger
with their inventions; may not take vengeance of their inventions. A
thousand pities that you should ever have been in the hands of these
Egyptians."

But again came nothing but the dumb-show look, as much as to say, "Pray
leave me; quacks, and indignation against quacks, both are vain."

But, once more, the other went on: "How different we herb-doctors! who
claim nothing, invent nothing; but staff in hand, in glades, and upon
hillsides, go about in nature, humbly seeking her cures. True Indian
doctors, though not learned in names, we are not unfamiliar with
essences--successors of Solomon the Wise, who knew all vegetables, from
the cedar of Lebanon, to the hyssop on the wall. Yes, Solomon was the
first of herb-doctors. Nor were the virtues of herbs unhonored by yet
older ages. Is it not writ, that on a moonlight night,

    "Medea gathered the enchanted herbs
    That did renew old Æson?"

Ah, would you but have confidence, you should be the new Æson, and
I your Medea. A few vials of my Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would, I am
certain, give you some strength."

Upon this, indignation and abhorrence seemed to work by their excess the
effect promised of the balsam. Roused from that long apathy of
impotence, the cadaverous man started, and, in a voice that was as the
sound of obstructed air gurgling through a maze of broken honey-combs,
cried: "Begone! You are all alike. The name of doctor, the dream of
helper, condemns you. For years I have been but a gallipot for you
experimentizers to rinse your experiments into, and now, in this livid
skin, partake of the nature of my contents. Begone! I hate ye."

"I were inhuman, could I take affront at a want of confidence, born of
too bitter an experience of betrayers. Yet, permit one who is not
without feeling----"

"Begone! Just in that voice talked to me, not six months ago, the German
doctor at the water cure, from which I now return, six months and sixty
pangs nigher my grave."

"The water-cure? Oh, fatal delusion of the well-meaning Preisnitz!--Sir,
trust me----"

"Begone!"

"Nay, an invalid should not always have his own way. Ah, sir, reflect
how untimely this distrust in one like you. How weak you are; and
weakness, is it not the time for confidence? Yes, when through weakness
everything bids despair, then is the time to get strength by
confidence."

Relenting in his air, the sick man cast upon him a long glance of
beseeching, as if saying, "With confidence must come hope; and how can
hope be?"

The herb-doctor took a sealed paper box from his surtout pocket, and
holding it towards him, said solemnly, "Turn not away. This may be the
last time of health's asking. Work upon yourself; invoke confidence,
though from ashes; rouse it; for your life, rouse it, and invoke it, I
say."

The other trembled, was silent; and then, a little commanding himself,
asked the ingredients of the medicine.

"Herbs."

"What herbs? And the nature of them? And the reason for giving them?"

"It cannot be made known."

"Then I will none of you."

Sedately observant of the juiceless, joyless form before him, the
herb-doctor was mute a moment, then said:--"I give up."

"How?"

"You are sick, and a philosopher."

"No, no;--not the last."

"But, to demand the ingredient, with the reason for giving, is the mark
of a philosopher; just as the consequence is the penalty of a fool. A
sick philosopher is incurable?"

"Why?"

"Because he has no confidence."

"How does that make him incurable?"

"Because either he spurns his powder, or, if he take it, it proves a
blank cartridge, though the same given to a rustic in like extremity,
would act like a charm. I am no materialist; but the mind so acts upon
the body, that if the one have no confidence, neither has the other."

Again, the sick man appeared not unmoved. He seemed to be thinking what
in candid truth could be said to all this. At length, "You talk of
confidence. How comes it that when brought low himself, the herb-doctor,
who was most confident to prescribe in other cases, proves least
confident to prescribe in his own; having small confidence in himself
for himself?"

"But he has confidence in the brother he calls in. And that he does so,
is no reproach to him, since he knows that when the body is prostrated,
the mind is not erect. Yes, in this hour the herb-doctor does distrust
himself, but not his art."

The sick man's knowledge did not warrant him to gainsay this. But he
seemed not grieved at it; glad to be confuted in a way tending towards
his wish.

"Then you give me hope?" his sunken eye turned up.

"Hope is proportioned to confidence. How much confidence you give me, so
much hope do I give you. For this," lifting the box, "if all depended
upon this, I should rest. It is nature's own."

"Nature!"

"Why do you start?"

"I know not," with a sort of shudder, "but I have heard of a book
entitled 'Nature in Disease.'"

"A title I cannot approve; it is suspiciously scientific. 'Nature in
Disease?' As if nature, divine nature, were aught but health; as if
through nature disease is decreed! But did I not before hint of the
tendency of science, that forbidden tree? Sir, if despondency is yours
from recalling that title, dismiss it. Trust me, nature is health; for
health is good, and nature cannot work ill. As little can she work
error. Get nature, and you get well. Now, I repeat, this medicine is
nature's own."

Again the sick man could not, according to his light, conscientiously
disprove what was said. Neither, as before, did he seem over-anxious to
do so; the less, as in his sensitiveness it seemed to him, that hardly
could he offer so to do without something like the appearance of a kind
of implied irreligion; nor in his heart was he ungrateful, that since a
spirit opposite to that pervaded all the herb-doctor's hopeful words,
therefore, for hopefulness, he (the sick man) had not alone medical
warrant, but also doctrinal.

"Then you do really think," hectically, "that if I take this medicine,"
mechanically reaching out for it, "I shall regain my health?"

"I will not encourage false hopes," relinquishing to him the box, "I
will be frank with you. Though frankness is not always the weakness of
the mineral practitioner, yet the herb doctor must be frank, or nothing.
Now then, sir, in your case, a radical cure--such a cure, understand, as
should make you robust--such a cure, sir, I do not and cannot promise."

"Oh, you need not! only restore me the power of being something else to
others than a burdensome care, and to myself a droning grief. Only cure
me of this misery of weakness; only make me so that I can walk about in
the sun and not draw the flies to me, as lured by the coming of decay.
Only do that--but that."

"You ask not much; you are wise; not in vain have you suffered. That
little you ask, I think, can be granted. But remember, not in a day, nor
a week, nor perhaps a month, but sooner or later; I say not exactly
when, for I am neither prophet nor charlatan. Still, if, according to
the directions in your box there, you take my medicine steadily, without
assigning an especial day, near or remote, to discontinue it, then may
you calmly look for some eventual result of good. But again I say, you
must have confidence."

Feverishly he replied that he now trusted he had, and hourly should pray
for its increase. When suddenly relapsing into one of those strange
caprices peculiar to some invalids, he added: "But to one like me, it is
so hard, so hard. The most confident hopes so often have failed me, and
as often have I vowed never, no, never, to trust them again. Oh," feebly
wringing his hands, "you do not know, you do not know."

"I know this, that never did a right confidence, come to naught. But
time is short; you hold your cure, to retain or reject."

"I retain," with a clinch, "and now how much?"

"As much as you can evoke from your heart and heaven."

"How?--the price of this medicine?"

"I thought it was confidence you meant; how much confidence you should
have. The medicine,--that is half a dollar a vial. Your box holds six."

The money was paid.

"Now, sir," said the herb-doctor, "my business calls me away, and it may
so be that I shall never see you again; if then----"

He paused, for the sick man's countenance fell blank.

"Forgive me," cried the other, "forgive that imprudent phrase 'never see
you again.' Though I solely intended it with reference to myself, yet I
had forgotten what your sensitiveness might be. I repeat, then, that it
may be that we shall not soon have a second interview, so that
hereafter, should another of my boxes be needed, you may not be able to
replace it except by purchase at the shops; and, in so doing, you may
run more or less risk of taking some not salutary mixture. For such is
the popularity of the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator--thriving not by the
credulity of the simple, but the trust of the wise--that certain
contrivers have not been idle, though I would not, indeed, hastily
affirm of them that they are aware of the sad consequences to the
public. Homicides and murderers, some call those contrivers; but I do
not; for murder (if such a crime be possible) comes from the heart, and
these men's motives come from the purse. Were they not in poverty, I
think they would hardly do what they do. Still, the public interests
forbid that I should let their needy device for a living succeed. In
short, I have adopted precautions. Take the wrapper from any of my vials
and hold it to the light, you will see water-marked in capitals the word
'_confidence_,' which is the countersign of the medicine, as I wish it
was of the world. The wrapper bears that mark or else the medicine is
counterfeit. But if still any lurking doubt should remain, pray enclose
the wrapper to this address," handing a card, "and by return mail I will
answer."

At first the sick man listened, with the air of vivid interest, but
gradually, while the other was still talking, another strange caprice
came over him, and he presented the aspect of the most calamitous
dejection.

"How now?" said the herb-doctor.

"You told me to have confidence, said that confidence was indispensable,
and here you preach to me distrust. Ah, truth will out!"

"I told you, you must have confidence, unquestioning confidence, I meant
confidence in the genuine medicine, and the genuine _me_."

"But in your absence, buying vials purporting to be yours, it seems I
cannot have unquestioning confidence."

"Prove all the vials; trust those which are true."

"But to doubt, to suspect, to prove--to have all this wearing work to
be doing continually--how opposed to confidence. It is evil!"

"From evil comes good. Distrust is a stage to confidence. How has it
proved in our interview? But your voice is husky; I have let you talk
too much. You hold your cure; I will leave you. But stay--when I hear
that health is yours, I will not, like some I know, vainly make boasts;
but, giving glory where all glory is due, say, with the devout
herb-doctor, Japus in Virgil, when, in the unseen but efficacious
presence of Venus, he with simples healed the wound of Æneas:--

    'This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
    Nor art's effect, but done by power divine.'"




CHAPTER XVII.

TOWARDS THE END OF WHICH THE HERB-DOCTOR PROVES HIMSELF A FORGIVER OF
INJURIES.


In a kind of ante-cabin, a number of respectable looking people, male
and female, way-passengers, recently come on board, are listlessly
sitting in a mutually shy sort of silence.

Holding up a small, square bottle, ovally labeled with the engraving of
a countenance full of soft pity as that of the Romish-painted Madonna,
the herb-doctor passes slowly among them, benignly urbane, turning this
way and that, saying:--

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand here the Samaritan Pain
Dissuader, thrice-blessed discovery of that disinterested friend of
humanity whose portrait you see. Pure vegetable extract. Warranted to
remove the acutest pain within less than ten minutes. Five hundred
dollars to be forfeited on failure. Especially efficacious in heart
disease and tic-douloureux. Observe the expression of this pledged
friend of humanity.--Price only fifty cents."

In vain. After the first idle stare, his auditors--in pretty good
health, it seemed--instead of encouraging his politeness, appeared, if
anything, impatient of it; and, perhaps, only diffidence, or some small
regard for his feelings, prevented them from telling him so. But,
insensible to their coldness, or charitably overlooking it, he more
wooingly than ever resumed: "May I venture upon a small supposition?
Have I your kind leave, ladies and gentlemen?"

To which modest appeal, no one had the kindness to answer a syllable.

"Well," said he, resignedly, "silence is at least not denial, and may be
consent. My supposition is this: possibly some lady, here present, has a
dear friend at home, a bed-ridden sufferer from spinal complaint. If so,
what gift more appropriate to that sufferer than this tasteful little
bottle of Pain Dissuader?"

Again he glanced about him, but met much the same reception as before.
Those faces, alien alike to sympathy or surprise, seemed patiently to
say, "We are travelers; and, as such, must expect to meet, and quietly
put up with, many antic fools, and more antic quacks."

"Ladies and gentlemen," (deferentially fixing his eyes upon their now
self-complacent faces) "ladies and gentlemen, might I, by your kind
leave, venture upon one other small supposition? It is this: that there
is scarce a sufferer, this noonday, writhing on his bed, but in his hour
he sat satisfactorily healthy and happy; that the Samaritan Pain
Dissuader is the one only balm for that to which each living
creature--who knows?--may be a draughted victim, present or prospective.
In short:--Oh, Happiness on my right hand, and oh, Security on my left,
can ye wisely adore a Providence, and not think it wisdom to
provide?--Provide!" (Uplifting the bottle.)

What immediate effect, if any, this appeal might have had, is uncertain.
For just then the boat touched at a houseless landing, scooped, as by a
land-slide, out of sombre forests; back through which led a road, the
sole one, which, from its narrowness, and its being walled up with story
on story of dusk, matted foliage, presented the vista of some cavernous
old gorge in a city, like haunted Cock Lane in London. Issuing from that
road, and crossing that landing, there stooped his shaggy form in the
door-way, and entered the ante-cabin, with a step so burdensome that
shot seemed in his pockets, a kind of invalid Titan in homespun; his
beard blackly pendant, like the Carolina-moss, and dank with cypress
dew; his countenance tawny and shadowy as an iron-ore country in a
clouded day. In one hand he carried a heavy walking-stick of swamp-oak;
with the other, led a puny girl, walking in moccasins, not improbably
his child, but evidently of alien maternity, perhaps Creole, or even
Camanche. Her eye would have been large for a woman, and was inky as the
pools of falls among mountain-pines. An Indian blanket, orange-hued, and
fringed with lead tassel-work, appeared that morning to have shielded
the child from heavy showers. Her limbs were tremulous; she seemed a
little Cassandra, in nervousness.

No sooner was the pair spied by the herb-doctor, than with a cheerful
air, both arms extended like a host's, he advanced, and taking the
child's reluctant hand, said, trippingly: "On your travels, ah, my
little May Queen? Glad to see you. What pretty moccasins. Nice to dance
in." Then with a half caper sang--

    "'Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle;
      The cow jumped over the moon.'

Come, chirrup, chirrup, my little robin!"

Which playful welcome drew no responsive playfulness from the child, nor
appeared to gladden or conciliate the father; but rather, if anything,
to dash the dead weight of his heavy-hearted expression with a smile
hypochondriacally scornful.

Sobering down now, the herb-doctor addressed the stranger in a manly,
business-like way--a transition which, though it might seem a little
abrupt, did not appear constrained, and, indeed, served to show that his
recent levity was less the habit of a frivolous nature, than the frolic
condescension of a kindly heart.

"Excuse me," said he, "but, if I err not, I was speaking to you the
other day;--on a Kentucky boat, wasn't it?"

"Never to me," was the reply; the voice deep and lonesome enough to have
come from the bottom of an abandoned coal-shaft.

"Ah!--But am I again mistaken, (his eye falling on the swamp-oak stick,)
or don't you go a little lame, sir?"

"Never was lame in my life."

"Indeed? I fancied I had perceived not a limp, but a hitch, a slight
hitch;--some experience in these things--divined some hidden cause of
the hitch--buried bullet, may be--some dragoons in the Mexican war
discharged with such, you know.--Hard fate!" he sighed, "little pity for
it, for who sees it?--have you dropped anything?"

Why, there is no telling, but the stranger was bowed over, and might
have seemed bowing for the purpose of picking up something, were it not
that, as arrested in the imperfect posture, he for the moment so
remained; slanting his tall stature like a mainmast yielding to the
gale, or Adam to the thunder.

The little child pulled him. With a kind of a surge he righted himself,
for an instant looked toward the herb-doctor; but, either from emotion
or aversion, or both together, withdrew his eyes, saying nothing.
Presently, still stooping, he seated himself, drawing his child between
his knees, his massy hands tremulous, and still averting his face, while
up into the compassionate one of the herb-doctor the child turned a
fixed, melancholy glance of repugnance.

The herb-doctor stood observant a moment, then said:

"Surely you have pain, strong pain, somewhere; in strong frames pain is
strongest. Try, now, my specific," (holding it up). "Do but look at the
expression of this friend of humanity. Trust me, certain cure for any
pain in the world. Won't you look?"

"No," choked the other.

"Very good. Merry time to you, little May Queen."

And so, as if he would intrude his cure upon no one, moved pleasantly
off, again crying his wares, nor now at last without result. A
new-comer, not from the shore, but another part of the boat, a sickly
young man, after some questions, purchased a bottle. Upon this, others
of the company began a little to wake up as it were; the scales of
indifference or prejudice fell from their eyes; now, at last, they
seemed to have an inkling that here was something not undesirable which
might be had for the buying.

But while, ten times more briskly bland than ever, the herb-doctor was
driving his benevolent trade, accompanying each sale with added praises
of the thing traded, all at once the dusk giant, seated at some
distance, unexpectedly raised his voice with--

"What was that you last said?"

The question was put distinctly, yet resonantly, as when a great
clock-bell--stunning admonisher--strikes one; and the stroke, though
single, comes bedded in the belfry clamor.

All proceedings were suspended. Hands held forth for the specific were
withdrawn, while every eye turned towards the direction whence the
question came. But, no way abashed, the herb-doctor, elevating his voice
with even more than wonted self-possession, replied--

"I was saying what, since you wish it, I cheerfully repeat, that the
Samaritan Pain Dissuader, which I here hold in my hand, will either cure
or ease any pain you please, within ten minutes after its application."

"Does it produce insensibility?"

"By no means. Not the least of its merits is, that it is not an opiate.
It kills pain without killing feeling."

"You lie! Some pains cannot be eased but by producing insensibility, and
cannot be cured but by producing death."

Beyond this the dusk giant said nothing; neither, for impairing the
other's market, did there appear much need to. After eying the rude
speaker a moment with an expression of mingled admiration and
consternation, the company silently exchanged glances of mutual sympathy
under unwelcome conviction. Those who had purchased looked sheepish or
ashamed; and a cynical-looking little man, with a thin flaggy beard, and
a countenance ever wearing the rudiments of a grin, seated alone in a
corner commanding a good view of the scene, held a rusty hat before his
face.

But, again, the herb-doctor, without noticing the retort, overbearing
though it was, began his panegyrics anew, and in a tone more assured
than before, going so far now as to say that his specific was sometimes
almost as effective in cases of mental suffering as in cases of
physical; or rather, to be more precise, in cases when, through
sympathy, the two sorts of pain coöperated into a climax of both--in
such cases, he said, the specific had done very well. He cited an
example: Only three bottles, faithfully taken, cured a Louisiana widow
(for three weeks sleepless in a darkened chamber) of neuralgic sorrow
for the loss of husband and child, swept off in one night by the last
epidemic. For the truth of this, a printed voucher was produced, duly
signed.

While he was reading it aloud, a sudden side-blow all but felled him.

It was the giant, who, with a countenance lividly epileptic with
hypochondriac mania, exclaimed--

"Profane fiddler on heart-strings! Snake!"

More he would have added, but, convulsed, could not; so, without another
word, taking up the child, who had followed him, went with a rocking
pace out of the cabin.

"Regardless of decency, and lost to humanity!" exclaimed the
herb-doctor, with much ado recovering himself. Then, after a pause,
during which he examined his bruise, not omitting to apply externally a
little of his specific, and with some success, as it would seem, plained
to himself:

"No, no, I won't seek redress; innocence is my redress. But," turning
upon them all, "if that man's wrathful blow provokes me to no wrath,
should his evil distrust arouse you to distrust? I do devoutly hope,"
proudly raising voice and arm, "for the honor of humanity--hope that,
despite this coward assault, the Samaritan Pain Dissuader stands
unshaken in the confidence of all who hear me!"

But, injured as he was, and patient under it, too, somehow his case
excited as little compassion as his oratory now did enthusiasm. Still,
pathetic to the last, he continued his appeals, notwithstanding the
frigid regard of the company, till, suddenly interrupting himself, as
if in reply to a quick summons from without, he said hurriedly, "I come,
I come," and so, with every token of precipitate dispatch, out of the
cabin the herb-doctor went.




CHAPTER XVIII.

INQUEST INTO THE TRUE CHARACTER OF THE HERB-DOCTOR.


"Sha'n't see that fellow again in a hurry," remarked an auburn-haired
gentleman, to his neighbor with a hook-nose. "Never knew an operator so
completely unmasked."

"But do you think it the fair thing to unmask an operator that way?"

"Fair? It is right."

"Supposing that at high 'change on the Paris Bourse, Asmodeus should
lounge in, distributing hand-bills, revealing the true thoughts and
designs of all the operators present--would that be the fair thing in
Asmodeus? Or, as Hamlet says, were it 'to consider the thing too
curiously?'"

"We won't go into that. But since you admit the fellow to be a
knave----"

"I don't admit it. Or, if I did, I take it back. Shouldn't wonder if,
after all, he is no knave at all, or, but little of one. What can you
prove against him?"

"I can prove that he makes dupes."

"Many held in honor do the same; and many, not wholly knaves, do it
too."

"How about that last?"

"He is not wholly at heart a knave, I fancy, among whose dupes is
himself. Did you not see our quack friend apply to himself his own
quackery? A fanatic quack; essentially a fool, though effectively a
knave."

Bending over, and looking down between his knees on the floor, the
auburn-haired gentleman meditatively scribbled there awhile with his
cane, then, glancing up, said:

"I can't conceive how you, in anyway, can hold him a fool. How he
talked--so glib, so pat, so well."

"A smart fool always talks well; takes a smart fool to be tonguey."

In much the same strain the discussion continued--the hook-nosed
gentleman talking at large and excellently, with a view of demonstrating
that a smart fool always talks just so. Ere long he talked to such
purpose as almost to convince.

Presently, back came the person of whom the auburn-haired gentleman had
predicted that he would not return. Conspicuous in the door-way he
stood, saying, in a clear voice, "Is the agent of the Seminole Widow and
Orphan Asylum within here?"

No one replied.

"Is there within here any agent or any member of any charitable
institution whatever?"

No one seemed competent to answer, or, no one thought it worth while
to.

"If there be within here any such person, I have in my hand two dollars
for him."

Some interest was manifested.

"I was called away so hurriedly, I forgot this part of my duty. With the
proprietor of the Samaritan Pain Dissuader it is a rule, to devote, on
the spot, to some benevolent purpose, the half of the proceeds of sales.
Eight bottles were disposed of among this company. Hence, four
half-dollars remain to charity. Who, as steward, takes the money?"

One or two pair of feet moved upon the floor, as with a sort of itching;
but nobody rose.

"Does diffidence prevail over duty? If, I say, there be any gentleman,
or any lady, either, here present, who is in any connection with any
charitable institution whatever, let him or her come forward. He or she
happening to have at hand no certificate of such connection, makes no
difference. Not of a suspicious temper, thank God, I shall have
confidence in whoever offers to take the money."

A demure-looking woman, in a dress rather tawdry and rumpled, here drew
her veil well down and rose; but, marking every eye upon her, thought it
advisable, upon the whole, to sit down again.

"Is it to be believed that, in this Christian company, there is no one
charitable person? I mean, no one connected with any charity? Well,
then, is there no object of charity here?"

Upon this, an unhappy-looking woman, in a sort of mourning, neat, but
sadly worn, hid her face behind a meagre bundle, and was heard to sob.
Meantime, as not seeing or hearing her, the herb-doctor again spoke, and
this time not unpathetically:

"Are there none here who feel in need of help, and who, in accepting
such help, would feel that they, in their time, have given or done more
than may ever be given or done to them? Man or woman, is there none such
here?"

The sobs of the woman were more audible, though she strove to repress
them. While nearly every one's attention was bent upon her, a man of the
appearance of a day-laborer, with a white bandage across his face,
concealing the side of the nose, and who, for coolness' sake, had been
sitting in his red-flannel shirt-sleeves, his coat thrown across one
shoulder, the darned cuffs drooping behind--this man shufflingly rose,
and, with a pace that seemed the lingering memento of the lock-step of
convicts, went up for a duly-qualified claimant.

"Poor wounded huzzar!" sighed the herb-doctor, and dropping the money
into the man's clam-shell of a hand turned and departed.

The recipient of the alms was about moving after, when the auburn-haired
gentleman staid him: "Don't be frightened, you; but I want to see those
coins. Yes, yes; good silver, good silver. There, take them again, and
while you are about it, go bandage the rest of yourself behind
something. D'ye hear? Consider yourself, wholly, the scar of a nose, and
be off with yourself."

Being of a forgiving nature, or else from emotion not daring to trust
his voice, the man silently, but not without some precipitancy,
withdrew.

"Strange," said the auburn-haired gentleman, returning to his friend,
"the money was good money."

"Aye, and where your fine knavery now? Knavery to devote the half of
one's receipts to charity? He's a fool I say again."

"Others might call him an original genius."

"Yes, being original in his folly. Genius? His genius is a cracked pate,
and, as this age goes, not much originality about that."

"May he not be knave, fool, and genius altogether?"

"I beg pardon," here said a third person with a gossiping expression who
had been listening, "but you are somewhat puzzled by this man, and well
you may be."

"Do you know anything about him?" asked the hooked-nosed gentleman.

"No, but I suspect him for something."

"Suspicion. We want knowledge."

"Well, suspect first and know next. True knowledge comes but by
suspicion or revelation. That's my maxim."

"And yet," said the auburn-haired gentleman, "since a wise man will keep
even some certainties to himself, much more some suspicions, at least he
will at all events so do till they ripen into knowledge."

"Do you hear that about the wise man?" said the hook-nosed gentleman,
turning upon the new comer. "Now what is it you suspect of this fellow?"

"I shrewdly suspect him," was the eager response, "for one of those
Jesuit emissaries prowling all over our country. The better to
accomplish their secret designs, they assume, at times, I am told, the
most singular masques; sometimes, in appearance, the absurdest."

This, though indeed for some reason causing a droll smile upon the face
of the hook-nosed gentleman, added a third angle to the discussion,
which now became a sort of triangular duel, and ended, at last, with but
a triangular result.




CHAPTER XIX.

A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.


"Mexico? Molino del Rey? Resaca de la Palma?"

"Resaca de la _Tomba_!"

Leaving his reputation to take care of itself, since, as is not seldom
the case, he knew nothing of its being in debate, the herb-doctor,
wandering towards the forward part of the boat, had there espied a
singular character in a grimy old regimental coat, a countenance at once
grim and wizened, interwoven paralyzed legs, stiff as icicles, suspended
between rude crutches, while the whole rigid body, like a ship's long
barometer on gimbals, swung to and fro, mechanically faithful to the
motion of the boat. Looking downward while he swung, the cripple seemed
in a brown study.

As moved by the sight, and conjecturing that here was some battered hero
from the Mexican battle-fields, the herb-doctor had sympathetically
accosted him as above, and received the above rather dubious reply. As,
with a half moody, half surly sort of air that reply was given, the
cripple, by a voluntary jerk, nervously increased his swing (his custom
when seized by emotion), so that one would have thought some squall had
suddenly rolled the boat and with it the barometer.

"Tombs? my friend," exclaimed the herb-doctor in mild surprise. "You
have not descended to the dead, have you? I had imagined you a scarred
campaigner, one of the noble children of war, for your dear country a
glorious sufferer. But you are Lazarus, it seems."

"Yes, he who had sores."

"Ah, the _other_ Lazarus. But I never knew that either of them was in
the army," glancing at the dilapidated regimentals.

"That will do now. Jokes enough."

"Friend," said the other reproachfully, "you think amiss. On principle,
I greet unfortunates with some pleasant remark, the better to call off
their thoughts from their troubles. The physician who is at once wise
and humane seldom unreservedly sympathizes with his patient. But come, I
am a herb-doctor, and also a natural bone-setter. I may be sanguine, but
I think I can do something for you. You look up now. Give me your story.
Ere I undertake a cure, I require a full account of the case."

"You can't help me," returned the cripple gruffly. "Go away."

"You seem sadly destitute of----"

"No I ain't destitute; to-day, at least, I can pay my way."

"The Natural Bone-setter is happy, indeed, to hear that. But you were
premature. I was deploring your destitution, not of cash, but of
confidence. You think the Natural Bone-setter can't help you. Well,
suppose he can't, have you any objection to telling him your story? You,
my friend, have, in a signal way, experienced adversity. Tell me, then,
for my private good, how, without aid from the noble cripple, Epictetus,
you have arrived at his heroic sang-froid in misfortune."

At these words the cripple fixed upon the speaker the hard ironic eye of
one toughened and defiant in misery, and, in the end, grinned upon him
with his unshaven face like an ogre.

"Come, come, be sociable--be human, my friend. Don't make that face; it
distresses me."

"I suppose," with a sneer, "you are the man I've long heard of--The
Happy Man."

"Happy? my friend. Yes, at least I ought to be. My conscience is
peaceful. I have confidence in everybody. I have confidence that, in my
humble profession, I do some little good to the world. Yes, I think
that, without presumption, I may venture to assent to the proposition
that I am the Happy Man--the Happy Bone-setter."

"Then, you shall hear my story. Many a month I have longed to get hold
of the Happy Man, drill him, drop the powder, and leave him to explode
at his leisure.".

"What a demoniac unfortunate" exclaimed the herb-doctor retreating.
"Regular infernal machine!"

"Look ye," cried the other, stumping after him, and with his horny hand
catching him by a horn button, "my name is Thomas Fry. Until my----"

--"Any relation of Mrs. Fry?" interrupted the other. "I still correspond
with that excellent lady on the subject of prisons. Tell me, are you
anyway connected with _my_ Mrs. Fry?"

"Blister Mrs. Fry! What do them sentimental souls know of prisons or any
other black fact? I'll tell ye a story of prisons. Ha, ha!"

The herb-doctor shrank, and with reason, the laugh being strangely
startling.

"Positively, my friend," said he, "you must stop that; I can't stand
that; no more of that. I hope I have the milk of kindness, but your
thunder will soon turn it."

"Hold, I haven't come to the milk-turning part yet. My name is Thomas
Fry. Until my twenty-third year I went by the nickname of Happy
Tom--happy--ha, ha! They called me Happy Tom, d'ye see? because I was so
good-natured and laughing all the time, just as I am now--ha, ha!"

Upon this the herb-doctor would, perhaps, have run, but once more the
hyæna clawed him. Presently, sobering down, he continued:

"Well, I was born in New York, and there I lived a steady, hard-working
man, a cooper by trade. One evening I went to a political meeting in the
Park--for you must know, I was in those days a great patriot. As bad
luck would have it, there was trouble near, between a gentleman who had
been drinking wine, and a pavior who was sober. The pavior chewed
tobacco, and the gentleman said it was beastly in him, and pushed him,
wanting to have his place. The pavior chewed on and pushed back. Well,
the gentleman carried a sword-cane, and presently the pavior was
down--skewered."

"How was that?"

"Why you see the pavior undertook something above his strength."

"The other must have been a Samson then. 'Strong as a pavior,' is a
proverb."

"So it is, and the gentleman was in body a rather weakly man, but, for
all that, I say again, the pavior undertook something above his
strength."

"What are you talking about? He tried to maintain his rights, didn't
he?"

"Yes; but, for all that, I say again, he undertook something above his
strength."

"I don't understand you. But go on."

"Along with the gentleman, I, with other witnesses, was taken to the
Tombs. There was an examination, and, to appear at the trial, the
gentleman and witnesses all gave bail--I mean all but me."

"And why didn't you?"

"Couldn't get it."

"Steady, hard-working cooper like you; what was the reason you couldn't
get bail?"

"Steady, hard-working cooper hadn't no friends. Well, souse I went into
a wet cell, like a canal-boat splashing into the lock; locked up in
pickle, d'ye see? against the time of the trial."

"But what had you done?"

"Why, I hadn't got any friends, I tell ye. A worse crime than murder, as
ye'll see afore long."

"Murder? Did the wounded man die?"

"Died the third night."

"Then the gentleman's bail didn't help him. Imprisoned now, wasn't he?"

"Had too many friends. No, it was _I_ that was imprisoned.--But I was
going on: They let me walk about the corridor by day; but at night I
must into lock. There the wet and the damp struck into my bones. They
doctored me, but no use. When the trial came, I was boosted up and said
my say."

"And what was that?"

"My say was that I saw the steel go in, and saw it sticking in."

"And that hung the gentleman."

"Hung him with a gold chain! His friends called a meeting in the Park,
and presented him with a gold watch and chain upon his acquittal."

"Acquittal?"

"Didn't I say he had friends?"

There was a pause, broken at last by the herb-doctor's saying: "Well,
there is a bright side to everything. If this speak prosaically for
justice, it speaks romantically for friendship! But go on, my fine
fellow."

"My say being said, they told me I might go. I said I could not without
help. So the constables helped me, asking _where_ would I go? I told
them back to the 'Tombs.' I knew no other place. 'But where are your
friends?' said they. 'I have none.' So they put me into a hand-barrow
with an awning to it, and wheeled me down to the dock and on board a
boat, and away to Blackwell's Island to the Corporation Hospital. There
I got worse--got pretty much as you see me now. Couldn't cure me. After
three years, I grew sick of lying in a grated iron bed alongside of
groaning thieves and mouldering burglars. They gave me five silver
dollars, and these crutches, and I hobbled off. I had an only brother
who went to Indiana, years ago. I begged about, to make up a sum to go
to him; got to Indiana at last, and they directed me to his grave. It
was on a great plain, in a log-church yard with a stump fence, the old
gray roots sticking all ways like moose-antlers. The bier, set over the
grave, it being the last dug, was of green hickory; bark on, and green
twigs sprouting from it. Some one had planted a bunch of violets on the
mound, but it was a poor soil (always choose the poorest soils for
grave-yards), and they were all dried to tinder. I was going to sit and
rest myself on the bier and think about my brother in heaven, but the
bier broke down, the legs being only tacked. So, after driving some hogs
out of the yard that were rooting there, I came away, and, not to make
too long a story of it, here I am, drifting down stream like any other
bit of wreck."

The herb-doctor was silent for a time, buried in thought. At last,
raising his head, he said: "I have considered your whole story, my
friend, and strove to consider it in the light of a commentary on what I
believe to be the system of things; but it so jars with all, is so
incompatible with all, that you must pardon me, if I honestly tell you,
I cannot believe it."

"That don't surprise me."

"How?"

"Hardly anybody believes my story, and so to most I tell a different
one."

"How, again?"

"Wait here a bit and I'll show ye."

With that, taking off his rag of a cap, and arranging his tattered
regimentals the best he could, off he went stumping among the passengers
in an adjoining part of the deck, saying with a jovial kind of air:
"Sir, a shilling for Happy Tom, who fought at Buena Vista. Lady,
something for General Scott's soldier, crippled in both pins at glorious
Contreras."

Now, it so chanced that, unbeknown to the cripple, a prim-looking
stranger had overheard part of his story. Beholding him, then, on his
present begging adventure, this person, turning to the herb-doctor,
indignantly said: "Is it not too bad, sir, that yonder rascal should lie
so?"

"Charity never faileth, my good sir," was the reply. "The vice of this
unfortunate is pardonable. Consider, he lies not out of wantonness."

"Not out of wantonness. I never heard more wanton lies. In one breath to
tell you what would appear to be his true story, and, in the next, away
and falsify it."

"For all that, I repeat he lies not out of wantonness. A ripe
philosopher, turned out of the great Sorbonne of hard times, he thinks
that woes, when told to strangers for money, are best sugared. Though
the inglorious lock-jaw of his knee-pans in a wet dungeon is a far more
pitiable ill than to have been crippled at glorious Contreras, yet he is
of opinion that this lighter and false ill shall attract, while the
heavier and real one might repel."

"Nonsense; he belongs to the Devil's regiment; and I have a great mind
to expose him."

"Shame upon you. Dare to expose that poor unfortunate, and by
heaven--don't you do it, sir."

Noting something in his manner, the other thought it more prudent to
retire than retort. By-and-by, the cripple came back, and with glee,
having reaped a pretty good harvest.

"There," he laughed, "you know now what sort of soldier I am."

"Aye, one that fights not the stupid Mexican, but a foe worthy your
tactics--Fortune!"

"Hi, hi!" clamored the cripple, like a fellow in the pit of a sixpenny
theatre, then said, "don't know much what you meant, but it went off
well."

This over, his countenance capriciously put on a morose ogreness. To
kindly questions he gave no kindly answers. Unhandsome notions were
thrown out about "free Ameriky," as he sarcastically called his country.
These seemed to disturb and pain the herb-doctor, who, after an interval
of thoughtfulness, gravely addressed him in these words:

"You, my Worthy friend, to my concern, have reflected upon the
government under which you live and suffer. Where is your patriotism?
Where your gratitude? True, the charitable may find something in your
case, as you put it, partly to account for such reflections as coming
from you. Still, be the facts how they may, your reflections are none
the less unwarrantable. Grant, for the moment, that your experiences are
as you give them; in which case I would admit that government might be
thought to have more or less to do with what seems undesirable in them.
But it is never to be forgotten that human government, being subordinate
to the divine, must needs, therefore, in its degree, partake of the
characteristics of the divine. That is, while in general efficacious to
happiness, the world's law may yet, in some cases, have, to the eye of
reason, an unequal operation, just as, in the same imperfect view, some
inequalities may appear in the operations of heaven's law; nevertheless,
to one who has a right confidence, final benignity is, in every
instance, as sure with the one law as the other. I expound the point at
some length, because these are the considerations, my poor fellow,
which, weighed as they merit, will enable you to sustain with unimpaired
trust the apparent calamities which are yours."

"What do you talk your hog-latin to me for?" cried the cripple, who,
throughout the address, betrayed the most illiterate obduracy; and, with
an incensed look, anew he swung himself.

Glancing another way till the spasm passed, the other continued:

"Charity marvels not that you should be somewhat hard of conviction, my
friend, since you, doubtless, believe yourself hardly dealt by; but
forget not that those who are loved are chastened."

"Mustn't chasten them too much, though, and too long, because their skin
and heart get hard, and feel neither pain nor tickle."

"To mere reason, your case looks something piteous, I grant. But never
despond; many things--the choicest--yet remain. You breathe this
bounteous air, are warmed by this gracious sun, and, though poor and
friendless, indeed, nor so agile as in your youth, yet, how sweet to
roam, day by day, through the groves, plucking the bright mosses and
flowers, till forlornness itself becomes a hilarity, and, in your
innocent independence, you skip for joy."

"Fine skipping with these 'ere horse-posts--ha ha!"

"Pardon; I forgot the crutches. My mind, figuring you after receiving
the benefit of my art, overlooked you as you stand before me."

"Your art? You call yourself a bone-setter--a natural bone-setter, do
ye? Go, bone-set the crooked world, and then come bone-set crooked me."

"Truly, my honest friend, I thank you for again recalling me to my
original object. Let me examine you," bending down; "ah, I see, I see;
much such a case as the negro's. Did you see him? Oh no, you came aboard
since. Well, his case was a little something like yours. I prescribed
for him, and I shouldn't wonder at all if, in a very short time, he were
able to walk almost as well as myself. Now, have you no confidence in my
art?"

"Ha, ha!"

The herb-doctor averted himself; but, the wild laugh dying away,
resumed:

"I will not force confidence on you. Still, I would fain do the friendly
thing by you. Here, take this box; just rub that liniment on the joints
night and morning. Take it. Nothing to pay. God bless you. Good-bye."

"Stay," pausing in his swing, not untouched by so unexpected an act;
"stay--thank'ee--but will this really do me good? Honor bright, now;
will it? Don't deceive a poor fellow," with changed mien and glistening
eye.

"Try it. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay! _Sure_ it will do me good?"

"Possibly, possibly; no harm in trying. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay; give me three more boxes, and here's the money."

"My friend," returning towards him with a sadly pleased sort of air, "I
rejoice in the birth of your confidence and hopefulness. Believe me
that, like your crutches, confidence and hopefulness will long support a
man when his own legs will not. Stick to confidence and hopefulness,
then, since how mad for the cripple to throw his crutches away. You ask
for three more boxes of my liniment. Luckily, I have just that number
remaining. Here they are. I sell them at half-a-dollar apiece. But I
shall take nothing from you. There; God bless you again; good-bye."

"Stay," in a convulsed voice, and rocking himself, "stay, stay! You have
made a better man of me. You have borne with me like a good Christian,
and talked to me like one, and all that is enough without making me a
present of these boxes. Here is the money. I won't take nay. There,
there; and may Almighty goodness go with you."

As the herb-doctor withdrew, the cripple gradually subsided from his
hard rocking into a gentle oscillation. It expressed, perhaps, the
soothed mood of his reverie.




CHAPTER XX.

REAPPEARANCE OF ONE WHO MAY BE REMEMBERED.


The herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this
spectacle met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of
twelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes
of old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes,
blinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at
intervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed
search for his nurse. He presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has,
through overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to
his feet.

"You seek some one," said the herb-doctor, accosting him. "Can I assist
you?"

"Do, do; I am so old and miserable," coughed the old man. "Where is he?
This long time I've been trying to get up and find him. But I haven't
any friends, and couldn't get up till now. Where is he?"

"Who do you mean?" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one
so weakly.

"Why, why, why," now marking the other's dress, "why you, yes you--you,
you--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I?"

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!--you are the man he spoke of. Who is he?"

"Faith, that is just what I want to know."

"Mercy, mercy!" coughed the old man, bewildered, "ever since seeing him,
my head spins round so. I ought to have a guard_ee_an. Is this a
snuff-colored surtout of yours, or ain't it? Somehow, can't trust my
senses any more, since trusting him--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you have trusted somebody? Glad to hear it. Glad to hear of any
instance, of that sort. Reflects well upon all men. But you inquire
whether this is a snuff-colored surtout. I answer it is; and will add
that a herb-doctor wears it."

Upon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the
herb-doctor) was the person he sought--the person spoken of by the other
person as yet unknown. He then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know
who this last person was, and where he was, and whether he could be
trusted with money to treble it.

"Aye, now, I begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend,
who, in pure goodness of heart, makes people's fortunes for them--their
everlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes--only charging his one small
commission of confidence. Aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my
friend, you want to know about him. Very proper--and, I am glad to
assure you, you need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the
world; bona fide, none. Turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other
day into as many eagles."

"Did he? did he? But where is he? Take me to him."

"Pray, take my arm! The boat is large! We may have something of a hunt!
Come on! Ah, is that he?"

"Where? where?"

"O, no; I took yonder coat-skirts for his. But no, my honest friend
would never turn tail that way. Ah!----"

"Where? where?"

"Another mistake. Surprising resemblance. I took yonder clergyman for
him. Come on!"

Having searched that part of the boat without success, they went to
another part, and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing,
when, as the two were passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor
suddenly rushed towards the disembarking throng, crying out: "Mr.
Truman, Mr. Truman! There he goes--that's he. Mr. Truman, Mr.
Truman!--Confound that steam-pipe., Mr. Truman! for God's sake, Mr.
Truman!--No, no.--There, the plank's in--too late--we're off."

With that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from
the shore, resuming her course.

"How vexatious!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. "Had we been but
one single moment sooner.--There he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his
portmanteau following. You see him, don't you?"

"Where? where?"

"Can't see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I
should have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your
money. You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me."

"Oh, I _have_ let him have some of my money," groaned the old man.

"You have? My dear sir," seizing both the miser's hands in both his own
and heartily shaking them. "My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You
don't know."

"Ugh, ugh! I fear I don't," with another groan. "His name is Truman, is
it?"

"John Truman."

"Where does he live?"

"In St. Louis."

"Where's his office?"

"Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and--no, no--anyway, it's
somewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street."

"Can't you remember the number? Try, now."

"One hundred--two hundred--three hundred--"

"Oh, my hundred dollars! I wonder whether it will be one hundred, two
hundred, three hundred, with them! Ugh, ugh! Can't remember the number?"

"Positively, though I once knew, I have forgotten, quite forgotten it.
Strange. But never mind. You will easily learn in St. Louis. He is well
known there."

"But I have no receipt--ugh, ugh! Nothing to show--don't know where I
stand--ought to have a guard_ee_an--ugh, ugh! Don't know anything. Ugh,
ugh!"

"Why, you know that you gave him your confidence, don't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then?"

"But what, what--how, how--ugh, ugh!"

"Why, didn't he tell you?"

"No."

"What! Didn't he tell you that it was a secret, a mystery?"

"Oh--yes."

"Well, then?"

"But I have no bond."

"Don't need any with Mr. Truman. Mr. Truman's word is his bond."

"But how am I to get my profits--ugh, ugh!--and my money back? Don't
know anything. Ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you must have confidence."

"Don't say that word again. Makes my head spin so. Oh, I'm so old and
miserable, nobody caring for me, everybody fleecing me, and my head
spins so--ugh, ugh!--and this cough racks me so. I say again, I ought to
have a guard_ee_an."

"So you ought; and Mr. Truman is your guardian to the extent you
invested with him. Sorry we missed him just now. But you'll hear from
him. All right. It's imprudent, though, to expose yourself this way. Let
me take you to your berth."

Forlornly enough the old miser moved slowly away with him. But, while
descending a stairway, he was seized with such coughing that he was fain
to pause.

"That is a very bad cough."

"Church-yard--ugh, ugh!--church-yard cough.--Ugh!"

"Have you tried anything for it?"

"Tired of trying. Nothing does me any good--ugh! ugh! Not even the
Mammoth Cave. Ugh! ugh! Denned there six months, but coughed so bad the
rest of the coughers--ugh! ugh!--black-balled me out. Ugh, ugh! Nothing
does me good."

"But have you tried the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator, sir?"

"That's what that Truman--ugh, ugh!--said I ought to take.
Yarb-medicine; you are that yarb-doctor, too?"

"The same. Suppose you try one of my boxes now. Trust me, from what I
know of Mr. Truman, he is not the gentleman to recommend, even in behalf
of a friend, anything of whose excellence he is not conscientiously
satisfied."

"Ugh!--how much?"

"Only two dollars a box."

"Two dollars? Why don't you say two millions? ugh, ugh! Two dollars,
that's two hundred cents; that's eight hundred farthings; that's two
thousand mills; and all for one little box of yarb-medicine. My head, my
head!--oh, I ought to have a guard_ee_an for; my head. Ugh, ugh, ugh,
ugh!"

"Well, if two dollars a box seems too much, take a dozen boxes at twenty
dollars; and that will be getting four boxes for nothing, and you need
use none but those four, the rest you can retail out at a premium, and
so cure your cough, and make money by it. Come, you had better do it.
Cash down. Can fill an order in a day or two. Here now," producing a
box; "pure herbs."

At that moment, seized with another spasm, the miser snatched each
interval to fix his half distrustful, half hopeful eye upon the
medicine, held alluringly up. "Sure--ugh! Sure it's all nat'ral? Nothing
but yarbs? If I only thought it was a purely nat'ral medicine now--all
yarbs--ugh, ugh!--oh this cough, this cough--ugh, ugh!--shatters my
whole body. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"For heaven's sake try my medicine, if but a single box. That it is pure
nature you may be confident, Refer you to Mr. Truman."

"Don't know his number--ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh this cough. He did speak
well of this medicine though; said solemnly it would cure me--ugh, ugh,
ugh, ugh!--take off a dollar and I'll have a box."

"Can't sir, can't."

"Say a dollar-and-half. Ugh!"

"Can't. Am pledged to the one-price system, only honorable one."

"Take off a shilling--ugh, ugh!"

"Can't."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh--I'll take it.--There."

Grudgingly he handed eight silver coins, but while still in his hand,
his cough took him and they were shaken upon the deck.

One by one, the herb-doctor picked them up, and, examining them, said:
"These are not quarters, these are pistareens; and clipped, and sweated,
at that."

"Oh don't be so miserly--ugh, ugh!--better a beast than a miser--ugh,
ugh!"

"Well, let it go. Anything rather than the idea of your not being cured
of such a cough. And I hope, for the credit of humanity, you have not
made it appear worse than it is, merely with a view to working upon the
weak point of my pity, and so getting my medicine the cheaper. Now,
mind, don't take it till night. Just before retiring is the time. There,
you can get along now, can't you? I would attend you further, but I land
presently, and must go hunt up my luggage."




CHAPTER XXI.

A HARD CASE.


"Yarbs, yarbs; natur, natur; you foolish old file you! He diddled you
with that hocus-pocus, did he? Yarbs and natur will cure your incurable
cough, you think."

It was a rather eccentric-looking person who spoke; somewhat ursine in
aspect; sporting a shaggy spencer of the cloth called bear's-skin; a
high-peaked cap of raccoon-skin, the long bushy tail switching over
behind; raw-hide leggings; grim stubble chin; and to end, a
double-barreled gun in hand--a Missouri bachelor, a Hoosier gentleman,
of Spartan leisure and fortune, and equally Spartan manners and
sentiments; and, as the sequel may show, not less acquainted, in a
Spartan way of his own, with philosophy and books, than with woodcraft
and rifles.

He must have overheard some of the talk between the miser and the
herb-doctor; for, just after the withdrawal of the one, he made up to
the other--now at the foot of the stairs leaning against the baluster
there--with the greeting above.

"Think it will cure me?" coughed the miser in echo; "why shouldn't it?
The medicine is nat'ral yarbs, pure yarbs; yarbs must cure me."

"Because a thing is nat'ral, as you call it, you think it must be good.
But who gave you that cough? Was it, or was it not, nature?"

"Sure, you don't think that natur, Dame Natur, will hurt a body, do
you?"

"Natur is good Queen Bess; but who's responsible for the cholera?"

"But yarbs, yarbs; yarbs are good?"

"What's deadly-nightshade? Yarb, ain't it?"

"Oh, that a Christian man should speak agin natur and yarbs--ugh, ugh,
ugh!--ain't sick men sent out into the country; sent out to natur and
grass?"

"Aye, and poets send out the sick spirit to green pastures, like lame
horses turned out unshod to the turf to renew their hoofs. A sort of
yarb-doctors in their way, poets have it that for sore hearts, as for
sore lungs, nature is the grand cure. But who froze to death my teamster
on the prairie? And who made an idiot of Peter the Wild Boy?"

"Then you don't believe in these 'ere yarb-doctors?"

"Yarb-doctors? I remember the lank yarb-doctor I saw once on a
hospital-cot in Mobile. One of the faculty passing round and seeing who
lay there, said with professional triumph, 'Ah, Dr. Green, your yarbs
don't help ye now, Dr. Green. Have to come to us and the mercury now,
Dr. Green.--Natur! Y-a-r-b-s!'"

"Did I hear something about herbs and herb-doctors?" here said a
flute-like voice, advancing.

It was the herb-doctor in person. Carpet-bag in hand, he happened to be
strolling back that way.

"Pardon me," addressing the Missourian, "but if I caught your words
aright, you would seem to have little confidence in nature; which,
really, in my way of thinking, looks like carrying the spirit of
distrust pretty far."

"And who of my sublime species may you be?" turning short round upon
him, clicking his rifle-lock, with an air which would have seemed half
cynic, half wild-cat, were it not for the grotesque excess of the
expression, which made its sincerity appear more or less dubious.

"One who has confidence in nature, and confidence in man, with some
little modest confidence in himself."

"That's your Confession of Faith, is it? Confidence in man, eh? Pray,
which do you think are most, knaves or fools?"

"Having met with few or none of either, I hardly think I am competent to
answer."

"I will answer for you. Fools are most."

"Why do you think so?"

"For the same reason that I think oats are numerically more than horses.
Don't knaves munch up fools just as horses do oats?"

"A droll, sir; you are a droll. I can appreciate drollery--ha, ha, ha!"

"But I'm in earnest."

"That's the drollery, to deliver droll extravagance with an earnest
air--knaves munching up fools as horses oats.--Faith, very droll,
indeed, ha, ha, ha! Yes, I think I understand you now, sir. How silly I
was to have taken you seriously, in your droll conceits, too, about
having no confidence in nature. In reality you have just as much as I
have."

"_I_ have confidence in nature? _I?_ I say again there is nothing I am
more suspicious of. I once lost ten thousand dollars by nature. Nature
embezzled that amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars'
worth of my property; a plantation on this stream, swept clean away by
one of those sudden shiftings of the banks in a freshet; ten thousand
dollars' worth of alluvion thrown broad off upon the waters."

"But have you no confidence that by a reverse shifting that soil will
come back after many days?--ah, here is my venerable friend," observing
the old miser, "not in your berth yet? Pray, if you _will_ keep afoot,
don't lean against that baluster; take my arm."

It was taken; and the two stood together; the old miser leaning against
the herb-doctor with something of that air of trustful fraternity with
which, when standing, the less strong of the Siamese twins habitually
leans against the other.

The Missourian eyed them in silence, which was broken by the
herb-doctor.

"You look surprised, sir. Is it because I publicly take under my
protection a figure like this? But I am never ashamed of honesty,
whatever his coat."

"Look you," said the Missourian, after a scrutinizing pause, "you are a
queer sort of chap. Don't know exactly what to make of you. Upon the
whole though, you somewhat remind me of the last boy I had on my place."

"Good, trustworthy boy, I hope?"

"Oh, very! I am now started to get me made some kind of machine to do
the sort of work which boys are supposed to be fitted for."

"Then you have passed a veto upon boys?"

"And men, too."

"But, my dear sir, does not that again imply more or less lack of
confidence?--(Stand up a little, just a very little, my venerable
friend; you lean rather hard.)--No confidence in boys, no confidence in
men, no confidence in nature. Pray, sir, who or what may you have
confidence in?"

"I have confidence in distrust; more particularly as applied to you and
your herbs."

"Well," with a forbearing smile, "that is frank. But pray, don't forget
that when you suspect my herbs you suspect nature."

"Didn't I say that before?"

"Very good. For the argument's sake I will suppose you are in earnest.
Now, can you, who suspect nature, deny, that this same nature not only
kindly brought you into being, but has faithfully nursed you to your
present vigorous and independent condition? Is it not to nature that you
are indebted for that robustness of mind which you so unhandsomely use
to her scandal? Pray, is it not to nature that you owe the very eyes by
which you criticise her?"

"No! for the privilege of vision I am indebted to an oculist, who in my
tenth year operated upon me in Philadelphia. Nature made me blind and
would have kept me so. My oculist counterplotted her."

"And yet, sir, by your complexion, I judge you live an out-of-door life;
without knowing it, you are partial to nature; you fly to nature, the
universal mother."

"Very motherly! Sir, in the passion-fits of nature, I've known birds fly
from nature to me, rough as I look; yes, sir, in a tempest, refuge
here," smiting the folds of his bearskin. "Fact, sir, fact. Come, come,
Mr. Palaverer, for all your palavering, did you yourself never shut out
nature of a cold, wet night? Bar her out? Bolt her out? Lint her out?"

"As to that," said the herb-doctor calmly, "much may be said."

"Say it, then," ruffling all his hairs. "You can't, sir, can't." Then,
as in apostrophe: "Look you, nature! I don't deny but your clover is
sweet, and your dandelions don't roar; but whose hailstones smashed my
windows?"

"Sir," with unimpaired affability, producing one of his boxes, "I am
pained to meet with one who holds nature a dangerous character. Though
your manner is refined your voice is rough; in short, you seem to have a
sore throat. In the calumniated name of nature, I present you with this
box; my venerable friend here has a similar one; but to you, a free
gift, sir. Through her regularly-authorized agents, of whom I happen to
be one, Nature delights in benefiting those who most abuse her. Pray,
take it."

"Away with it! Don't hold it so near. Ten to one there is a torpedo in
it. Such things have been. Editors been killed that way. Take it further
off, I say."

"Good heavens! my dear sir----"

"I tell you I want none of your boxes," snapping his rifle.

"Oh, take it--ugh, ugh! do take it," chimed in the old miser; "I wish he
would give me one for nothing."

"You find it lonely, eh," turning short round; "gulled yourself, you
would have a companion."

"How can he find it lonely," returned the herb-doctor, "or how desire a
companion, when here I stand by him; I, even I, in whom he has trust.
For the gulling, tell me, is it humane to talk so to this poor old man?
Granting that his dependence on my medicine is vain, is it kind to
deprive him of what, in mere imagination, if nothing more, may help eke
out, with hope, his disease? For you, if you have no confidence, and,
thanks to your native health, can get along without it, so far, at
least, as trusting in my medicine goes; yet, how cruel an argument to
use, with this afflicted one here. Is it not for all the world as if
some brawny pugilist, aglow in December, should rush in and put out a
hospital-fire, because, forsooth, he feeling no need of artificial heat,
the shivering patients shall have none? Put it to your conscience, sir,
and you will admit, that, whatever be the nature of this afflicted one's
trust, you, in opposing it, evince either an erring head or a heart
amiss. Come, own, are you not pitiless?"

"Yes, poor soul," said the Missourian, gravely eying the old man--"yes,
it _is_ pitiless in one like me to speak too honestly to one like you.
You are a late sitter-up in this life; past man's usual bed-time; and
truth, though with some it makes a wholesome breakfast, proves to all a
supper too hearty. Hearty food, taken late, gives bad dreams."

"What, in wonder's name--ugh, ugh!--is he talking about?" asked the old
miser, looking up to the herb-doctor.

"Heaven be praised for that!" cried the Missourian.

"Out of his mind, ain't he?" again appealed the old miser.

"Pray, sir," said the herb-doctor to the Missourian, "for what were you
giving thanks just now?"

"For this: that, with some minds, truth is, in effect, not so cruel a
thing after all, seeing that, like a loaded pistol found by poor devils
of savages, it raises more wonder than terror--its peculiar virtue being
unguessed, unless, indeed, by indiscreet handling, it should happen to
go off of itself."

"I pretend not to divine your meaning there," said the herb-doctor,
after a pause, during which he eyed the Missourian with a kind of
pinched expression, mixed of pain and curiosity, as if he grieved at his
state of mind, and, at the same time, wondered what had brought him to
it, "but this much I know," he added, "that the general cast of your
thoughts is, to say the least, unfortunate. There is strength in them,
but a strength, whose source, being physical, must wither. You will yet
recant."

"Recant?"

"Yes, when, as with this old man, your evil days of decay come on, when
a hoary captive in your chamber, then will you, something like the
dungeoned Italian we read of, gladly seek the breast of that confidence
begot in the tender time of your youth, blessed beyond telling if it
return to you in age."

"Go back to nurse again, eh? Second childhood, indeed. You are soft."

"Mercy, mercy!" cried the old miser, "what is all this!--ugh, ugh! Do
talk sense, my good friends. Ain't you," to the Missourian, "going to
buy some of that medicine?"

"Pray, my venerable friend," said the herb-doctor, now trying to
straighten himself, "don't lean _quite_ so hard; my arm grows numb;
abate a little, just a very little."

"Go," said the Missourian, "go lay down in your grave, old man, if you
can't stand of yourself. It's a hard world for a leaner."

"As to his grave," said the herb-doctor, "that is far enough off, so he
but faithfully take my medicine."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!--He says true. No, I ain't--ugh! a going to die
yet--ugh, ugh, ugh! Many years to live yet, ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I approve your confidence," said the herb-doctor; "but your coughing
distresses me, besides being injurious to you. Pray, let me conduct you
to your berth. You are best there. Our friend here will wait till my
return, I know."

With which he led the old miser away, and then, coming back, the talk
with the Missourian was resumed.

"Sir," said the herb-doctor, with some dignity and more feeling, "now
that our infirm friend is withdrawn, allow me, to the full, to express
my concern at the words you allowed to escape you in his hearing. Some
of those words, if I err not, besides being calculated to beget
deplorable distrust in the patient, seemed fitted to convey unpleasant
imputations against me, his physician."

"Suppose they did?" with a menacing air.

"Why, then--then, indeed," respectfully retreating, "I fall back upon my
previous theory of your general facetiousness. I have the fortune to be
in company with a humorist--a wag."

"Fall back you had better, and wag it is," cried the Missourian,
following him up, and wagging his raccoon tail almost into the
herb-doctor's face, "look you!"

"At what?"

"At this coon. Can you, the fox, catch him?"

"If you mean," returned the other, not unselfpossessed, "whether I
flatter myself that I can in any way dupe you, or impose upon you, or
pass myself off upon you for what I am not, I, as an honest man, answer
that I have neither the inclination nor the power to do aught of the
kind."

"Honest man? Seems to me you talk more like a craven."

"You in vain seek to pick a quarrel with me, or put any affront upon me.
The innocence in me heals me."

"A healing like your own nostrums. But you are a queer man--a very queer
and dubious man; upon the whole, about the most so I ever met."

The scrutiny accompanying this seemed unwelcome to the diffidence of the
herb-doctor. As if at once to attest the absence of resentment, as well
as to change the subject, he threw a kind of familiar cordiality into
his air, and said: "So you are going to get some machine made to do your
work? Philanthropic scruples, doubtless, forbid your going as far as New
Orleans for slaves?"

"Slaves?" morose again in a twinkling, "won't have 'em! Bad enough to
see whites ducking and grinning round for a favor, without having those
poor devils of niggers congeeing round for their corn. Though, to me,
the niggers are the freer of the two. You are an abolitionist, ain't
you?" he added, squaring himself with both hands on his rifle, used for
a staff, and gazing in the herb-doctor's face with no more reverence
than if it were a target. "You are an abolitionist, ain't you?"

"As to that, I cannot so readily answer. If by abolitionist you mean a
zealot, I am none; but if you mean a man, who, being a man, feels for
all men, slaves included, and by any lawful act, opposed to nobody's
interest, and therefore, rousing nobody's enmity, would willingly
abolish suffering (supposing it, in its degree, to exist) from among
mankind, irrespective of color, then am I what you say."

"Picked and prudent sentiments. You are the moderate man, the invaluable
understrapper of the wicked man. You, the moderate man, may be used for
wrong, but are useless for right."

"From all this," said the herb-doctor, still forgivingly, "I infer, that
you, a Missourian, though living in a slave-state, are without slave
sentiments."

"Aye, but are you? Is not that air of yours, so spiritlessly enduring
and yielding, the very air of a slave? Who is your master, pray; or are
you owned by a company?"

"_My_ master?"

"Aye, for come from Maine or Georgia, you come from a slave-state, and a
slave-pen, where the best breeds are to be bought up at any price from a
livelihood to the Presidency. Abolitionism, ye gods, but expresses the
fellow-feeling of slave for slave."

"The back-woods would seem to have given you rather eccentric notions,"
now with polite superiority smiled the herb-doctor, still with manly
intrepidity forbearing each unmanly thrust, "but to return; since, for
your purpose, you will have neither man nor boy, bond nor free, truly,
then some sort of machine for you is all there is left. My desires for
your success attend you, sir.--Ah!" glancing shoreward, "here is Cape
Girádeau; I must leave you."




CHAPTER XXII.

IN THE POLITE SPIRIT OF THE TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.


--"'Philosophical Intelligence Office'--novel idea! But how did you come
to dream that I wanted anything in your absurd line, eh?"

About twenty minutes after leaving Cape Girádeau, the above was growled
out over his shoulder by the Missourian to a chance stranger who had
just accosted him; a round-backed, baker-kneed man, in a mean
five-dollar suit, wearing, collar-wise by a chain, a small brass plate,
inscribed P. I. O., and who, with a sort of canine deprecation, slunk
obliquely behind.

"How did you come to dream that I wanted anything in your line, eh?"

"Oh, respected sir," whined the other, crouching a pace nearer, and, in
his obsequiousness, seeming to wag his very coat-tails behind him,
shabby though they were, "oh, sir, from long experience, one glance
tells me the gentleman who is in need of our humble services."

"But suppose I did want a boy--what they jocosely call a good boy--how
could your absurd office help me?--Philosophical Intelligence Office?"

"Yes, respected sir, an office founded on strictly philosophical and
physio----"

"Look you--come up here--how, by philosophy or physiology either, make
good boys to order? Come up here. Don't give me a crick in the neck.
Come up here, come, sir, come," calling as if to his pointer. "Tell me,
how put the requisite assortment of good qualities into a boy, as the
assorted mince into the pie?"

"Respected sir, our office----"

"You talk much of that office. Where is it? On board this boat?"

"Oh no, sir, I just came aboard. Our office----"

"Came aboard at that last landing, eh? Pray, do you know a herb-doctor
there? Smooth scamp in a snuff-colored surtout?"

"Oh, sir, I was but a sojourner at Cape Girádeau. Though, now that you
mention a snuff-colored surtout, I think I met such a man as you speak
of stepping ashore as I stepped aboard, and 'pears to me I have seen him
somewhere before. Looks like a very mild Christian sort of person, I
should say. Do you know him, respected sir?"

"Not much, but better than you seem to. Proceed with your business."

With a low, shabby bow, as grateful for the permission, the other began:
"Our office----"

"Look you," broke in the bachelor with ire, "have you the spinal
complaint? What are you ducking and groveling about? Keep still. Where's
your office?"

"The branch one which I represent, is at Alton, sir, in the free state
we now pass," (pointing somewhat proudly ashore).

"Free, eh? You a freeman, you flatter yourself? With those coat-tails
and that spinal complaint of servility? Free? Just cast up in your
private mind who is your master, will you?"

"Oh, oh, oh! I don't understand--indeed--indeed. But, respected sir, as
before said, our office, founded on principles wholly new----"

"To the devil with your principles! Bad sign when a man begins to talk
of his principles. Hold, come back, sir; back here, back, sir, back! I
tell you no more boys for me. Nay, I'm a Mede and Persian. In my old
home in the woods I'm pestered enough with squirrels, weasels,
chipmunks, skunks. I want no more wild vermin to spoil my temper and
waste my substance. Don't talk of boys; enough of your boys; a plague of
your boys; chilblains on your boys! As for Intelligence Offices, I've
lived in the East, and know 'em. Swindling concerns kept by low-born
cynics, under a fawning exterior wreaking their cynic malice upon
mankind. You are a fair specimen of 'em."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!"

"Dear? Yes, a thrice dear purchase one of your boys would be to me. A
rot on your boys!"

"But, respected sir, if you will not have boys, might we not, in our
small way, accommodate you with a man?"

"Accommodate? Pray, no doubt you could accommodate me with a
bosom-friend too, couldn't you? Accommodate! Obliging word accommodate:
there's accommodation notes now, where one accommodates another with a
loan, and if he don't pay it pretty quickly, accommodates him, with a
chain to his foot. Accommodate! God forbid that I should ever be
accommodated. No, no. Look you, as I told that cousin-german of yours,
the herb-doctor, I'm now on the road to get me made some sort of machine
to do my work. Machines for me. My cider-mill--does that ever steal my
cider? My mowing-machine--does that ever lay a-bed mornings? My
corn-husker--does that ever give me insolence? No: cider-mill,
mowing-machine, corn-husker--all faithfully attend to their business.
Disinterested, too; no board, no wages; yet doing good all their lives
long; shining examples that virtue is its own reward--the only practical
Christians I know."

"Oh dear, dear, dear, dear!"

"Yes, sir:--boys? Start my soul-bolts, what a difference, in a moral
point of view, between a corn-husker and a boy! Sir, a corn-husker, for
its patient continuance in well-doing, might not unfitly go to heaven.
Do you suppose a boy will?"

"A corn-husker in heaven! (turning up the whites of his eyes). Respected
sir, this way of talking as if heaven were a kind of Washington
patent-office museum--oh, oh, oh!--as if mere machine-work and
puppet-work went to heaven--oh, oh, oh! Things incapable of free agency,
to receive the eternal reward of well-doing--oh, oh, oh!"

"You Praise-God-Barebones you, what are you groaning about? Did I say
anything of that sort? Seems to me, though you talk so good, you are
mighty quick at a hint the other way, or else you want to pick a polemic
quarrel with me."

"It may be so or not, respected sir," was now the demure reply; "but if
it be, it is only because as a soldier out of honor is quick in taking
affront, so a Christian out of religion is quick, sometimes perhaps a
little too much so, in spying heresy."

"Well," after an astonished pause, "for an unaccountable pair, you and
the herb-doctor ought to yoke together."

So saying, the bachelor was eying him rather sharply, when he with the
brass plate recalled him to the discussion by a hint, not unflattering,
that he (the man with the brass plate) was all anxiety to hear him
further on the subject of servants.

"About that matter," exclaimed the impulsive bachelor, going off
at the hint like a rocket, "all thinking minds are, now-a-days,
coming to the conclusion--one derived from an immense hereditary
experience--see what Horace and others of the ancients say of
servants--coming to the conclusion, I say, that boy or man, the
human animal is, for most work-purposes, a losing animal. Can't be
trusted; less trustworthy than oxen; for conscientiousness a turn-spit
dog excels him. Hence these thousand new inventions--carding machines,
horseshoe machines, tunnel-boring machines, reaping machines,
apple-paring machines, boot-blacking machines, sewing machines, shaving
machines, run-of-errand machines, dumb-waiter machines, and the
Lord-only-knows-what machines; all of which announce the era when that
refractory animal, the working or serving man, shall be a buried
by-gone, a superseded fossil. Shortly prior to which glorious time, I
doubt not that a price will be put upon their peltries as upon the
knavish 'possums,' especially the boys. Yes, sir (ringing his rifle down
on the deck), I rejoice to think that the day is at hand, when, prompted
to it by law, I shall shoulder this gun and go out a boy-shooting."

"Oh, now! Lord, Lord, Lord!--But _our_ office, respected sir, conducted
as I ventured to observe----"

"No, sir," bristlingly settling his stubble chin in his coon-skins.
"Don't try to oil me; the herb-doctor tried that. My experience, carried
now through a course--worse than salivation--a course of five and thirty
boys, proves to me that boyhood is a natural state of rascality."

"Save us, save us!"

"Yes, sir, yes. My name is Pitch; I stick to what I say. I speak from
fifteen years' experience; five and thirty boys; American, Irish,
English, German, African, Mulatto; not to speak of that China boy sent
me by one who well knew my perplexities, from California; and that
Lascar boy from Bombay. Thug! I found him sucking the embryo life from
my spring eggs. All rascals, sir, every soul of them; Caucasian or
Mongol. Amazing the endless variety of rascality in human nature of the
juvenile sort. I remember that, having discharged, one after another,
twenty-nine boys--each, too, for some wholly unforeseen species of
viciousness peculiar to that one peculiar boy--I remember saying to
myself: Now, then, surely, I have got to the end of the list, wholly
exhausted it; I have only now to get me a boy, any boy different from
those twenty-nine preceding boys, and he infallibly shall be that
virtuous boy I have so long been seeking. But, bless me! this thirtieth
boy--by the way, having at the time long forsworn your intelligence
offices, I had him sent to me from the Commissioners of Emigration, all
the way from New York, culled out carefully, in fine, at my particular
request, from a standing army of eight hundred boys, the flowers of all
nations, so they wrote me, temporarily in barracks on an East River
island--I say, this thirtieth boy was in person not ungraceful; his
deceased mother a lady's maid, or something of that sort; and in manner,
why, in a plebeian way, a perfect Chesterfield; very intelligent,
too--quick as a flash. But, such suavity! 'Please sir! please sir!'
always bowing and saying, 'Please sir.' In the strangest way, too,
combining a filial affection with a menial respect. Took such warm,
singular interest in my affairs. Wanted to be considered one of the
family--sort of adopted son of mine, I suppose. Of a morning, when I
would go out to my stable, with what childlike good nature he would trot
out my nag, 'Please sir, I think he's getting fatter and fatter.' 'But,
he don't look very clean, does he?' unwilling to be downright harsh with
so affectionate a lad; 'and he seems a little hollow inside the haunch
there, don't he? or no, perhaps I don't see plain this morning.' 'Oh,
please sir, it's just there I think he's gaining so, please.' Polite
scamp! I soon found he never gave that wretched nag his oats of nights;
didn't bed him either. Was above that sort of chambermaid work. No end
to his willful neglects. But the more he abused my service, the more
polite he grew."

"Oh, sir, some way you mistook him."

"Not a bit of it. Besides, sir, he was a boy who under a Chesterfieldian
exterior hid strong destructive propensities. He cut up my horse-blanket
for the bits of leather, for hinges to his chest. Denied it point-blank.
After he was gone, found the shreds under his mattress. Would
slyly break his hoe-handle, too, on purpose to get rid of hoeing.
Then be so gracefully penitent for his fatal excess of industrious
strength. Offer to mend all by taking a nice stroll to the nighest
settlement--cherry-trees in full bearing all the way--to get the broken
thing cobbled. Very politely stole my pears, odd pennies, shillings,
dollars, and nuts; regular squirrel at it. But I could prove nothing.
Expressed to him my suspicions. Said I, moderately enough, 'A little
less politeness, and a little more honesty would suit me better.' He
fired up; threatened to sue for libel. I won't say anything about his
afterwards, in Ohio, being found in the act of gracefully putting a bar
across a rail-road track, for the reason that a stoker called him the
rogue that he was. But enough: polite boys or saucy boys, white boys or
black boys, smart boys or lazy boys, Caucasian boys or Mongol boys--all
are rascals."

"Shocking, shocking!" nervously tucking his frayed cravat-end out of
sight. "Surely, respected sir, you labor under a deplorable
hallucination. Why, pardon again, you seem to have not the slightest
confidence in boys, I admit, indeed, that boys, some of them at least,
are but too prone to one little foolish foible or other. But, what then,
respected sir, when, by natural laws, they finally outgrow such things,
and wholly?"

Having until now vented himself mostly in plaintive dissent of canine
whines and groans, the man with the brass-plate seemed beginning to
summon courage to a less timid encounter. But, upon his maiden essay,
was not very encouragingly handled, since the dialogue immediately
continued as follows:

"Boys outgrow what is amiss in them? From bad boys spring good men? Sir,
'the child is father of the man;' hence, as all boys are rascals, so are
all men. But, God bless me, you must know these things better than I;
keeping an intelligence office as you do; a business which must furnish
peculiar facilities for studying mankind. Come, come up here, sir;
confess you know these things pretty well, after all. Do you not know
that all men are rascals, and all boys, too?"

"Sir," replied the other, spite of his shocked feelings seeming to pluck
up some spirit, but not to an indiscreet degree, "Sir, heaven be
praised, I am far, very far from knowing what you say. True," he
thoughtfully continued, "with my associates, I keep an intelligence
office, and for ten years, come October, have, one way or other, been
concerned in that line; for no small period in the great city of
Cincinnati, too; and though, as you hint, within that long interval, I
must have had more or less favorable opportunity for studying
mankind--in a business way, scanning not only the faces, but ransacking
the lives of several thousands of human beings, male and female, of
various nations, both employers and employed, genteel and ungenteel,
educated and uneducated; yet--of course, I candidly admit, with some
random exceptions, I have, so far as my small observation goes, found
that mankind thus domestically viewed, confidentially viewed, I may say;
they, upon the whole--making some reasonable allowances for human
imperfection--present as pure a moral spectacle as the purest angel
could wish. I say it, respected sir, with confidence."

"Gammon! You don't mean what you say. Else you are like a landsman at
sea: don't know the ropes, the very things everlastingly pulled before
your eyes. Serpent-like, they glide about, traveling blocks too subtle
for you. In short, the entire ship is a riddle. Why, you green ones
wouldn't know if she were unseaworthy; but still, with thumbs stuck back
into your arm-holes, pace the rotten planks, singing, like a fool, words
put into your green mouth by the cunning owner, the man who, heavily
insuring it, sends his ship to be wrecked--

    'A wet sheet and a flowing sea!'--

and, sir, now that it occurs to me, your talk, the whole of it, is
but a wet sheet and a flowing sea, and an idle wind that follows fast,
offering a striking contrast to my own discourse."

"Sir," exclaimed the man with the brass-plate, his patience now more or
less tasked, "permit me with deference to hint that some of your remarks
are injudiciously worded. And thus we say to our patrons, when they
enter our office full of abuse of us because of some worthy boy we may
have sent them--some boy wholly misjudged for the time. Yes, sir, permit
me to remark that you do not sufficiently consider that, though a small
man, I may have my small share of feelings."

"Well, well, I didn't mean to wound your feelings at all. And that they
are small, very small, I take your word for it. Sorry, sorry. But truth
is like a thrashing-machine; tender sensibilities must keep out of the
way. Hope you understand me. Don't want to hurt you. All I say is, what
I said in the first place, only now I swear it, that all boys are
rascals."

"Sir," lowly replied the other, still forbearing like an old lawyer
badgered in court, or else like a good-hearted simpleton, the butt of
mischievous wags, "Sir, since you come back to the point, will you allow
me, in my small, quiet way, to submit to you certain small, quiet views
of the subject in hand?"

"Oh, yes!" with insulting indifference, rubbing his chin and looking the
other way. "Oh, yes; go on."

"Well, then, respected sir," continued the other, now assuming as
genteel an attitude as the irritating set of his pinched five-dollar
suit would permit; "well, then, sir, the peculiar principles, the
strictly philosophical principles, I may say," guardedly rising in
dignity, as he guardedly rose on his toes, "upon which our office is
founded, has led me and my associates, in our small, quiet way, to a
careful analytical study of man, conducted, too, on a quiet theory, and
with an unobtrusive aim wholly our own. That theory I will not now at
large set forth. But some of the discoveries resulting from it, I will,
by your permission, very briefly mention; such of them, I mean, as refer
to the state of boyhood scientifically viewed."

"Then you have studied the thing? expressly studied boys, eh? Why didn't
you out with that before?"

"Sir, in my small business way, I have not conversed with so many
masters, gentlemen masters, for nothing. I have been taught that in this
world there is a precedence of opinions as well as of persons. You have
kindly given me your views, I am now, with modesty, about to give you
mine."

"Stop flunkying--go on."

"In the first place, sir, our theory teaches us to proceed by analogy
from the physical to the moral. Are we right there, sir? Now, sir, take
a young boy, a young male infant rather, a man-child in short--what sir,
I respectfully ask, do you in the first place remark?"

"A rascal, sir! present and prospective, a rascal!"

"Sir, if passion is to invade, surely science must evacuate. May I
proceed? Well, then, what, in the first place, in a general view, do you
remark, respected sir, in that male baby or man-child?"

The bachelor privily growled, but this time, upon the whole, better
governed himself than before, though not, indeed, to the degree of
thinking it prudent to risk an articulate response.

"What do you remark? I respectfully repeat." But, as no answer came,
only the low, half-suppressed growl, as of Bruin in a hollow trunk, the
questioner continued: "Well, sir, if you will permit me, in my small
way, to speak for you, you remark, respected sir, an incipient creation;
loose sort of sketchy thing; a little preliminary rag-paper study, or
careless cartoon, so to speak, of a man. The idea, you see, respected
sir, is there; but, as yet, wants filling out. In a word, respected sir,
the man-child is at present but little, every way; I don't pretend to
deny it; but, then, he _promises_ well, does he not? Yes, promises very
well indeed, I may say. (So, too, we say to our patrons in reference to
some noble little youngster objected to for being a _dwarf_.) But, to
advance one step further," extending his thread-bare leg, as he drew a
pace nearer, "we must now drop the figure of the rag-paper cartoon, and
borrow one--to use presently, when wanted--from the horticultural
kingdom. Some bud, lily-bud, if you please. Now, such points as the
new-born man-child has--as yet not all that could be desired, I am free
to confess--still, such as they are, there they are, and palpable as
those of an adult. But we stop not here," taking another step. "The
man-child not only possesses these present points, small though they
are, but, likewise--now our horticultural image comes into play--like
the bud of the lily, he contains concealed rudiments of others; that
is, points at present invisible, with beauties at present dormant."

"Come, come, this talk is getting too horticultural and beautiful
altogether. Cut it short, cut it short!"

"Respected sir," with a rustily martial sort of gesture, like a decayed
corporal's, "when deploying into the field of discourse the vanguard of
an important argument, much more in evolving the grand central forces of
a new philosophy of boys, as I may say, surely you will kindly allow
scope adequate to the movement in hand, small and humble in its way as
that movement may be. Is it worth my while to go on, respected sir?"

"Yes, stop flunkying and go on."

Thus encouraged, again the philosopher with the brass-plate proceeded:

"Supposing, sir, that worthy gentleman (in such terms, to an applicant
for service, we allude to some patron we chance to have in our eye),
supposing, respected sir, that worthy gentleman, Adam, to have been
dropped overnight in Eden, as a calf in the pasture; supposing that,
sir--then how could even the learned serpent himself have foreknown that
such a downy-chinned little innocent would eventually rival the goat in
a beard? Sir, wise as the serpent was, that eventuality would have been
entirely hidden from his wisdom."

"I don't know about that. The devil is very sagacious. To judge by the
event, he appears to have understood man better even than the Being who
made him."

"For God's sake, don't say that, sir! To the point. Can it now with
fairness be denied that, in his beard, the man-child prospectively
possesses an appendix, not less imposing than patriarchal; and for this
goodly beard, should we not by generous anticipation give the man-child,
even in his cradle, credit? Should we not now, sir? respectfully I put
it."

"Yes, if like pig-weed he mows it down soon as it shoots," porcinely
rubbing his stubble-chin against his coon-skins.

"I have hinted at the analogy," continued the other, calmly disregardful
of the digression; "now to apply it. Suppose a boy evince no noble
quality. Then generously give him credit for his prospective one. Don't
you see? So we say to our patrons when they would fain return a boy upon
us as unworthy: 'Madam, or sir, (as the case may be) has this boy a
beard?' 'No.' 'Has he, we respectfully ask, as yet, evinced any noble
quality?' 'No, indeed.' 'Then, madam, or sir, take him back, we humbly
beseech; and keep him till that same noble quality sprouts; for, have
confidence, it, like the beard, is in him.'"

"Very fine theory," scornfully exclaimed the bachelor, yet in secret,
perhaps, not entirely undisturbed by these strange new views of the
matter; "but what trust is to be placed in it?"

"The trust of perfect confidence, sir. To proceed. Once more, if you
please, regard the man-child."

"Hold!" paw-like thrusting put his bearskin arm, "don't intrude that
man-child upon me too often. He who loves not bread, dotes not on
dough. As little of your man-child as your logical arrangements will
admit."

"Anew regard the man-child," with inspired intrepidity repeated he with
the brass-plate, "in the perspective of his developments, I mean. At
first the man-child has no teeth, but about the sixth month--am I right,
sir?"

"Don't know anything about it."

"To proceed then: though at first deficient in teeth, about the sixth
month the man-child begins to put forth in that particular. And sweet
those tender little puttings-forth are."

"Very, but blown out of his mouth directly, worthless enough."

"Admitted. And, therefore, we say to our patrons returning with a boy
alleged not only to be deficient in goodness, but redundant in ill: 'The
lad, madam or sir, evinces very corrupt qualities, does he? No end to
them.' 'But, have confidence, there will be; for pray, madam, in this
lad's early childhood, were not those frail first teeth, then his,
followed by his present sound, even, beautiful and permanent set. And
the more objectionable those first teeth became, was not that, madam, we
respectfully submit, so much the more reason to look for their speedy
substitution by the present sound, even, beautiful and permanent ones.'
'True, true, can't deny that.' 'Then, madam, take him back, we
respectfully beg, and wait till, in the now swift course of nature,
dropping those transient moral blemishes you complain of, he
replacingly buds forth in the sound, even, beautiful and permanent
virtues.'"

"Very philosophical again," was the contemptuous reply--the outward
contempt, perhaps, proportioned to the inward misgiving. "Vastly
philosophical, indeed, but tell me--to continue your analogy--since the
second teeth followed--in fact, came from--the first, is there no chance
the blemish may be transmitted?"

"Not at all." Abating in humility as he gained in the argument. "The
second teeth follow, but do not come from, the first; successors, not
sons. The first teeth are not like the germ blossom of the apple, at
once the father of, and incorporated into, the growth it foreruns; but
they are thrust from their place by the independent undergrowth of the
succeeding set--an illustration, by the way, which shows more for me
than I meant, though not more than I wish."

"What does it show?" Surly-looking as a thundercloud with the inkept
unrest of unacknowledged conviction.

"It shows this, respected sir, that in the case of any boy, especially
an ill one, to apply unconditionally the saying, that the 'child is
father of the man', is, besides implying an uncharitable aspersion of
the race, affirming a thing very wide of----"

"--Your analogy," like a snapping turtle.

"Yes, respected sir."

"But is analogy argument? You are a punster."

"Punster, respected sir?" with a look of being aggrieved.

"Yes, you pun with ideas as another man may with words."

"Oh well, sir, whoever talks in that strain, whoever has no confidence
in human reason, whoever despises human reason, in vain to reason with
him. Still, respected sir," altering his air, "permit me to hint that,
had not the force of analogy moved you somewhat, you would hardly have
offered to contemn it."

"Talk away," disdainfully; "but pray tell me what has that last analogy
of yours to do with your intelligence office business?"

"Everything to do with it, respected sir. From that analogy we derive
the reply made to such a patron as, shortly after being supplied by us
with an adult servant, proposes to return him upon our hands; not that,
while with the patron, said adult has given any cause of
dissatisfaction, but the patron has just chanced to hear something
unfavorable concerning him from some gentleman who employed said adult,
long before, while a boy. To which too fastidious patron, we, taking
said adult by the hand, and graciously reintroducing him to the patron,
say: 'Far be it from you, madam, or sir, to proceed in your censure
against this adult, in anything of the spirit of an ex-post-facto law.
Madam, or sir, would you visit upon the butterfly the caterpillar? In
the natural advance of all creatures, do they not bury themselves over
and over again in the endless resurrection of better and better? Madam,
or sir, take back this adult; he may have been a caterpillar, but is now
a butterfly."

"Pun away; but even accepting your analogical pun, what does it amount
to? Was the caterpillar one creature, and is the butterfly another? The
butterfly is the caterpillar in a gaudy cloak; stripped of which, there
lies the impostor's long spindle of a body, pretty much worm-shaped as
before."

"You reject the analogy. To the facts then. You deny that a youth of one
character can be transformed into a man of an opposite character. Now
then--yes, I have it. There's the founder of La Trappe, and Ignatius
Loyola; in boyhood, and someway into manhood, both devil-may-care
bloods, and yet, in the end, the wonders of the world for anchoritish
self-command. These two examples, by-the-way, we cite to such patrons as
would hastily return rakish young waiters upon us. 'Madam, or
sir--patience; patience,' we say; 'good madam, or sir, would you
discharge forth your cask of good wine, because, while working, it riles
more or less? Then discharge not forth this young waiter; the good in
him is working.' 'But he is a sad rake.' 'Therein is his promise; the
rake being crude material for the saint.'"

"Ah, you are a talking man--what I call a wordy man. You talk, talk."

"And with submission, sir, what is the greatest judge, bishop or
prophet, but a talking man? He talks, talks. It is the peculiar vocation
of a teacher to talk. What's wisdom itself but table-talk? The best
wisdom in this world, and the last spoken by its teacher, did it not
literally and truly come in the form of table-talk?"

"You, you, you!" rattling down his rifle.

"To shift the subject, since we cannot agree. Pray, what is your
opinion, respected sir, of St. Augustine?"

"St. Augustine? What should I, or you either, know of him? Seems to me,
for one in such a business, to say nothing of such a coat, that though
you don't know a great deal, indeed, yet you know a good deal more than
you ought to know, or than you have a right to know, or than it is safe
or expedient for you to know, or than, in the fair course of life, you
could have honestly come to know. I am of opinion you should be served
like a Jew in the middle ages with his gold; this knowledge of yours,
which you haven't enough knowledge to know how to make a right use of,
it should be taken from you. And so I have been thinking all along."

"You are merry, sir. But you have a little looked into St. Augustine I
suppose."

"St. Augustine on Original Sin is my text book. But you, I ask again,
where do you find time or inclination for these out-of-the-way
speculations? In fact, your whole talk, the more I think of it, is
altogether unexampled and extraordinary."

"Respected sir, have I not already informed you that the quite new
method, the strictly philosophical one, on which our office is founded,
has led me and my associates to an enlarged study of mankind. It was my
fault, if I did not, likewise, hint, that these studies directed always
to the scientific procuring of good servants of all sorts, boys
included, for the kind gentlemen, our patrons--that these studies, I
say, have been conducted equally among all books of all libraries, as
among all men of all nations. Then, you rather like St. Augustine, sir?"

"Excellent genius!"

"In some points he was; yet, how comes it that under his own hand, St.
Augustine confesses that, until his thirtieth year, he was a very sad
dog?"

"A saint a sad dog?"

"Not the saint, but the saint's irresponsible little forerunner--the
boy."

"All boys are rascals, and so are all men," again flying off at his
tangent; "my name is Pitch; I stick to what I say."

"Ah, sir, permit me--when I behold you on this mild summer's eve, thus
eccentrically clothed in the skins of wild beasts, I cannot but conclude
that the equally grim and unsuitable habit of your mind is likewise but
an eccentric assumption, having no basis in your genuine soul, no more
than in nature herself."

"Well, really, now--really," fidgeted the bachelor, not unaffected in
his conscience by these benign personalities, "really, really, now, I
don't know but that I may have been a little bit too hard upon those
five and thirty boys of mine."

"Glad to find you a little softening, sir. Who knows now, but that
flexile gracefulness, however questionable at the time of that thirtieth
boy of yours, might have been the silky husk of the most solid qualities
of maturity. It might have been with him as with the ear of the Indian
corn."

"Yes, yes, yes," excitedly cried the bachelor, as the light of this new
illustration broke in, "yes, yes; and now that I think of it, how often
I've sadly watched my Indian corn in May, wondering whether such sickly,
half-eaten sprouts, could ever thrive up into the stiff, stately spear
of August."

"A most admirable reflection, sir, and you have only, according to the
analogical theory first started by our office, to apply it to that
thirtieth boy in question, and see the result. Had you but kept that
thirtieth boy--been patient with his sickly virtues, cultivated them,
hoed round them, why what a glorious guerdon would have been yours, when
at last you should have had a St. Augustine for an ostler."

"Really, really--well, I am glad I didn't send him to jail, as at first
I intended."

"Oh that would have been too bad. Grant he was vicious. The petty vices
of boys are like the innocent kicks of colts, as yet imperfectly broken.
Some boys know not virtue only for the same reason they know not French;
it was never taught them. Established upon the basis of parental
charity, juvenile asylums exist by law for the benefit of lads convicted
of acts which, in adults, would have received other requital. Why?
Because, do what they will, society, like our office, at bottom has a
Christian confidence in boys. And all this we say to our patrons."

"Your patrons, sir, seem your marines to whom you may say anything,"
said the other, relapsing. "Why do knowing employers shun youths from
asylums, though offered them at the smallest wages? I'll none of your
reformado boys."

"Such a boy, respected sir, I would not get for you, but a boy that
never needed reform. Do not smile, for as whooping-cough and measles are
juvenile diseases, and yet some juveniles never have them, so are there
boys equally free from juvenile vices. True, for the best of boys'
measles may be contagious, and evil communications corrupt good manners;
but a boy with a sound mind in a sound body--such is the boy I would get
you. If hitherto, sir, you have struck upon a peculiarly bad vein of
boys, so much the more hope now of your hitting a good one."

"That sounds a kind of reasonable, as it were--a little so, really. In
fact, though you have said a great many foolish things, very foolish and
absurd things, yet, upon the whole, your conversation has been such as
might almost lead one less distrustful than I to repose a certain
conditional confidence in you, I had almost added in your office, also.
Now, for the humor of it, supposing that even I, I myself, really had
this sort of conditional confidence, though but a grain, what sort of a
boy, in sober fact, could you send me? And what would be your fee?"

"Conducted," replied the other somewhat loftily, rising now in eloquence
as his proselyte, for all his pretenses, sunk in conviction, "conducted
upon principles involving care, learning, and labor, exceeding what is
usual in kindred institutions, the Philosophical Intelligence Office is
forced to charge somewhat higher than customary. Briefly, our fee is
three dollars in advance. As for the boy, by a lucky chance, I have a
very promising little fellow now in my eye--a very likely little fellow,
indeed."

"Honest?"

"As the day is long. Might trust him with untold millions. Such, at
least, were the marginal observations on the phrenological chart of his
head, submitted to me by the mother."

"How old?"

"Just fifteen."

"Tall? Stout?"

"Uncommonly so, for his age, his mother remarked."

"Industrious?"

"The busy bee."

The bachelor fell into a troubled reverie. At last, with much hesitancy,
he spoke:

"Do you think now, candidly, that--I say candidly--candidly--could I
have some small, limited--some faint, conditional degree of confidence
in that boy? Candidly, now?"

"Candidly, you could."

"A sound boy? A good boy?"

"Never knew one more so."

The bachelor fell into another irresolute reverie; then said: "Well,
now, you have suggested some rather new views of boys, and men, too.
Upon those views in the concrete I at present decline to determine.
Nevertheless, for the sake purely of a scientific experiment, I will try
that boy. I don't think him an angel, mind. No, no. But I'll try him.
There are my three dollars, and here is my address. Send him along this
day two weeks. Hold, you will be wanting the money for his passage.
There," handing it somewhat reluctantly.

"Ah, thank you. I had forgotten his passage;" then, altering in manner,
and gravely holding the bills, continued: "Respected sir, never
willingly do I handle money not with perfect willingness, nay, with a
certain alacrity, paid. Either tell me that you have a perfect and
unquestioning confidence in me (never mind the boy now) or permit me
respectfully to return these bills."

"Put 'em up, put 'em-up!"

"Thank you. Confidence is the indispensable basis of all sorts of
business transactions. Without it, commerce between man and man, as
between country and country, would, like a watch, run down and stop. And
now, supposing that against present expectation the lad should, after
all, evince some little undesirable trait, do not, respected sir, rashly
dismiss him. Have but patience, have but confidence. Those transient
vices will, ere long, fall out, and be replaced by the sound, firm, even
and permanent virtues. Ah," glancing shoreward, towards a
grotesquely-shaped bluff, "there's the Devil's Joke, as they call it:
the bell for landing will shortly ring. I must go look up the cook I
brought for the innkeeper at Cairo."




CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH THE POWERFUL EFFECT OF NATURAL SCENERY IS EVINCED IN THE CASE
OF THE MISSOURIAN, WHO, IN VIEW OF THE REGION ROUND-ABOUT CAIRO, HAS A
RETURN OF HIS CHILLY FIT.


At Cairo, the old established firm of Fever & Ague is still settling up
its unfinished business; that Creole grave-digger, Yellow Jack--his hand
at the mattock and spade has not lost its cunning; while Don Saturninus
Typhus taking his constitutional with Death, Calvin Edson and three
undertakers, in the morass, snuffs up the mephitic breeze with zest.

In the dank twilight, fanned with mosquitoes, and sparkling with
fire-flies, the boat now lies before Cairo. She has landed certain
passengers, and tarries for the coming of expected ones. Leaning over
the rail on the inshore side, the Missourian eyes through the dubious
medium that swampy and squalid domain; and over it audibly mumbles his
cynical mind to himself, as Apermantus' dog may have mumbled his bone.
He bethinks him that the man with the brass-plate was to land on this
villainous bank, and for that cause, if no other, begins to suspect him.
Like one beginning to rouse himself from a dose of chloroform
treacherously given, he half divines, too, that he, the philosopher,
had unwittingly been betrayed into being an unphilosophical dupe. To
what vicissitudes of light and shade is man subject! He ponders the
mystery of human subjectivity in general. He thinks he perceives with
Crossbones, his favorite author, that, as one may wake up well in the
morning, very well, indeed, and brisk as a buck, I thank you, but ere
bed-time get under the weather, there is no telling how--so one may wake
up wise, and slow of assent, very wise and very slow, I assure you, and
for all that, before night, by like trick in the atmosphere, be left in
the lurch a ninny. Health and wisdom equally precious, and equally
little as unfluctuating possessions to be relied on.

But where was slipped in the entering wedge? Philosophy, knowledge,
experience--were those trusty knights of the castle recreant? No, but
unbeknown to them, the enemy stole on the castle's south side, its
genial one, where Suspicion, the warder, parleyed. In fine, his too
indulgent, too artless and companionable nature betrayed him. Admonished
by which, he thinks he must be a little splenetic in his intercourse
henceforth.

He revolves the crafty process of sociable chat, by which, as he
fancies, the man with the brass-plate wormed into him, and made such a
fool of him as insensibly to persuade him to waive, in his exceptional
case, that general law of distrust systematically applied to the race.
He revolves, but cannot comprehend, the operation, still less the
operator. Was the man a trickster, it must be more for the love than the
lucre. Two or three dirty dollars the motive to so many nice wiles? And
yet how full of mean needs his seeming. Before his mental vision the
person of that threadbare Talleyrand, that impoverished Machiavelli,
that seedy Rosicrucian--for something of all these he vaguely deems
him--passes now in puzzled review. Fain, in his disfavor, would he make
out a logical case. The doctrine of analogies recurs. Fallacious enough
doctrine when wielded against one's prejudices, but in corroboration of
cherished suspicions not without likelihood. Analogically, he couples
the slanting cut of the equivocator's coat-tails with the sinister cast
in his eye; he weighs slyboot's sleek speech in the light imparted by
the oblique import of the smooth slope of his worn boot-heels; the
insinuator's undulating flunkyisms dovetail into those of the flunky
beast that windeth his way on his belly.

From these uncordial reveries he is roused by a cordial slap on the
shoulder, accompanied by a spicy volume of tobacco-smoke, out of which
came a voice, sweet as a seraph's:

"A penny for your thoughts, my fine fellow."




CHAPTER XXIV.

A PHILANTHROPIST UNDERTAKES TO CONVERT A MISANTHROPE, BUT DOES NOT GET
BEYOND CONFUTING HIM.


"Hands off!" cried the bachelor, involuntarily covering dejection with
moroseness.

"Hands off? that sort of label won't do in our Fair. Whoever in our Fair
has fine feelings loves to feel the nap of fine cloth, especially when a
fine fellow wears it."

"And who of my fine-fellow species may you be? From the Brazils, ain't
you? Toucan fowl. Fine feathers on foul meat."

This ungentle mention of the toucan was not improbably suggested by the
parti-hued, and rather plumagy aspect of the stranger, no bigot it would
seem, but a liberalist, in dress, and whose wardrobe, almost anywhere
than on the liberal Mississippi, used to all sorts of fantastic
informalities, might, even to observers less critical than the bachelor,
have looked, if anything, a little out of the common; but not more so
perhaps, than, considering the bear and raccoon costume, the bachelor's
own appearance. In short, the stranger sported a vesture barred with
various hues, that of the cochineal predominating, in style
participating of a Highland plaid, Emir's robe, and French blouse; from
its plaited sort of front peeped glimpses of a flowered regatta-shirt,
while, for the rest, white trowsers of ample duck flowed over
maroon-colored slippers, and a jaunty smoking-cap of regal purple
crowned him off at top; king of traveled good-fellows, evidently.
Grotesque as all was, nothing looked stiff or unused; all showed signs
of easy service, the least wonted thing setting like a wonted glove.
That genial hand, which had just been laid on the ungenial shoulder, was
now carelessly thrust down before him, sailor-fashion, into a sort of
Indian belt, confining the redundant vesture; the other held, by its
long bright cherry-stem, a Nuremburgh pipe in blast, its great porcelain
bowl painted in miniature with linked crests and arms of interlinked
nations--a florid show. As by subtle saturations of its mellowing
essence the tobacco had ripened the bowl, so it looked as if something
similar of the interior spirit came rosily out on the cheek. But rosy
pipe-bowl, or rosy countenance, all was lost on that unrosy man, the
bachelor, who, waiting a moment till the commotion, caused by the boat's
renewed progress, had a little abated, thus continued:

"Hark ye," jeeringly eying the cap and belt, "did you ever see Signor
Marzetti in the African pantomime?"

"No;--good performer?"

"Excellent; plays the intelligent ape till he seems it. With such
naturalness can a being endowed with an immortal spirit enter into that
of a monkey. But where's your tail? In the pantomime, Marzetti, no
hypocrite in his monkery, prides himself on that."

The stranger, now at rest, sideways and genially, on one hip, his right
leg cavalierly crossed before the other, the toe of his vertical slipper
pointed easily down on the deck, whiffed out a long, leisurely sort of
indifferent and charitable puff, betokening him more or less of the
mature man of the world, a character which, like its opposite, the
sincere Christian's, is not always swift to take offense; and then,
drawing near, still smoking, again laid his hand, this time with mild
impressiveness, on the ursine shoulder, and not unamiably said: "That in
your address there is a sufficiency of the _fortiter in re_ few unbiased
observers will question; but that this is duly attempered with the
_suaviter in modo_ may admit, I think, of an honest doubt. My dear
fellow," beaming his eyes full upon him, "what injury have I done you,
that you should receive my greeting with a curtailed civility?"

"Off hands;" once more shaking the friendly member from him. "Who in the
name of the great chimpanzee, in whose likeness, you, Marzetti, and the
other chatterers are made, who in thunder are you?"

"A cosmopolitan, a catholic man; who, being such, ties himself to no
narrow tailor or teacher, but federates, in heart as in costume,
something of the various gallantries of men under various suns. Oh, one
roams not over the gallant globe in vain. Bred by it, is a fraternal and
fusing feeling. No man is a stranger. You accost anybody. Warm and
confiding, you wait not for measured advances. And though, indeed,
mine, in this instance, have met with no very hilarious encouragement,
yet the principle of a true citizen of the world is still to return good
for ill.--My dear fellow, tell me how I can serve you."

"By dispatching yourself, Mr. Popinjay-of-the-world, into the heart of
the Lunar Mountains. You are another of them. Out of my sight!"

"Is the sight of humanity so very disagreeable to you then? Ah, I may be
foolish, but for my part, in all its aspects, I love it. Served up à la
Pole, or à la Moor, à la Ladrone, or à la Yankee, that good dish, man,
still delights me; or rather is man a wine I never weary of comparing
and sipping; wherefore am I a pledged cosmopolitan, a sort of
London-Dock-Vault connoisseur, going about from Teheran to Natchitoches,
a taster of races; in all his vintages, smacking my lips over this racy
creature, man, continually. But as there are teetotal palates which have
a distaste even for Amontillado, so I suppose there may be teetotal
souls which relish not even the very best brands of humanity. Excuse me,
but it just occurs to me that you, my dear fellow, possibly lead a
solitary life."

"Solitary?" starting as at a touch of divination.

"Yes: in a solitary life one insensibly contracts oddities,--talking to
one's self now."

"Been eaves-dropping, eh?"

"Why, a soliloquist in a crowd can hardly but be overheard, and without
much reproach to the hearer."

"You are an eaves-dropper."

"Well. Be it so."

"Confess yourself an eaves-dropper?"

"I confess that when you were muttering here I, passing by, caught a
word or two, and, by like chance, something previous of your chat with
the Intelligence-office man;--a rather sensible fellow, by the way; much
of my style of thinking; would, for his own sake, he were of my style of
dress. Grief to good minds, to see a man of superior sense forced to
hide his light under the bushel of an inferior coat.--Well, from what
little I heard, I said to myself, Here now is one with the unprofitable
philosophy of disesteem for man. Which disease, in the main, I have
observed--excuse me--to spring from a certain lowness, if not sourness,
of spirits inseparable from sequestration. Trust me, one had better mix
in, and do like others. Sad business, this holding out against having a
good time. Life is a pic-nic _en costume_; one must take a part, assume
a character, stand ready in a sensible way to play the fool. To come in
plain clothes, with a long face, as a wiseacre, only makes one a
discomfort to himself, and a blot upon the scene. Like your jug of cold
water among the wine-flasks, it leaves you unelated among the elated
ones. No, no. This austerity won't do. Let me tell you too--_en
confiance_--that while revelry may not always merge into ebriety,
soberness, in too deep potations, may become a sort of sottishness.
Which sober sottishness, in my way of thinking, is only to be cured by
beginning at the other end of the horn, to tipple a little."

"Pray, what society of vintners and old topers are you hired to lecture
for?"

"I fear I did not give my meaning clearly. A little story may help. The
story of the worthy old woman of Goshen, a very moral old woman, who
wouldn't let her shoats eat fattening apples in fall, for fear the fruit
might ferment upon their brains, and so make them swinish. Now, during a
green Christmas, inauspicious to the old, this worthy old woman fell
into a moping decline, took to her bed, no appetite, and refused to see
her best friends. In much concern her good man sent for the doctor, who,
after seeing the patient and putting a question or two, beckoned the
husband out, and said: 'Deacon, do you want her cured?' 'Indeed I do.'
'Go directly, then, and buy a jug of Santa Cruz.' 'Santa Cruz? my wife
drink Santa Cruz?' 'Either that or die.' 'But how much?' 'As much as she
can get down.' 'But she'll get drunk!' 'That's the cure.' Wise men, like
doctors, must be obeyed. Much against the grain, the sober deacon got
the unsober medicine, and, equally against her conscience, the poor old
woman took it; but, by so doing, ere long recovered health and spirits,
famous appetite, and glad again to see her friends; and having by this
experience broken the ice of arid abstinence, never afterwards kept
herself a cup too low."

This story had the effect of surprising the bachelor into interest,
though hardly into approval.

"If I take your parable right," said he, sinking no little of his former
churlishness, "the meaning is, that one cannot enjoy life with gusto
unless he renounce the too-sober view of life. But since the too-sober
view is, doubtless, nearer true than the too-drunken; I, who rate truth,
though cold water, above untruth, though Tokay, will stick to my earthen
jug."

"I see," slowly spirting upward a spiral staircase of lazy smoke, "I
see; you go in for the lofty."

"How?"

"Oh, nothing! but if I wasn't afraid of prosing, I might tell another
story about an old boot in a pieman's loft, contracting there between
sun and oven an unseemly, dry-seasoned curl and warp. You've seen such
leathery old garretteers, haven't you? Very high, sober, solitary,
philosophic, grand, old boots, indeed; but I, for my part, would rather
be the pieman's trodden slipper on the ground. Talking of piemen,
humble-pie before proud-cake for me. This notion of being lone and lofty
is a sad mistake. Men I hold in this respect to be like roosters; the
one that betakes himself to a lone and lofty perch is the hen-pecked
one, or the one that has the pip."

"You are abusive!" cried the bachelor, evidently touched.

"Who is abused? You, or the race? You won't stand by and see the human
race abused? Oh, then, you have some respect for the human race."

"I have some respect for _myself_" with a lip not so firm as before.

"And what race may _you_ belong to? now don't you see, my dear fellow,
in what inconsistencies one involves himself by affecting disesteem for
men. To a charm, my little stratagem succeeded. Come, come, think better
of it, and, as a first step to a new mind, give up solitude. I fear, by
the way, you have at some time been reading Zimmermann, that old Mr.
Megrims of a Zimmermann, whose book on Solitude is as vain as Hume's on
Suicide, as Bacon's on Knowledge; and, like these, will betray him who
seeks to steer soul and body by it, like a false religion. All they, be
they what boasted ones you please, who, to the yearning of our kind
after a founded rule of content, offer aught not in the spirit of
fellowly gladness based on due confidence in what is above, away with
them for poor dupes, or still poorer impostors."

His manner here was so earnest that scarcely any auditor, perhaps, but
would have been more or less impressed by it, while, possibly, nervous
opponents might have a little quailed under it. Thinking within himself
a moment, the bachelor replied: "Had you experience, you would know that
your tippling theory, take it in what sense you will, is poor as any
other. And Rabelais's pro-wine Koran no more trustworthy than Mahomet's
anti-wine one."

"Enough," for a finality knocking the ashes from his pipe, "we talk and
keep talking, and still stand where we did. What do you say for a walk?
My arm, and let's a turn. They are to have dancing on the hurricane-deck
to-night. I shall fling them off a Scotch jig, while, to save the
pieces, you hold my loose change; and following that, I propose that
you, my dear fellow, stack your gun, and throw your bearskins in a
sailor's hornpipe--I holding your watch. What do you say?"

At this proposition the other was himself again, all raccoon.

"Look you," thumping down his rifle, "are you Jeremy Diddler No. 3?"

"Jeremy Diddler? I have heard of Jeremy the prophet, and Jeremy Taylor
the divine, but your other Jeremy is a gentleman I am unacquainted
with."

"You are his confidential clerk, ain't you?"

"_Whose_, pray? Not that I think myself unworthy of being confided in,
but I don't understand."

"You are another of them. Somehow I meet with the most extraordinary
metaphysical scamps to-day. Sort of visitation of them. And yet that
herb-doctor Diddler somehow takes off the raw edge of the Diddlers that
come after him."

"Herb-doctor? who is he?"

"Like you--another of them."

"_Who?_" Then drawing near, as if for a good long explanatory chat, his
left hand spread, and his pipe-stem coming crosswise down upon it like a
ferule, "You think amiss of me. Now to undeceive you, I will just enter
into a little argument and----"

"No you don't. No more little arguments for me. Had too many little
arguments to-day."

"But put a case. Can you deny--I dare you to deny--that the man leading
a solitary life is peculiarly exposed to the sorriest misconceptions
touching strangers?"

"Yes, I _do_ deny it," again, in his impulsiveness, snapping at the
controversial bait, "and I will confute you there in a trice. Look,
you----"

"Now, now, now, my dear fellow," thrusting out both vertical palms for
double shields, "you crowd me too hard. You don't give one a chance. Say
what you will, to shun a social proposition like mine, to shun society
in any way, evinces a churlish nature--cold, loveless; as, to embrace
it, shows one warm and friendly, in fact, sunshiny."

Here the other, all agog again, in his perverse way, launched forth into
the unkindest references to deaf old worldlings keeping in the deafening
world; and gouty gluttons limping to their gouty gormandizings; and
corseted coquets clasping their corseted cavaliers in the waltz, all for
disinterested society's sake; and thousands, bankrupt through
lavishness, ruining themselves out of pure love of the sweet company of
man--no envies, rivalries, or other unhandsome motive to it.

"Ah, now," deprecating with his pipe, "irony is so unjust: never could
abide irony: something Satanic about irony. God defend me from Irony,
and Satire, his bosom friend."

"A right knave's prayer, and a right fool's, too," snapping his
rifle-lock.

"Now be frank. Own that was a little gratuitous. But, no, no, you didn't
mean it; any way, I can make allowances. Ah, did you but know it, how
much pleasanter to puff at this philanthropic pipe, than still to keep
fumbling at that misanthropic rifle. As for your worldling, glutton,
and coquette, though, doubtless, being such, they may have their little
foibles--as who has not?--yet not one of the three can be reproached
with that awful sin of shunning society; awful I call it, for not seldom
it presupposes a still darker thing than itself--remorse."

"Remorse drives man away from man? How came your fellow-creature, Cain,
after the first murder, to go and build the first city? And why is it
that the modern Cain dreads nothing so much as solitary confinement?

"My dear fellow, you get excited. Say what you will, I for one must have
my fellow-creatures round me. Thick, too--I must have them thick."

"The pick-pocket, too, loves to have his fellow-creatures round him.
Tut, man! no one goes into the crowd but for his end; and the end of too
many is the same as the pick-pocket's--a purse."

"Now, my dear fellow, how can you have the conscience to say that, when
it is as much according to natural law that men are social as sheep
gregarious. But grant that, in being social, each man has his end, do
you, upon the strength of that, do you yourself, I say, mix with man,
now, immediately, and be your end a more genial philosophy. Come, let's
take a turn."

Again he offered his fraternal arm; but the bachelor once more flung it
off, and, raising his rifle in energetic invocation, cried: "Now the
high-constable catch and confound all knaves in towns and rats in
grain-bins, and if in this boat, which is a human grain-bin for the
time, any sly, smooth, philandering rat be dodging now, pin him, thou
high rat-catcher, against this rail."

"A noble burst! shows you at heart a trump. And when a card's that,
little matters it whether it be spade or diamond. You are good wine
that, to be still better, only needs a shaking up. Come, let's agree
that we'll to New Orleans, and there embark for London--I staying with
my friends nigh Primrose-hill, and you putting up at the Piazza, Covent
Garden--Piazza, Covent Garden; for tell me--since you will not be a
disciple to the full--tell me, was not that humor, of Diogenes, which
led him to live, a merry-andrew, in the flower-market, better than that
of the less wise Athenian, which made him a skulking scare-crow in
pine-barrens? An injudicious gentleman, Lord Timon."

"Your hand!" seizing it.

"Bless me, how cordial a squeeze. It is agreed we shall be brothers,
then?"

"As much so as a brace of misanthropes can be," with another and
terrific squeeze. "I had thought that the moderns had degenerated
beneath the capacity of misanthropy. Rejoiced, though but in one
instance, and that disguised, to be undeceived."

The other stared in blank amaze.

"Won't do. You are Diogenes, Diogenes in disguise. I say--Diogenes
masquerading as a cosmopolitan."

With ruefully altered mien, the stranger still stood mute awhile. At
length, in a pained tone, spoke: "How hard the lot of that pleader who,
in his zeal conceding too much, is taken to belong to a side which he
but labors, however ineffectually, to convert!" Then with another change
of air: "To you, an Ishmael, disguising in sportiveness my intent, I
came ambassador from the human race, charged with the assurance that for
your mislike they bore no answering grudge, but sought to conciliate
accord between you and them. Yet you take me not for the honest envoy,
but I know not what sort of unheard-of spy. Sir," he less lowly added,
"this mistaking of your man should teach you how you may mistake all
men. For God's sake," laying both hands upon him, "get you confidence.
See how distrust has duped you. I, Diogenes? I he who, going a step
beyond misanthropy, was less a man-hater than a man-hooter? Better were
I stark and stiff!"

With which the philanthropist moved away less lightsome than he had
come, leaving the discomfited misanthrope to the solitude he held so
sapient.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE COSMOPOLITAN MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.


In the act of retiring, the cosmopolitan was met by a passenger, who
with the bluff _abord_ of the West, thus addressed him, though a
stranger.

"Queer 'coon, your friend. Had a little skrimmage with him myself.
Rather entertaining old 'coon, if he wasn't so deuced analytical.
Reminded me somehow of what I've heard about Colonel John Moredock, of
Illinois, only your friend ain't quite so good a fellow at bottom, I
should think."

It was in the semicircular porch of a cabin, opening a recess from the
deck, lit by a zoned lamp swung overhead, and sending its light
vertically down, like the sun at noon. Beneath the lamp stood the
speaker, affording to any one disposed to it no unfavorable chance for
scrutiny; but the glance now resting on him betrayed no such rudeness.

A man neither tall nor stout, neither short nor gaunt; but with a body
fitted, as by measure, to the service of his mind. For the rest, one
less favored perhaps in his features than his clothes; and of these the
beauty may have been less in the fit than the cut; to say nothing of
the fineness of the nap, seeming out of keeping with something the
reverse of fine in the skin; and the unsuitableness of a violet vest,
sending up sunset hues to a countenance betokening a kind of bilious
habit.

But, upon the whole, it could not be fairly said that his appearance was
unprepossessing; indeed, to the congenial, it would have been doubtless
not uncongenial; while to others, it could not fail to be at least
curiously interesting, from the warm air of florid cordiality,
contrasting itself with one knows not what kind of aguish sallowness of
saving discretion lurking behind it. Ungracious critics might have
thought that the manner flushed the man, something in the same
fictitious way that the vest flushed the cheek. And though his teeth
were singularly good, those same ungracious ones might have hinted that
they were too good to be true; or rather, were not so good as they might
be; since the best false teeth are those made with at least two or three
blemishes, the more to look like life. But fortunately for better
constructions, no such critics had the stranger now in eye; only the
cosmopolitan, who, after, in the first place, acknowledging his advances
with a mute salute--in which acknowledgment, if there seemed less of
spirit than in his way of accosting the Missourian, it was probably
because of the saddening sequel of that late interview--thus now
replied: "Colonel John Moredock," repeating the words abstractedly;
"that surname recalls reminiscences. Pray," with enlivened air, "was he
anyway connected with the Moredocks of Moredock Hall, Northamptonshire,
England?"

"I know no more of the Moredocks of Moredock Hall than of the Burdocks
of Burdock Hut," returned the other, with the air somehow of one whose
fortunes had been of his own making; "all I know is, that the late
Colonel John Moredock was a famous one in his time; eye like Lochiel's;
finger like a trigger; nerve like a catamount's; and with but two little
oddities--seldom stirred without his rifle, and hated Indians like
snakes."

"Your Moredock, then, would seem a Moredock of Misanthrope Hall--the
Woods. No very sleek creature, the colonel, I fancy."

"Sleek or not, he was no uncombed one, but silky bearded and curly
headed, and to all but Indians juicy as a peach. But Indians--how the
late Colonel John Moredock, Indian-hater of Illinois, did hate Indians,
to be sure!"

"Never heard of such a thing. Hate Indians? Why should he or anybody
else hate Indians? _I_ admire Indians. Indians I have always heard to be
one of the finest of the primitive races, possessed of many heroic
virtues. Some noble women, too. When I think of Pocahontas, I am ready
to love Indians. Then there's Massasoit, and Philip of Mount Hope, and
Tecumseh, and Red-Jacket, and Logan--all heroes; and there's the Five
Nations, and Araucanians--federations and communities of heroes. God
bless me; hate Indians? Surely the late Colonel John Moredock must have
wandered in his mind."

"Wandered in the woods considerably, but never wandered elsewhere, that
I ever heard."

"Are you in earnest? Was there ever one who so made it his particular
mission to hate Indians that, to designate him, a special word has been
coined--Indian-hater?"

"Even so."

"Dear me, you take it very calmly.--But really, I would like to know
something about this Indian-hating, I can hardly believe such a thing to
be. Could you favor me with a little history of the extraordinary man
you mentioned?"

"With all my heart," and immediately stepping from the porch, gestured
the cosmopolitan to a settee near by, on deck. "There, sir, sit you
there, and I will sit here beside you--you desire to hear of Colonel
John Moredock. Well, a day in my boyhood is marked with a white
stone--the day I saw the colonel's rifle, powder-horn attached, hanging
in a cabin on the West bank of the Wabash river. I was going westward a
long journey through the wilderness with my father. It was nigh noon,
and we had stopped at the cabin to unsaddle and bait. The man at the
cabin pointed out the rifle, and told whose it was, adding that the
colonel was that moment sleeping on wolf-skins in the corn-loft above,
so we must not talk very loud, for the colonel had been out all night
hunting (Indians, mind), and it would be cruel to disturb his sleep.
Curious to see one so famous, we waited two hours over, in hopes he
would come forth; but he did not. So, it being necessary to get to the
next cabin before nightfall, we had at last to ride off without the
wished-for satisfaction. Though, to tell the truth, I, for one, did not
go away entirely ungratified, for, while my father was watering the
horses, I slipped back into the cabin, and stepping a round or two up
the ladder, pushed my head through the trap, and peered about. Not much
light in the loft; but off, in the further corner, I saw what I took to
be the wolf-skins, and on them a bundle of something, like a drift of
leaves; and at one end, what seemed a moss-ball; and over it,
deer-antlers branched; and close by, a small squirrel sprang out from a
maple-bowl of nuts, brushed the moss-ball with his tail, through a hole,
and vanished, squeaking. That bit of woodland scene was all I saw. No
Colonel Moredock there, unless that moss-ball was his curly head, seen
in the back view. I would have gone clear up, but the man below had
warned me, that though, from his camping habits, the colonel could sleep
through thunder, he was for the same cause amazing quick to waken at the
sound of footsteps, however soft, and especially if human."

"Excuse me," said the other, softly laying his hand on the narrator's
wrist, "but I fear the colonel was of a distrustful nature--little or no
confidence. He _was_ a little suspicious-minded, wasn't he?"

"Not a bit. Knew too much. Suspected nobody, but was not ignorant of
Indians. Well: though, as you may gather, I never fully saw the man,
yet, have I, one way and another, heard about as much of him as any
other; in particular, have I heard his history again and again from my
father's friend, James Hall, the judge, you know. In every company being
called upon to give this history, which none could better do, the judge
at last fell into a style so methodic, you would have thought he spoke
less to mere auditors than to an invisible amanuensis; seemed talking
for the press; very impressive way with him indeed. And I, having an
equally impressible memory, think that, upon a pinch, I can render you
the judge upon the colonel almost word for word."

"Do so, by all means," said the cosmopolitan, well pleased.

"Shall I give you the judge's philosophy, and all?"

"As to that," rejoined the other gravely, pausing over the pipe-bowl he
was filling, "the desirableness, to a man of a certain mind, of having
another man's philosophy given, depends considerably upon what school of
philosophy that other man belongs to. Of what school or system was the
judge, pray?"

"Why, though he knew how to read and write, the judge never had much
schooling. But, I should say he belonged, if anything, to the
free-school system. Yes, a true patriot, the judge went in strong for
free-schools."

"In philosophy? The man of a certain mind, then, while respecting the
judge's patriotism, and not blind to the judge's capacity for narrative,
such as he may prove to have, might, perhaps, with prudence, waive an
opinion of the judge's probable philosophy. But I am no rigorist;
proceed, I beg; his philosophy or not, as you please."

"Well, I would mostly skip that part, only, to begin, some
reconnoitering of the ground in a philosophical way the judge always
deemed indispensable with strangers. For you must know that
Indian-hating was no monopoly of Colonel Moredock's; but a passion, in
one form or other, and to a degree, greater or less, largely shared
among the class to which he belonged. And Indian-hating still exists;
and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long as Indians do.
Indian-hating, then, shall be my first theme, and Colonel Moredock, the
Indian-hater, my next and last."

With which the stranger, settling himself in his seat, commenced--the
hearer paying marked regard, slowly smoking, his glance, meanwhile,
steadfastly abstracted towards the deck, but his right ear so disposed
towards the speaker that each word came through as little atmospheric
intervention as possible. To intensify the sense of hearing, he seemed
to sink the sense of sight. No complaisance of mere speech could have
been so flattering, or expressed such striking politeness as this mute
eloquence of thoroughly digesting attention.




CHAPTER XXVI.

CONTAINING THE METAPHYSICS OF INDIAN-HATING, ACCORDING TO THE VIEWS OF
ONE EVIDENTLY NOT SO PREPOSSESSED AS ROUSSEAU IN FAVOR OF SAVAGES.


"The judge always began in these words: 'The backwoodsman's hatred of
the Indian has been a topic for some remark. In the earlier times of the
frontier the passion was thought to be readily accounted for. But Indian
rapine having mostly ceased through regions where it once prevailed, the
philanthropist is surprised that Indian-hating has not in like degree
ceased with it. He wonders why the backwoodsman still regards the red
man in much the same spirit that a jury does a murderer, or a trapper a
wild cat--a creature, in whose behalf mercy were not wisdom; truce is
vain; he must be executed.

"'A curious point,' the judge would continue, 'which perhaps not
everybody, even upon explanation, may fully understand; while, in order
for any one to approach to an understanding, it is necessary for him to
learn, or if he already know, to bear in mind, what manner of man the
backwoodsman is; as for what manner of man the Indian is, many know,
either from history or experience.

"'The backwoodsman is a lonely man. He is a thoughtful man. He is a man
strong and unsophisticated. Impulsive, he is what some might call
unprincipled. At any rate, he is self-willed; being one who less
hearkens to what others may say about things, than looks for himself, to
see what are things themselves. If in straits, there are few to help; he
must depend upon himself; he must continually look to himself. Hence
self-reliance, to the degree of standing by his own judgment, though it
stand alone. Not that he deems himself infallible; too many mistakes in
following trails prove the contrary; but he thinks that nature destines
such sagacity as she has given him, as she destines it to the 'possum.
To these fellow-beings of the wilds their untutored sagacity is their
best dependence. If with either it prove faulty, if the 'possum's betray
it to the trap, or the backwoodsman's mislead him into ambuscade, there
are consequences to be undergone, but no self-blame. As with the
'possum, instincts prevail with the backwoodsman over precepts. Like the
'possum, the backwoodsman presents the spectacle of a creature dwelling
exclusively among the works of God, yet these, truth must confess, breed
little in him of a godly mind. Small bowing and scraping is his, further
than when with bent knee he points his rifle, or picks its flint. With
few companions, solitude by necessity his lengthened lot, he stands the
trial--no slight one, since, next to dying, solitude, rightly borne, is
perhaps of fortitude the most rigorous test. But not merely is the
backwoodsman content to be alone, but in no few cases is anxious to be
so. The sight of smoke ten miles off is provocation to one more remove
from man, one step deeper into nature. Is it that he feels that whatever
man may be, man is not the universe? that glory, beauty, kindness, are
not all engrossed by him? that as the presence of man frights birds
away, so, many bird-like thoughts? Be that how it will, the backwoodsman
is not without some fineness to his nature. Hairy Orson as he looks, it
may be with him as with the Shetland seal--beneath the bristles lurks
the fur.

"'Though held in a sort a barbarian, the backwoodsman would seem to
America what Alexander was to Asia--captain in the vanguard of
conquering civilization. Whatever the nation's growing opulence or
power, does it not lackey his heels? Pathfinder, provider of security to
those who come after him, for himself he asks nothing but hardship.
Worthy to be compared with Moses in the Exodus, or the Emperor Julian in
Gaul, who on foot, and bare-browed, at the head of covered or mounted
legions, marched so through the elements, day after day. The tide of
emigration, let it roll as it will, never overwhelms the backwoodsman
into itself; he rides upon advance, as the Polynesian upon the comb of
the surf.

"'Thus, though he keep moving on through life, he maintains with respect
to nature much the same unaltered relation throughout; with her
creatures, too, including panthers and Indians. Hence, it is not
unlikely that, accurate as the theory of the Peace Congress may be with
respect to those two varieties of beings, among others, yet the
backwoodsman might be qualified to throw out some practical suggestions.

"'As the child born to a backwoodsman must in turn lead his father's
life--a life which, as related to humanity, is related mainly to
Indians--it is thought best not to mince matters, out of delicacy; but
to tell the boy pretty plainly what an Indian is, and what he must
expect from him. For however charitable it may be to view Indians as
members of the Society of Friends, yet to affirm them such to one
ignorant of Indians, whose lonely path lies a long way through their
lands, this, in the event, might prove not only injudicious but cruel.
At least something of this kind would seem the maxim upon which
backwoods' education is based. Accordingly, if in youth the backwoodsman
incline to knowledge, as is generally the case, he hears little from his
schoolmasters, the old chroniclers of the forest, but histories of
Indian lying, Indian theft, Indian double-dealing, Indian fraud and
perfidy, Indian want of conscience, Indian blood-thirstiness, Indian
diabolism--histories which, though of wild woods, are almost as full of
things unangelic as the Newgate Calendar or the Annals of Europe. In
these Indian narratives and traditions the lad is thoroughly grounded.
"As the twig is bent the tree's inclined." The instinct of antipathy
against an Indian grows in the backwoodsman with the sense of good and
bad, right and wrong. In one breath he learns that a brother is to be
loved, and an Indian to be hated.

"'Such are the facts,' the judge would say, 'upon which, if one seek to
moralize, he must do so with an eye to them. It is terrible that one
creature should so regard another, should make it conscience to abhor an
entire race. It is terrible; but is it surprising? Surprising, that one
should hate a race which he believes to be red from a cause akin to that
which makes some tribes of garden insects green? A race whose name is
upon the frontier a _memento mori_; painted to him in every evil light;
now a horse-thief like those in Moyamensing; now an assassin like a New
York rowdy; now a treaty-breaker like an Austrian; now a Palmer with
poisoned arrows; now a judicial murderer and Jeffries, after a fierce
farce of trial condemning his victim to bloody death; or a Jew with
hospitable speeches cozening some fainting stranger into ambuscade,
there to burk him, and account it a deed grateful to Manitou, his god.

"'Still, all this is less advanced as truths of the Indians than as
examples of the backwoodsman's impression of them--in which the
charitable may think he does them some injustice. Certain it is, the
Indians themselves think so; quite unanimously, too. The Indians, in
deed, protest against the backwoodsman's view of them; and some think
that one cause of their returning his antipathy so sincerely as they do,
is their moral indignation at being so libeled by him, as they really
believe and say. But whether, on this or any point, the Indians should
be permitted to testify for themselves, to the exclusion of other
testimony, is a question that may be left to the Supreme Court. At any
rate, it has been observed that when an Indian becomes a genuine
proselyte to Christianity (such cases, however, not being very many;
though, indeed, entire tribes are sometimes nominally brought to the
true light,) he will not in that case conceal his enlightened
conviction, that his race's portion by nature is total depravity; and,
in that way, as much as admits that the backwoodsman's worst idea of it
is not very far from true; while, on the other hand, those red men who
are the greatest sticklers for the theory of Indian virtue, and Indian
loving-kindness, are sometimes the arrantest horse-thieves and
tomahawkers among them. So, at least, avers the backwoodsman. And
though, knowing the Indian nature, as he thinks he does, he fancies he
is not ignorant that an Indian may in some points deceive himself almost
as effectually as in bush-tactics he can another, yet his theory and his
practice as above contrasted seem to involve an inconsistency so
extreme, that the backwoodsman only accounts for it on the supposition
that when a tomahawking red-man advances the notion of the benignity of
the red race, it is but part and parcel with that subtle strategy which
he finds so useful in war, in hunting, and the general conduct of life.'

"In further explanation of that deep abhorrence with which the
backwoodsman regards the savage, the judge used to think it might
perhaps a little help, to consider what kind of stimulus to it is
furnished in those forest histories and traditions before spoken of. In
which behalf, he would tell the story of the little colony of Wrights
and Weavers, originally seven cousins from Virginia, who, after
successive removals with their families, at last established themselves
near the southern frontier of the Bloody Ground, Kentucky: 'They were
strong, brave men; but, unlike many of the pioneers in those days,
theirs was no love of conflict for conflict's sake. Step by step they
had been lured to their lonely resting-place by the ever-beckoning
seductions of a fertile and virgin land, with a singular exemption,
during the march, from Indian molestation. But clearings made and houses
built, the bright shield was soon to turn its other side. After repeated
persecutions and eventual hostilities, forced on them by a dwindled
tribe in their neighborhood--persecutions resulting in loss of crops and
cattle; hostilities in which they lost two of their number, illy to be
spared, besides others getting painful wounds--the five remaining
cousins made, with some serious concessions, a kind of treaty with
Mocmohoc, the chief--being to this induced by the harryings of the
enemy, leaving them no peace. But they were further prompted, indeed,
first incited, by the suddenly changed ways of Mocmohoc, who, though
hitherto deemed a savage almost perfidious as Caesar Borgia, yet now put
on a seeming the reverse of this, engaging to bury the hatchet, smoke
the pipe, and be friends forever; not friends in the mere sense of
renouncing enmity, but in the sense of kindliness, active and familiar.

"'But what the chief now seemed, did not wholly blind them to what the
chief had been; so that, though in no small degree influenced by his
change of bearing, they still distrusted him enough to covenant with
him, among other articles on their side, that though friendly visits
should be exchanged between the wigwams and the cabins, yet the five
cousins should never, on any account, be expected to enter the chief's
lodge together. The intention was, though they reserved it, that if
ever, under the guise of amity, the chief should mean them mischief, and
effect it, it should be but partially; so that some of the five might
survive, not only for their families' sake, but also for retribution's.
Nevertheless, Mocmohoc did, upon a time, with such fine art and pleasing
carriage win their confidence, that he brought them all together to a
feast of bear's meat, and there, by stratagem, ended them. Years after,
over their calcined bones and those of all their families, the chief,
reproached for his treachery by a proud hunter whom he had made captive,
jeered out, "Treachery? pale face! 'Twas they who broke their covenant
first, in coming all together; they that broke it first, in trusting
Mocmohoc."'

"At this point the judge would pause, and lifting his hand, and rolling
his eyes, exclaim in a solemn enough voice, 'Circling wiles and bloody
lusts. The acuteness and genius of the chief but make him the more
atrocious.'

"After another pause, he would begin an imaginary kind of dialogue
between a backwoodsman and a questioner:

"'But are all Indians like Mocmohoc?--Not all have proved such; but in
the least harmful may lie his germ. There is an Indian nature. "Indian
blood is in me," is the half-breed's threat.--But are not some Indians
kind?--Yes, but kind Indians are mostly lazy, and reputed simple--at
all events, are seldom chiefs; chiefs among the red men being taken from
the active, and those accounted wise. Hence, with small promotion, kind
Indians have but proportionate influence. And kind Indians may be forced
to do unkind biddings. So "beware the Indian, kind or unkind," said
Daniel Boone, who lost his sons by them.--But, have all you backwoodsmen
been some way victimized by Indians?--No.--Well, and in certain cases
may not at least some few of you be favored by them?--Yes, but scarce
one among us so self-important, or so selfish-minded, as to hold his
personal exemption from Indian outrage such a set-off against the
contrary experience of so many others, as that he must needs, in a
general way, think well of Indians; or, if he do, an arrow in his flank
might suggest a pertinent doubt.

"'In short,' according to the judge, 'if we at all credit the
backwoodsman, his feeling against Indians, to be taken aright, must be
considered as being not so much on his own account as on others', or
jointly on both accounts. True it is, scarce a family he knows but some
member of it, or connection, has been by Indians maimed or scalped. What
avails, then, that some one Indian, or some two or three, treat a
backwoodsman friendly-like? He fears me, he thinks. Take my rifle from
me, give him motive, and what will come? Or if not so, how know I what
involuntary preparations may be going on in him for things as unbeknown
in present time to him as me--a sort of chemical preparation in the
soul for malice, as chemical preparation in the body for malady.'

"Not that the backwoodsman ever used those words, you see, but the judge
found him expression for his meaning. And this point he would conclude
with saying, that, 'what is called a "friendly Indian" is a very rare
sort of creature; and well it was so, for no ruthlessness exceeds that
of a "friendly Indian" turned enemy. A coward friend, he makes a valiant
foe.

"'But, thus far the passion in question has been viewed in a general way
as that of a community. When to his due share of this the backwoodsman
adds his private passion, we have then the stock out of which is formed,
if formed at all, the Indian-hater _par excellence_.'

"The Indian-hater _par excellence_ the judge defined to be one 'who,
having with his mother's milk drank in small love for red men, in youth
or early manhood, ere the sensibilities become osseous, receives at
their hand some signal outrage, or, which in effect is much the same,
some of his kin have, or some friend. Now, nature all around him by her
solitudes wooing or bidding him muse upon this matter, he accordingly
does so, till the thought develops such attraction, that much as
straggling vapors troop from all sides to a storm-cloud, so straggling
thoughts of other outrages troop to the nucleus thought, assimilate with
it, and swell it. At last, taking counsel with the elements, he comes to
his resolution. An intenser Hannibal, he makes a vow, the hate of which
is a vortex from whose suction scarce the remotest chip of the guilty
race may reasonably feel secure. Next, he declares himself and settles
his temporal affairs. With the solemnity of a Spaniard turned monk, he
takes leave of his kin; or rather, these leave-takings have something of
the still more impressive finality of death-bed adieus. Last, he commits
himself to the forest primeval; there, so long as life shall be his, to
act upon a calm, cloistered scheme of strategical, implacable, and
lonesome vengeance. Ever on the noiseless trail; cool, collected,
patient; less seen than felt; snuffing, smelling--a Leather-stocking
Nemesis. In the settlements he will not be seen again; in eyes of old
companions tears may start at some chance thing that speaks of him; but
they never look for him, nor call; they know he will not come. Suns and
seasons fleet; the tiger-lily blows and falls; babes are born and leap
in their mothers' arms; but, the Indian-hater is good as gone to his
long home, and "Terror" is his epitaph.'

"Here the judge, not unaffected, would pause again, but presently
resume: 'How evident that in strict speech there can be no biography of
an Indian-hater _par excellence_, any more than one of a sword-fish, or
other deep-sea denizen; or, which is still less imaginable, one of a
dead man. The career of the Indian-hater _par excellence_ has the
impenetrability of the fate of a lost steamer. Doubtless, events,
terrible ones, have happened, must have happened; but the powers that be
in nature have taken order that they shall never become news.

"'But, luckily for the curious, there is a species of diluted
Indian-hater, one whose heart proves not so steely as his brain. Soft
enticements of domestic life too, often draw him from the ascetic trail;
a monk who apostatizes to the world at times. Like a mariner, too,
though much abroad, he may have a wife and family in some green harbor
which he does not forget. It is with him as with the Papist converts in
Senegal; fasting and mortification prove hard to bear.'

"The judge, with his usual judgment, always thought that the intense
solitude to which the Indian-hater consigns himself, has, by its
overawing influence, no little to do with relaxing his vow. He would
relate instances where, after some months' lonely scoutings, the
Indian-hater is suddenly seized with a sort of calenture; hurries openly
towards the first smoke, though he knows it is an Indian's, announces
himself as a lost hunter, gives the savage his rifle, throws himself
upon his charity, embraces him with much affection, imploring the
privilege of living a while in his sweet companionship. What is too
often the sequel of so distempered a procedure may be best known by
those who best know the Indian. Upon the whole, the judge, by two and
thirty good and sufficient reasons, would maintain that there was no
known vocation whose consistent following calls for such
self-containings as that of the Indian-hater _par excellence_. In the
highest view, he considered such a soul one peeping out but once an age.

"For the diluted Indian-hater, although the vacations he permits himself
impair the keeping of the character, yet, it should not be overlooked
that this is the man who, by his very infirmity, enables us to form
surmises, however inadequate, of what Indian-hating in its perfection
is."

"One moment," gently interrupted the cosmopolitan here, "and let me
refill my calumet."

Which being done, the other proceeded:--




CHAPTER XXVII.

SOME ACCOUNT OF A MAN OF QUESTIONABLE MORALITY, BUT WHO, NEVERTHELESS,
WOULD SEEM ENTITLED TO THE ESTEEM OF THAT EMINENT ENGLISH MORALIST WHO
SAID HE LIKED A GOOD HATER.


"Coming to mention the man to whose story all thus far said was but the
introduction, the judge, who, like you, was a great smoker, would insist
upon all the company taking cigars, and then lighting a fresh one
himself, rise in his place, and, with the solemnest voice,
say--'Gentlemen, let us smoke to the memory of Colonel John Moredock;'
when, after several whiffs taken standing in deep silence and deeper
reverie, he would resume his seat and his discourse, something in these
words:

"'Though Colonel John Moredock was not an Indian-hater _par excellence_,
he yet cherished a kind of sentiment towards the red man, and in that
degree, and so acted out his sentiment as sufficiently to merit the
tribute just rendered to his memory.

"'John Moredock was the son of a woman married thrice, and thrice
widowed by a tomahawk. The three successive husbands of this woman had
been pioneers, and with them she had wandered from wilderness to
wilderness, always on the frontier. With nine children, she at last
found herself at a little clearing, afterwards Vincennes. There she
joined a company about to remove to the new country of Illinois. On the
eastern side of Illinois there were then no settlements; but on the west
side, the shore of the Mississippi, there were, near the mouth of the
Kaskaskia, some old hamlets of French. To the vicinity of those hamlets,
very innocent and pleasant places, a new Arcadia, Mrs. Moredock's party
was destined; for thereabouts, among the vines, they meant to settle.
They embarked upon the Wabash in boats, proposing descending that stream
into the Ohio, and the Ohio into the Mississippi, and so, northwards,
towards the point to be reached. All went well till they made the rock
of the Grand Tower on the Mississippi, where they had to land and drag
their boats round a point swept by a strong current. Here a party of
Indians, lying in wait, rushed out and murdered nearly all of them. The
widow was among the victims with her children, John excepted, who, some
fifty miles distant, was following with a second party.

"He was just entering upon manhood, when thus left in nature sole
survivor of his race. Other youngsters might have turned mourners; he
turned avenger. His nerves were electric wires--sensitive, but steel. He
was one who, from self-possession, could be made neither to flush nor
pale. It is said that when the tidings were brought him, he was ashore
sitting beneath a hemlock eating his dinner of venison--and as the
tidings were told him, after the first start he kept on eating, but
slowly and deliberately, chewing the wild news with the wild meat, as
if both together, turned to chyle, together should sinew him to his
intent. From that meal he rose an Indian-hater. He rose; got his arms,
prevailed upon some comrades to join him, and without delay started to
discover who were the actual transgressors. They proved to belong to a
band of twenty renegades from various tribes, outlaws even among
Indians, and who had formed themselves into a maurauding crew. No
opportunity for action being at the time presented, he dismissed his
friends; told them to go on, thanking them, and saying he would ask
their aid at some future day. For upwards of a year, alone in the wilds,
he watched the crew. Once, what he thought a favorable chance having
occurred--it being midwinter, and the savages encamped, apparently to
remain so--he anew mustered his friends, and marched against them; but,
getting wind of his coming, the enemy fled, and in such panic that
everything was left behind but their weapons. During the winter, much
the same thing happened upon two subsequent occasions. The next year he
sought them at the head of a party pledged to serve him for forty days.
At last the hour came. It was on the shore of the Mississippi. From
their covert, Moredock and his men dimly descried the gang of Cains in
the red dusk of evening, paddling over to a jungled island in
mid-stream, there the more securely to lodge; for Moredock's retributive
spirit in the wilderness spoke ever to their trepidations now, like the
voice calling through the garden. Waiting until dead of night, the
whites swam the river, towing after them a raft laden with their arms.
On landing, Moredock cut the fastenings of the enemy's canoes, and
turned them, with his own raft, adrift; resolved that there should be
neither escape for the Indians, nor safety, except in victory, for the
whites. Victorious the whites were; but three of the Indians saved
themselves by taking to the stream. Moredock's band lost not a man.

"'Three of the murderers survived. He knew their names and persons. In
the course of three years each successively fell by his own hand. All
were now dead. But this did not suffice. He made no avowal, but to kill
Indians had become his passion. As an athlete, he had few equals; as a
shot, none; in single combat, not to be beaten. Master of that
woodland-cunning enabling the adept to subsist where the tyro would
perish, and expert in all those arts by which an enemy is pursued for
weeks, perhaps months, without once suspecting it, he kept to the
forest. The solitary Indian that met him, died. When a murder was
descried, he would either secretly pursue their track for some chance to
strike at least one blow; or if, while thus engaged, he himself was
discovered, he would elude them by superior skill.

"'Many years he spent thus; and though after a time he was, in a degree,
restored to the ordinary life of the region and period, yet it is
believed that John Moredock never let pass an opportunity of quenching
an Indian. Sins of commission in that kind may have been his, but none
of omission.

"'It were to err to suppose,' the judge would say, 'that this gentleman
was naturally ferocious, or peculiarly possessed of those qualities,
which, unhelped by provocation of events, tend to withdraw man from
social life. On the contrary, Moredock was an example of something
apparently self-contradicting, certainly curious, but, at the same time,
undeniable: namely, that nearly all Indian-haters have at bottom loving
hearts; at any rate, hearts, if anything, more generous than the
average. Certain it is, that, to the degree in which he mingled in the
life of the settlements, Moredock showed himself not without humane
feelings. No cold husband or colder father, he; and, though often and
long away from his household, bore its needs in mind, and provided for
them. He could be very convivial; told a good story (though never of his
more private exploits), and sung a capital song. Hospitable, not
backward to help a neighbor; by report, benevolent, as retributive, in
secret; while, in a general manner, though sometimes grave--as is not
unusual with men of his complexion, a sultry and tragical brown--yet
with nobody, Indians excepted, otherwise than courteous in a manly
fashion; a moccasined gentleman, admired and loved. In fact, no one more
popular, as an incident to follow may prove.

"'His bravery, whether in Indian fight or any other, was unquestionable.
An officer in the ranging service during the war of 1812, he acquitted
himself with more than credit. Of his soldierly character, this anecdote
is told: Not long after Hull's dubious surrender at Detroit, Moredock
with some of his rangers rode up at night to a log-house, there to rest
till morning. The horses being attended to, supper over, and
sleeping-places assigned the troop, the host showed the colonel his
best bed, not on the ground like the rest, but a bed that stood on legs.
But out of delicacy, the guest declined to monopolize it, or, indeed, to
occupy it at all; when, to increase the inducement, as the host thought,
he was told that a general officer had once slept in that bed. "Who,
pray?" asked the colonel. "General Hull." "Then you must not take
offense," said the colonel, buttoning up his coat, "but, really, no
coward's bed, for me, however comfortable." Accordingly he took up with
valor's bed--a cold one on the ground.

"'At one time the colonel was a member of the territorial council of
Illinois, and at the formation of the state government, was pressed to
become candidate for governor, but begged to be excused. And, though he
declined to give his reasons for declining, yet by those who best knew
him the cause was not wholly unsurmised. In his official capacity he
might be called upon to enter into friendly treaties with Indian tribes,
a thing not to be thought of. And even did no such contingecy arise, yet
he felt there would be an impropriety in the Governor of Illinois
stealing out now and then, during a recess of the legislative bodies,
for a few days' shooting at human beings, within the limits of his
paternal chief-magistracy. If the governorship offered large honors,
from Moredock it demanded larger sacrifices. These were incompatibles.
In short, he was not unaware that to be a consistent Indian-hater
involves the renunciation of ambition, with its objects--the pomps and
glories of the world; and since religion, pronouncing such things
vanities, accounts it merit to renounce them, therefore, so far as this
goes, Indian-hating, whatever may be thought of it in other respects,
may be regarded as not wholly without the efficacy of a devout
sentiment.'"

Here the narrator paused. Then, after his long and irksome sitting,
started to his feet, and regulating his disordered shirt-frill, and at
the same time adjustingly shaking his legs down in his rumpled
pantaloons, concluded: "There, I have done; having given you, not my
story, mind, or my thoughts, but another's. And now, for your friend
Coonskins, I doubt not, that, if the judge were here, he would pronounce
him a sort of comprehensive Colonel Moredock, who, too much spreading
his passion, shallows it."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MOOT POINTS TOUCHING THE LATE COLONEL JOHN MOREDOCK.


"Charity, charity!" exclaimed the cosmopolitan, "never a sound judgment
without charity. When man judges man, charity is less a bounty from our
mercy than just allowance for the insensible lee-way of human
fallibility. God forbid that my eccentric friend should be what you
hint. You do not know him, or but imperfectly. His outside deceived you;
at first it came near deceiving even me. But I seized a chance, when,
owing to indignation against some wrong, he laid himself a little open;
I seized that lucky chance, I say, to inspect his heart, and found it an
inviting oyster in a forbidding shell. His outside is but put on.
Ashamed of his own goodness, he treats mankind as those strange old
uncles in romances do their nephews--snapping at them all the time and
yet loving them as the apple of their eye."

"Well, my words with him were few. Perhaps he is not what I took him
for. Yes, for aught I know, you may be right."

"Glad to hear it. Charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only
for its being graceful. And now, since you have renounced your notion,
I should be happy, would you, so to speak, renounce your story, too.
That, story strikes me with even more incredulity than wonder. To me
some parts don't hang together. If the man of hate, how could John
Moredock be also the man of love? Either his lone campaigns are fabulous
as Hercules'; or else, those being true, what was thrown in about his
geniality is but garnish. In short, if ever there was such a man as
Moredock, he, in my way of thinking, was either misanthrope or nothing;
and his misanthropy the more intense from being focused on one race of
men. Though, like suicide, man-hatred would seem peculiarly a Roman and
a Grecian passion--that is, Pagan; yet, the annals of neither Rome nor
Greece can produce the equal in man-hatred of Colonel Moredock, as the
judge and you have painted him. As for this Indian-hating in general, I
can only say of it what Dr. Johnson said of the alleged Lisbon
earthquake: 'Sir, I don't believe it.'"

"Didn't believe it? Why not? Clashed with any little prejudice of his?"

"Doctor Johnson had no prejudice; but, like a certain other person,"
with an ingenuous smile, "he had sensibilities, and those were pained."

"Dr. Johnson was a good Christian, wasn't he?"

"He was."

"Suppose he had been something else."

"Then small incredulity as to the alleged earthquake."

"Suppose he had been also a misanthrope?"

"Then small incredulity as to the robberies and murders alleged to have
been perpetrated under the pall of smoke and ashes. The infidels of the
time were quick to credit those reports and worse. So true is it that,
while religion, contrary to the common notion, implies, in certain
cases, a spirit of slow reserve as to assent, infidelity, which claims
to despise credulity, is sometimes swift to it."

"You rather jumble together misanthropy and infidelity."

"I do not jumble them; they are coordinates. For misanthropy, springing
from the same root with disbelief of religion, is twin with that. It
springs from the same root, I say; for, set aside materialism, and what
is an atheist, but one who does not, or will not, see in the universe a
ruling principle of love; and what a misanthrope, but one who does not,
or will not, see in man a ruling principle of kindness? Don't you see?
In either case the vice consists in a want of confidence."

"What sort of a sensation is misanthropy?"

"Might as well ask me what sort of sensation is hydrophobia. Don't know;
never had it. But I have often wondered what it can be like. Can a
misanthrope feel warm, I ask myself; take ease? be companionable with
himself? Can a misanthrope smoke a cigar and muse? How fares he in
solitude? Has the misanthrope such a thing as an appetite? Shall a peach
refresh him? The effervescence of champagne, with what eye does he
behold it? Is summer good to him? Of long winters how much can he
sleep? What are his dreams? How feels he, and what does he, when
suddenly awakened, alone, at dead of night, by fusilades of thunder?"

"Like you," said the stranger, "I can't understand the misanthrope. So
far as my experience goes, either mankind is worthy one's best love, or
else I have been lucky. Never has it been my lot to have been wronged,
though but in the smallest degree. Cheating, backbiting,
superciliousness, disdain, hard-heartedness, and all that brood, I know
but by report. Cold regards tossed over the sinister shoulder of a
former friend, ingratitude in a beneficiary, treachery in a
confidant--such things may be; but I must take somebody's word for it.
Now the bridge that has carried me so well over, shall I not praise it?"

"Ingratitude to the worthy bridge not to do so. Man is a noble fellow,
and in an age of satirists, I am not displeased to find one who has
confidence in him, and bravely stands up for him."

"Yes, I always speak a good word for man; and what is more, am always
ready to do a good deed for him."

"You are a man after my own heart," responded the cosmopolitan, with a
candor which lost nothing by its calmness. "Indeed," he added, "our
sentiments agree so, that were they written in a book, whose was whose,
few but the nicest critics might determine."

"Since we are thus joined in mind," said the stranger, "why not be
joined in hand?"

"My hand is always at the service of virtue," frankly extending it to
him as to virtue personified.

"And now," said the stranger, cordially retaining his hand, "you know
our fashion here at the West. It may be a little low, but it is kind.
Briefly, we being newly-made friends must drink together. What say you?"

"Thank you; but indeed, you must excuse me."

"Why?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I have to-day met so many old friends, all
free-hearted, convivial gentlemen, that really, really, though for the
present I succeed in mastering it, I am at bottom almost in the
condition of a sailor who, stepping ashore after a long voyage, ere
night reels with loving welcomes, his head of less capacity than his
heart."

At the allusion to old friends, the stranger's countenance a little
fell, as a jealous lover's might at hearing from his sweetheart of
former ones. But rallying, he said: "No doubt they treated you to
something strong; but wine--surely, that gentle creature, wine; come,
let us have a little gentle wine at one of these little tables here.
Come, come." Then essaying to roll about like a full pipe in the sea,
sang in a voice which had had more of good-fellowship, had there been
less of a latent squeak to it:

    "Let us drink of the wine of the vine benign,
    That sparkles warm in Zansovine."

The cosmopolitan, with longing eye upon him, stood as sorely tempted and
wavering a moment; then, abruptly stepping towards him, with a look of
dissolved surrender, said: "When mermaid songs move figure-heads, then
may glory, gold, and women try their blandishments on me. But a good
fellow, singing a good song, he woos forth my every spike, so that my
whole hull, like a ship's, sailing by a magnetic rock, caves in with
acquiescence. Enough: when one has a heart of a certain sort, it is in
vain trying to be resolute."




CHAPTER XXIX

THE BOON COMPANIONS.


The wine, port, being called for, and the two seated at the little
table, a natural pause of convivial expectancy ensued; the stranger's
eye turned towards the bar near by, watching the red-cheeked,
white-aproned man there, blithely dusting the bottle, and invitingly
arranging the salver and glasses; when, with a sudden impulse turning
round his head towards his companion, he said, "Ours is friendship at
first sight, ain't it?"

"It is," was the placidly pleased reply: "and the same may be said of
friendship at first sight as of love at first sight: it is the only true
one, the only noble one. It bespeaks confidence. Who would go sounding
his way into love or friendship, like a strange ship by night, into an
enemy's harbor?"

"Right. Boldly in before the wind. Agreeable, how we always agree.
By-the-way, though but a formality, friends should know each other's
names. What is yours, pray?"

"Francis Goodman. But those who love me, call me Frank. And yours?"

"Charles Arnold Noble. But do you call me Charlie."

"I will, Charlie; nothing like preserving in manhood the fraternal
familiarities of youth. It proves the heart a rosy boy to the last."

"My sentiments again. Ah!"

It was a smiling waiter, with the smiling bottle, the cork drawn; a
common quart bottle, but for the occasion fitted at bottom into a little
bark basket, braided with porcupine quills, gayly tinted in the Indian
fashion. This being set before the entertainer, he regarded it with
affectionate interest, but seemed not to understand, or else to pretend
not to, a handsome red label pasted on the bottle, bearing the capital
letters, P. W.

"P. W.," said he at last, perplexedly eying the pleasing poser, "now
what does P. W. mean?"

"Shouldn't wonder," said the cosmopolitan gravely, "if it stood for port
wine. You called for port wine, didn't you?"

"Why so it is, so it is!"

"I find some little mysteries not very hard to clear up," said the
other, quietly crossing his legs.

This commonplace seemed to escape the stranger's hearing, for, full of
his bottle, he now rubbed his somewhat sallow hands over it, and with a
strange kind of cackle, meant to be a chirrup, cried: "Good wine, good
wine; is it not the peculiar bond of good feeling?" Then brimming both
glasses, pushed one over, saying, with what seemed intended for an air
of fine disdain: "Ill betide those gloomy skeptics who maintain that
now-a-days pure wine is unpurchasable; that almost every variety on sale
is less the vintage of vineyards than laboratories; that most
bar-keepers are but a set of male Brinvilliarses, with complaisant arts
practicing against the lives of their best friends, their customers."

A shade passed over the cosmopolitan. After a few minutes' down-cast
musing, he lifted his eyes and said: "I have long thought, my dear
Charlie, that the spirit in which wine is regarded by too many in these
days is one of the most painful examples of want of confidence. Look at
these glasses. He who could mistrust poison in this wine would mistrust
consumption in Hebe's cheek. While, as for suspicions against the
dealers in wine and sellers of it, those who cherish such suspicions can
have but limited trust in the human heart. Each human heart they must
think to be much like each bottle of port, not such port as this, but
such port as they hold to. Strange traducers, who see good faith in
nothing, however sacred. Not medicines, not the wine in sacraments, has
escaped them. The doctor with his phial, and the priest with his
chalice, they deem equally the unconscious dispensers of bogus cordials
to the dying."

"Dreadful!"

"Dreadful indeed," said the cosmopolitan solemnly. "These distrusters
stab at the very soul of confidence. If this wine," impressively holding
up his full glass, "if this wine with its bright promise be not true,
how shall man be, whose promise can be no brighter? But if wine be
false, while men are true, whither shall fly convivial geniality? To
think of sincerely-genial souls drinking each other's health at unawares
in perfidious and murderous drugs!"

"Horrible!"

"Much too much so to be true, Charlie. Let us forget it. Come, you are
my entertainer on this occasion, and yet you don't pledge me. I have
been waiting for it."

"Pardon, pardon," half confusedly and half ostentatiously lifting his
glass. "I pledge you, Frank, with my whole heart, believe me," taking a
draught too decorous to be large, but which, small though it was, was
followed by a slight involuntary wryness to the mouth.

"And I return you the pledge, Charlie, heart-warm as it came to me, and
honest as this wine I drink it in," reciprocated the cosmopolitan with
princely kindliness in his gesture, taking a generous swallow,
concluding in a smack, which, though audible, was not so much so as to
be unpleasing.

"Talking of alleged spuriousness of wines," said he, tranquilly setting
down his glass, and then sloping back his head and with friendly
fixedness eying the wine, "perhaps the strangest part of those allegings
is, that there is, as claimed, a kind of man who, while convinced that
on this continent most wines are shams, yet still drinks away at them;
accounting wine so fine a thing, that even the sham article is better
than none at all. And if the temperance people urge that, by this
course, he will sooner or later be undermined in health, he answers,
'And do you think I don't know that? But health without cheer I hold a
bore; and cheer, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which I am
willing to pay.'"

"Such a man, Frank, must have a disposition ungovernably bacchanalian."

"Yes, if such a man there be, which I don't credit. It is a fable, but a
fable from which I once heard a person of less genius than grotesqueness
draw a moral even more extravagant than the fable itself. He said that
it illustrated, as in a parable, how that a man of a disposition
ungovernably good-natured might still familiarly associate with men,
though, at the same time, he believed the greater part of men
false-hearted--accounting society so sweet a thing that even the
spurious sort was better than none at all. And if the Rochefoucaultites
urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in
security, he answers, 'And do you think I don't know that? But security
without society I hold a bore; and society, even of the spurious sort,
has its price, which I am willing to pay.'"

"A most singular theory," said the stranger with a slight fidget, eying
his companion with some inquisitiveness, "indeed, Frank, a most
slanderous thought," he exclaimed in sudden heat and with an involuntary
look almost of being personally aggrieved.

"In one sense it merits all you say, and more," rejoined the other with
wonted mildness, "but, for a kind of drollery in it, charity might,
perhaps, overlook something of the wickedness. Humor is, in fact, so
blessed a thing, that even in the least virtuous product of the human
mind, if there can be found but nine good jokes, some philosophers are
clement enough to affirm that those nine good jokes should redeem all
the wicked thoughts, though plenty as the populace of Sodom. At any
rate, this same humor has something, there is no telling what, of
beneficence in it, it is such a catholicon and charm--nearly all men
agreeing in relishing it, though they may agree in little else--and in
its way it undeniably does such a deal of familiar good in the world,
that no wonder it is almost a proverb, that a man of humor, a man
capable of a good loud laugh--seem how he may in other things--can
hardly be a heartless scamp."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other, pointing to the figure of a pale
pauper-boy on the deck below, whose pitiableness was touched, as it
were, with ludicrousness by a pair of monstrous boots, apparently some
mason's discarded ones, cracked with drouth, half eaten by lime, and
curled up about the toe like a bassoon. "Look--ha, ha, ha!"

"I see," said the other, with what seemed quiet appreciation, but of a
kind expressing an eye to the grotesque, without blindness to what in
this case accompanied it, "I see; and the way in which it moves you,
Charlie, comes in very apropos to point the proverb I was speaking of.
Indeed, had you intended this effect, it could not have been more so.
For who that heard that laugh, but would as naturally argue from it a
sound heart as sound lungs? True, it is said that a man may smile, and
smile, and smile, and be a villain; but it is not said that a man may
laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and be one, is it, Charlie?"

"Ha, ha, ha!--no no, no no."

"Why Charlie, your explosions illustrate my remarks almost as aptly as
the chemist's imitation volcano did his lectures. But even if experience
did not sanction the proverb, that a good laugher cannot be a bad man, I
should yet feel bound in confidence to believe it, since it is a saying
current among the people, and I doubt not originated among them, and
hence _must_ be true; for the voice of the people is the voice of truth.
Don't you think so?"

"Of course I do. If Truth don't speak through the people, it never
speaks at all; so I heard one say."

"A true saying. But we stray. The popular notion of humor, considered as
index to the heart, would seem curiously confirmed by Aristotle--I
think, in his 'Politics,' (a work, by-the-by, which, however it may be
viewed upon the whole, yet, from the tenor of certain sections, should
not, without precaution, be placed in the hands of youth)--who remarks
that the least lovable men in history seem to have had for humor not
only a disrelish, but a hatred; and this, in some cases, along with an
extraordinary dry taste for practical punning. I remember it is related
of Phalaris, the capricious tyrant of Sicily, that he once caused a poor
fellow to be beheaded on a horse-block, for no other cause than having a
horse-laugh."

"Funny Phalaris!"

"Cruel Phalaris!"

As after fire-crackers, there was a pause, both looking downward on the
table as if mutually struck by the contrast of exclamations, and
pondering upon its significance, if any. So, at least, it seemed; but on
one side it might have been otherwise: for presently glancing up, the
cosmopolitan said: "In the instance of the moral, drolly cynic, drawn
from the queer bacchanalian fellow we were speaking of, who had his
reasons for still drinking spurious wine, though knowing it to be
such--there, I say, we have an example of what is certainly a wicked
thought, but conceived in humor. I will now give you one of a wicked
thought conceived in wickedness. You shall compare the two, and answer,
whether in the one case the sting is not neutralized by the humor, and
whether in the other the absence of humor does not leave the sting free
play. I once heard a wit, a mere wit, mind, an irreligious Parisian wit,
say, with regard to the temperance movement, that none, to their
personal benefit, joined it sooner than niggards and knaves; because, as
he affirmed, the one by it saved money and the other made money, as in
ship-owners cutting off the spirit ration without giving its equivalent,
and gamblers and all sorts of subtle tricksters sticking to cold water,
the better to keep a cool head for business."

"A wicked thought, indeed!" cried the stranger, feelingly.

"Yes," leaning over the table on his elbow and genially gesturing at him
with his forefinger: "yes, and, as I said, you don't remark the sting of
it?"

"I do, indeed. Most calumnious thought, Frank!"

"No humor in it?"

"Not a bit!"

"Well now, Charlie," eying him with moist regard, "let us drink. It
appears to me you don't drink freely."

"Oh, oh--indeed, indeed--I am not backward there. I protest, a freer
drinker than friend Charlie you will find nowhere," with feverish zeal
snatching his glass, but only in the sequel to dally with it.
"By-the-way, Frank," said he, perhaps, or perhaps not, to draw attention
from himself, "by-the-way, I saw a good thing the other day; capital
thing; a panegyric on the press, It pleased me so, I got it by heart at
two readings. It is a kind of poetry, but in a form which stands in
something the same relation to blank verse which that does to rhyme. A
sort of free-and-easy chant with refrains to it. Shall I recite it?"

"Anything in praise of the press I shall be happy to hear," rejoined the
cosmopolitan, "the more so," he gravely proceeded, "as of late I have
observed in some quarters a disposition to disparage the press."

"Disparage the press?"

"Even so; some gloomy souls affirming that it is proving with that great
invention as with brandy or eau-de-vie, which, upon its first discovery,
was believed by the doctors to be, as its French name implies, a
panacea--a notion which experience, it may be thought, has not fully
verified."

"You surprise me, Frank. Are there really those who so decry the press?
Tell me more. Their reasons."

"Reasons they have none, but affirmations they have many; among other
things affirming that, while under dynastic despotisms, the press is to
the people little but an improvisatore, under popular ones it is too apt
to be their Jack Cade. In fine, these sour sages regard the press in the
light of a Colt's revolver, pledged to no cause but his in whose chance
hands it may be; deeming the one invention an improvement upon the pen,
much akin to what the other is upon the pistol; involving, along with
the multiplication of the barrel, no consecration of the aim. The term
'freedom of the press' they consider on a par with _freedom of Colt's
revolver_. Hence, for truth and the right, they hold, to indulge hopes
from the one is little more sensible than for Kossuth and Mazzini to
indulge hopes from the other. Heart-breaking views enough, you think;
but their refutation is in every true reformer's contempt. Is it not
so?"

"Without doubt. But go on, go on. I like to hear you," flatteringly
brimming up his glass for him.

"For one," continued the cosmopolitan, grandly swelling his chest, "I
hold the press to be neither the people's improvisatore, nor Jack Cade;
neither their paid fool, nor conceited drudge. I think interest never
prevails with it over duty. The press still speaks for truth though
impaled, in the teeth of lies though intrenched. Disdaining for it the
poor name of cheap diffuser of news, I claim for it the independent
apostleship of Advancer of Knowledge:--the iron Paul! Paul, I say; for
not only does the press advance knowledge, but righteousness. In the
press, as in the sun, resides, my dear Charlie, a dedicated principle of
beneficent force and light. For the Satanic press, by its coappearance
with the apostolic, it is no more an aspersion to that, than to the true
sun is the coappearance of the mock one. For all the baleful-looking
parhelion, god Apollo dispenses the day. In a word, Charlie, what the
sovereign of England is titularly, I hold the press to be
actually--Defender of the Faith!--defender of the faith in the final
triumph of truth over error, metaphysics over superstition, theory over
falsehood, machinery over nature, and the good man over the bad. Such
are my views, which, if stated at some length, you, Charlie, must
pardon, for it is a theme upon which I cannot speak with cold brevity.
And now I am impatient for your panegyric, which, I doubt not, will put
mine to the blush."

"It is rather in the blush-giving vein," smiled the other; "but such as
it is, Frank, you shall have it."

"Tell me when you are about to begin," said the cosmopolitan, "for, when
at public dinners the press is toasted, I always drink the toast
standing, and shall stand while you pronounce the panegyric."

"Very good, Frank; you may stand up now."

He accordingly did so, when the stranger likewise rose, and uplifting
the ruby wine-flask, began.




CHAPTER XXX.

OPENING WITH A POETICAL EULOGY OF THE PRESS AND CONTINUING WITH TALK
INSPIRED BY THE SAME.


"'Praise be unto the press, not Faust's, but Noah's; let us extol and
magnify the press, the true press of Noah, from which breaketh the true
morning. Praise be unto the press, not the black press but the red; let
us extol and magnify the press, the red press of Noah, from which cometh
inspiration. Ye pressmen of the Rhineland and the Rhine, join in with
all ye who tread out the glad tidings on isle Madeira or Mitylene.--Who
giveth redness of eyes by making men long to tarry at the fine
print?--Praise be unto the press, the rosy press of Noah, which giveth
rosiness of hearts, by making men long to tarry at the rosy wine.--Who
hath babblings and contentions? Who, without cause, inflicteth wounds?
Praise be unto the press, the kindly press of Noah, which knitteth
friends, which fuseth foes.--Who may be bribed?--Who may be
bound?--Praise be unto the press, the free press of Noah, which will not
lie for tyrants, but make tyrants speak the truth.--Then praise be unto
the press, the frank old press of Noah; then let us extol and magnify
the press, the brave old press of Noah; then let us with roses garland
and enwreath the press, the grand old press of Noah, from which flow
streams of knowledge which give man a bliss no more unreal than his
pain.'"

"You deceived me," smiled the cosmopolitan, as both now resumed their
seats; "you roguishly took advantage of my simplicity; you archly played
upon my enthusiasm. But never mind; the offense, if any, was so
charming, I almost wish you would offend again. As for certain poetic
left-handers in your panegyric, those I cheerfully concede to the
indefinite privileges of the poet. Upon the whole, it was quite in the
lyric style--a style I always admire on account of that spirit of
Sibyllic confidence and assurance which is, perhaps, its prime
ingredient. But come," glancing at his companion's glass, "for a lyrist,
you let the bottle stay with you too long."

"The lyre and the vine forever!" cried the other in his rapture, or what
seemed such, heedless of the hint, "the vine, the vine! is it not the
most graceful and bounteous of all growths? And, by its being such, is
not something meant--divinely meant? As I live, a vine, a Catawba vine,
shall be planted on my grave!"

"A genial thought; but your glass there."

"Oh, oh," taking a moderate sip, "but you, why don't you drink?"

"You have forgotten, my dear Charlie, what I told you of my previous
convivialities to-day."

"Oh," cried the other, now in manner quite abandoned to the lyric mood,
not without contrast to the easy sociability of his companion. "Oh, one
can't drink too much of good old wine--the genuine, mellow old port.
Pooh, pooh! drink away."

"Then keep me company."

"Of course," with a flourish, taking another sip--"suppose we have
cigars. Never mind your pipe there; a pipe is best when alone. I say,
waiter, bring some cigars--your best."

They were brought in a pretty little bit of western pottery,
representing some kind of Indian utensil, mummy-colored, set down in a
mass of tobacco leaves, whose long, green fans, fancifully grouped,
formed with peeps of red the sides of the receptacle.

Accompanying it were two accessories, also bits of pottery, but smaller,
both globes; one in guise of an apple flushed with red and gold to the
life, and, through a cleft at top, you saw it was hollow. This was for
the ashes. The other, gray, with wrinkled surface, in the likeness of a
wasp's nest, was the match-box. "There," said the stranger, pushing over
the cigar-stand, "help yourself, and I will touch you off," taking a
match. "Nothing like tobacco," he added, when the fumes of the cigar
began to wreathe, glancing from the smoker to the pottery, "I will have
a Virginia tobacco-plant set over my grave beside the Catawba vine."

"Improvement upon your first idea, which by itself was good--but you
don't smoke."

"Presently, presently--let me fill your glass again. You don't drink."

"Thank you; but no more just now. Fill _your_ glass."

"Presently, presently; do you drink on. Never mind me. Now that it
strikes me, let me say, that he who, out of superfine gentility or
fanatic morality, denies himself tobacco, suffers a more serious
abatement in the cheap pleasures of life than the dandy in his iron
boot, or the celibate on his iron cot. While for him who would fain
revel in tobacco, but cannot, it is a thing at which philanthropists
must weep, to see such an one, again and again, madly returning to the
cigar, which, for his incompetent stomach, he cannot enjoy, while still,
after each shameful repulse, the sweet dream of the impossible good
goads him on to his fierce misery once more--poor eunuch!"

"I agree with you," said the cosmopolitan, still gravely social, "but
you don't smoke."

"Presently, presently, do you smoke on. As I was saying about----"

"But _why_ don't you smoke--come. You don't think that tobacco, when in
league with wine, too much enhances the latter's vinous quality--in
short, with certain constitutions tends to impair self-possession, do
you?"

"To think that, were treason to good fellowship," was the warm
disclaimer. "No, no. But the fact is, there is an unpropitious flavor in
my mouth just now. Ate of a diabolical ragout at dinner, so I shan't
smoke till I have washed away the lingering memento of it with wine. But
smoke away, you, and pray, don't forget to drink. By-the-way, while we
sit here so companionably, giving loose to any companionable nothing,
your uncompanionable friend, Coonskins, is, by pure contrast, brought
to recollection. If he were but here now, he would see how much of real
heart-joy he denies himself by not hob-a-nobbing with his kind."

"Why," with loitering emphasis, slowly withdrawing his cigar, "I thought
I had undeceived you there. I thought you had come to a better
understanding of my eccentric friend."

"Well, I thought so, too; but first impressions will return, you know.
In truth, now that I think of it, I am led to conjecture from chance
things which dropped from Coonskins, during the little interview I had
with him, that he is not a Missourian by birth, but years ago came West
here, a young misanthrope from the other side of the Alleghanies, less
to make his fortune, than to flee man. Now, since they say trifles
sometimes effect great results, I shouldn't wonder, if his history were
probed, it would be found that what first indirectly gave his sad bias
to Coonskins was his disgust at reading in boyhood the advice of
Polonius to Laertes--advice which, in the selfishness it inculcates, is
almost on a par with a sort of ballad upon the economies of
money-making, to be occasionally seen pasted against the desk of small
retail traders in New England."

"I do hope now, my dear fellow," said the cosmopolitan with an air of
bland protest, "that, in my presence at least, you will throw out
nothing to the prejudice of the sons of the Puritans."

"Hey-day and high times indeed," exclaimed the other, nettled, "sons of
the Puritans forsooth! And who be Puritans, that I, an Alabamaian, must
do them reverence? A set of sourly conceited old Malvolios, whom
Shakespeare laughs his fill at in his comedies."

"Pray, what were you about to suggest with regard to Polonius," observed
the cosmopolitan with quiet forbearance, expressive of the patience of a
superior mind at the petulance of an inferior one; "how do you
characterize his advice to Laertes?"

"As false, fatal, and calumnious," exclaimed the other, with a degree of
ardor befitting one resenting a stigma upon the family escutcheon, "and
for a father to give his son--monstrous. The case you see is this: The
son is going abroad, and for the first. What does the father? Invoke
God's blessing upon him? Put the blessed Bible in his trunk? No. Crams
him with maxims smacking of my Lord Chesterfield, with maxims of France,
with maxims of Italy."

"No, no, be charitable, not that. Why, does he not among other things
say:--

    'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
    Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel'?

Is that compatible with maxims of Italy?"

"Yes it is, Frank. Don't you see? Laertes is to take the best of care of
his friends--his proved friends, on the same principle that a
wine-corker takes the best of care of his proved bottles. When a bottle
gets a sharp knock and don't break, he says, 'Ah, I'll keep that
bottle.' Why? Because he loves it? No, he has particular use for it."

"Dear, dear!" appealingly turning in distress, "that--that kind of
criticism is--is--in fact--it won't do."

"Won't truth do, Frank? You are so charitable with everybody, do but
consider the tone of the speech. Now I put it to you, Frank; is there
anything in it hortatory to high, heroic, disinterested effort? Anything
like 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor?' And, in other points,
what desire seems most in the father's mind, that his son should cherish
nobleness for himself, or be on his guard against the contrary thing in
others? An irreligious warner, Frank--no devout counselor, is Polonius.
I hate him. Nor can I bear to hear your veterans of the world affirm,
that he who steers through life by the advice of old Polonius will not
steer among the breakers."

"No, no--I hope nobody affirms that," rejoined the cosmopolitan, with
tranquil abandonment; sideways reposing his arm at full length upon the
table. "I hope nobody affirms that; because, if Polonius' advice be
taken in your sense, then the recommendation of it by men of experience
would appear to involve more or less of an unhandsome sort of reflection
upon human nature. And yet," with a perplexed air, "your suggestions
have put things in such a strange light to me as in fact a little to
disturb my previous notions of Polonius and what he says. To be frank,
by your ingenuity you have unsettled me there, to that degree that were
it not for our coincidence of opinion in general, I should almost think
I was now at length beginning to feel the ill effect of an immature
mind, too much consorting with a mature one, except on the ground of
first principles in common."

"Really and truly," cried the other with a kind of tickled modesty and
pleased concern, "mine is an understanding too weak to throw out
grapnels and hug another to it. I have indeed heard of some great
scholars in these days, whose boast is less that they have made
disciples than victims. But for me, had I the power to do such things, I
have not the heart to desire."

"I believe you, my dear Charlie. And yet, I repeat, by your commentaries
on Polonius you have, I know not how, unsettled me; so that now I don't
exactly see how Shakespeare meant the words he puts in Polonius' mouth."

"Some say that he meant them to open people's eyes; but I don't think
so."

"Open their eyes?" echoed the cosmopolitan, slowly expanding his; "what
is there in this world for one to open his eyes to? I mean in the sort
of invidious sense you cite?"

"Well, others say he meant to corrupt people's morals; and still others,
that he had no express intention at all, but in effect opens their eyes
and corrupts their morals in one operation. All of which I reject."

"Of course you reject so crude an hypothesis; and yet, to confess, in
reading Shakespeare in my closet, struck by some passage, I have laid
down the volume, and said: 'This Shakespeare is a queer man.' At times
seeming irresponsible, he does not always seem reliable. There appears
to be a certain--what shall I call it?--hidden sun, say, about him, at
once enlightening and mystifying. Now, I should be afraid to say what I
have sometimes thought that hidden sun might be."

"Do you think it was the true light?" with clandestine geniality again
filling the other's glass.

"I would prefer to decline answering a categorical question there.
Shakespeare has got to be a kind of deity. Prudent minds, having certain
latent thoughts concerning him, will reserve them in a condition of
lasting probation. Still, as touching avowable speculations, we are
permitted a tether. Shakespeare himself is to be adored, not arraigned;
but, so we do it with humility, we may a little canvass his characters.
There's his Autolycus now, a fellow that always puzzled me. How is one
to take Autolycus? A rogue so happy, so lucky, so triumphant, of so
almost captivatingly vicious a career that a virtuous man reduced to the
poor-house (were such a contingency conceivable), might almost long to
change sides with him. And yet, see the words put into his mouth: 'Oh,'
cries Autolycus, as he comes galloping, gay as a buck, upon the stage,
'oh,' he laughs, 'oh what a fool is Honesty, and Trust, his sworn
brother, a very simple gentleman.' Think of that. Trust, that is,
confidence--that is, the thing in this universe the sacredest--is
rattlingly pronounced just the simplest. And the scenes in which the
rogue figures seem purposely devised for verification of his principles.
Mind, Charlie, I do not say it _is_ so, far from it; but I _do_ say it
seems so. Yes, Autolycus would seem a needy varlet acting upon the
persuasion that less is to be got by invoking pockets than picking
them, more to be made by an expert knave than a bungling beggar; and for
this reason, as he thinks, that the soft heads outnumber the soft
hearts. The devil's drilled recruit, Autolycus is joyous as if he wore
the livery of heaven. When disturbed by the character and career of one
thus wicked and thus happy, my sole consolation is in the fact that no
such creature ever existed, except in the powerful imagination which
evoked him. And yet, a creature, a living creature, he is, though only a
poet was his maker. It may be, that in that paper-and-ink investiture of
his, Autolycus acts more effectively upon mankind than he would in a
flesh-and-blood one. Can his influence be salutary? True, in Autolycus
there is humor; but though, according to my principle, humor is in
general to be held a saving quality, yet the case of Autolycus is an
exception; because it is his humor which, so to speak, oils his
mischievousness. The bravadoing mischievousness of Autolycus is slid
into the world on humor, as a pirate schooner, with colors flying, is
launched into the sea on greased ways."

"I approve of Autolycus as little as you," said the stranger, who,
during his companion's commonplaces, had seemed less attentive to them
than to maturing with in his own mind the original conceptions destined
to eclipse them. "But I cannot believe that Autolycus, mischievous as he
must prove upon the stage, can be near so much so as such a character as
Polonius."

"I don't know about that," bluntly, and yet not impolitely, returned the
cosmopolitan; "to be sure, accepting your view of the old courtier,
then if between him and Autolycus you raise the question of
unprepossessingness, I grant you the latter comes off best. For a moist
rogue may tickle the midriff, while a dry worldling may but wrinkle the
spleen."

"But Polonius is not dry," said the other excitedly; "he drules. One
sees the fly-blown old fop drule and look wise. His vile wisdom is made
the viler by his vile rheuminess. The bowing and cringing, time-serving
old sinner--is such an one to give manly precepts to youth? The
discreet, decorous, old dotard-of-state; senile prudence; fatuous
soullessness! The ribanded old dog is paralytic all down one side, and
that the side of nobleness. His soul is gone out. Only nature's
automatonism keeps him on his legs. As with some old trees, the bark
survives the pith, and will still stand stiffly up, though but to rim
round punk, so the body of old Polonius has outlived his soul."

"Come, come," said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased;
"though I yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, I think, even
earnestness may have limits. To human minds, strong language is always
more or less distressing. Besides, Polonius is an old man--as I remember
him upon the stage--with snowy locks. Now charity requires that such a
figure--think of it how you will--should at least be treated with
civility. Moreover, old age is ripeness, and I once heard say, 'Better
ripe than raw.'"

"But not better rotten than raw!" bringing down his hand with energy on
the table.

"Why, bless me," in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade, "how
you fly out against this unfortunate Polonius--a being that never was,
nor will be. And yet, viewed in a Christian light," he added pensively,
"I don't know that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise
than anger against a man of flesh, Madness, to be mad with anything."

"That may be, or may not be," returned the other, a little testily,
perhaps; "but I stick to what I said, that it is better to be raw than
rotten. And what is to be feared on that head, may be known from this:
that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of pears--a
dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. This did
Polonius. Thank fortune, Frank, I am young, every tooth sound in my
head, and if good wine can keep me where I am, long shall I remain so."

"True," with a smile. "But wine, to do good, must be drunk. You have
talked much and well, Charlie; but drunk little and indifferently--fill
up."

"Presently, presently," with a hasty and preoccupied air. "If I remember
right, Polonius hints as much as that one should, under no
circumstances, commit the indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an
unfortunate friend. He drules out some stale stuff about 'loan losing
both itself and friend,' don't he? But our bottle; is it glued fast?
Keep it moving, my dear Frank. Good wine, and upon my soul I begin to
feel it, and through me old Polonius--yes, this wine, I fear, is what
excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth."

Upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly raised the bottle,
and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one
might at a thermometer in August, to see not how low it was, but how
high. Then whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: "Well, Charlie,
if what wine you have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case I
should say that if--supposing a case--that if one fellow had an object
in getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of
your capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. What do
you think, Charlie?"

"Why, I think I don't much admire the supposition," said Charlie, with a
look of resentment; "it ain't safe, depend upon it, Frank, to venture
upon too jocose suppositions with one's friends."

"Why, bless you, Frank, my supposition wasn't personal, but general. You
mustn't be so touchy."

"If I am touchy it is the wine. Sometimes, when I freely drink, it has a
touchy effect on me, I have observed."

"Freely drink? you haven't drunk the perfect measure of one glass, yet.
While for me, this must be my fourth or fifth, thanks to your
importunity; not to speak of all I drank this morning, for old
acquaintance' sake. Drink, drink; you must drink."

"Oh, I drink while you are talking," laughed the other; "you have not
noticed it, but I have drunk my share. Have a queer way I learned from a
sedate old uncle, who used to tip off his glass-unperceived. Do you fill
up, and my glass, too. There! Now away with that stump, and have a new
cigar. Good fellowship forever!" again in the lyric mood, "Say, Frank,
are we not men? I say are we not human? Tell me, were they not human who
engendered us, as before heaven I believe they shall be whom we shall
engender? Fill up, up, up, my friend. Let the ruby tide aspire, and all
ruby aspirations with it! Up, fill up! Be we convivial. And
conviviality, what is it? The word, I mean; what expresses it? A living
together. But bats live together, and did you ever hear of convivial
bats?"

"If I ever did," observed the cosmopolitan, "it has quite slipped my
recollection."

"But _why_ did you never hear of convivial bats, nor anybody else?
Because bats, though they live together, live not together genially.
Bats are not genial souls. But men are; and how delightful to think that
the word which among men signifies the highest pitch of geniality,
implies, as indispensable auxiliary, the cheery benediction of the
bottle. Yes, Frank, to live together in the finest sense, we must drink
together. And so, what wonder that he who loves not wine, that sober
wretch has a lean heart--a heart like a wrung-out old bluing-bag, and
loves not his kind? Out upon him, to the rag-house with him, hang
him--the ungenial soul!"

"Oh, now, now, can't you be convivial without being censorious? I like
easy, unexcited conviviality. For the sober man, really, though for my
part I naturally love a cheerful glass, I will not prescribe my nature
as the law to other natures. So don't abuse the sober man. Conviviality
is one good thing, and sobriety is another good thing. So don't be
one-sided."

"Well, if I am one-sided, it is the wine. Indeed, indeed, I have
indulged too genially. My excitement upon slight provocation shows it.
But yours is a stronger head; drink you. By the way, talking of
geniality, it is much on the increase in these days, ain't it?"

"It is, and I hail the fact. Nothing better attests the advance of the
humanitarian spirit. In former and less humanitarian ages--the ages of
amphitheatres and gladiators--geniality was mostly confined to the
fireside and table. But in our age--the age of joint-stock companies and
free-and-easies--it is with this precious quality as with precious gold
in old Peru, which Pizarro found making up the scullion's sauce-pot as
the Inca's crown. Yes, we golden boys, the moderns, have geniality
everywhere--a bounty broadcast like noonlight."

"True, true; my sentiments again. Geniality has invaded each department
and profession. We have genial senators, genial authors, genial
lecturers, genial doctors, genial clergymen, genial surgeons, and the
next thing we shall have genial hangmen."

"As to the last-named sort of person," said the cosmopolitan, "I trust
that the advancing spirit of geniality will at last enable us to
dispense with him. No murderers--no hangmen. And surely, when the whole
world shall have been genialized, it will be as out of place to talk of
murderers, as in a Christianized world to talk of sinners."

"To pursue the thought," said the other, "every blessing is attended
with some evil, and----"

"Stay," said the cosmopolitan, "that may be better let pass for a loose
saying, than for hopeful doctrine."

"Well, assuming the saying's truth, it would apply to the future
supremacy of the genial spirit, since then it will fare with the hangman
as it did with the weaver when the spinning-jenny whizzed into the
ascendant. Thrown out of employment, what could Jack Ketch turn his hand
to? Butchering?"

"That he could turn his hand to it seems probable; but that, under the
circumstances, it would be appropriate, might in some minds admit of a
question. For one, I am inclined to think--and I trust it will not be
held fastidiousness--that it would hardly be suitable to the dignity of
our nature, that an individual, once employed in attending the last
hours of human unfortunates, should, that office being extinct, transfer
himself to the business of attending the last hours of unfortunate
cattle. I would suggest that the individual turn valet--a vocation to
which he would, perhaps, appear not wholly inadapted by his familiar
dexterity about the person. In particular, for giving a finishing tie to
a gentleman's cravat, I know few who would, in all likelihood, be, from
previous occupation, better fitted than the professional person in
question."

"Are you in earnest?" regarding the serene speaker with unaffected
curiosity; "are you really in earnest?"

"I trust I am never otherwise," was the mildly earnest reply; "but
talking of the advance of geniality, I am not without hopes that it
will eventually exert its influence even upon so difficult a subject as
the misanthrope."

"A genial misanthrope! I thought I had stretched the rope pretty hard in
talking of genial hangmen. A genial misanthrope is no more conceivable
than a surly philanthropist."

"True," lightly depositing in an unbroken little cylinder the ashes of
his cigar, "true, the two you name are well opposed."

"Why, you talk as if there _was_ such a being as a surly
philanthropist."

"I do. My eccentric friend, whom you call Coonskins, is an example. Does
he not, as I explained to you, hide under a surly air a philanthropic
heart? Now, the genial misanthrope, when, in the process of eras, he
shall turn up, will be the converse of this; under an affable air, he
will hide a misanthropical heart. In short, the genial misanthrope will
be a new kind of monster, but still no small improvement upon the
original one, since, instead of making faces and throwing stones at
people, like that poor old crazy man, Timon, he will take steps, fiddle
in hand, and set the tickled world a'dancing. In a word, as the progress
of Christianization mellows those in manner whom it cannot mend in mind,
much the same will it prove with the progress of genialization. And so,
thanks to geniality, the misanthrope, reclaimed from his boorish
address, will take on refinement and softness--to so genial a degree,
indeed, that it may possibly fall out that the misanthrope of the
coming century will be almost as popular as, I am sincerely sorry to
say, some philanthropists of the present time would seem not to be, as
witness my eccentric friend named before."

"Well," cried the other, a little weary, perhaps, of a speculation so
abstract, "well, however it may be with the century to come, certainly
in the century which is, whatever else one may be, he must be genial or
he is nothing. So fill up, fill up, and be genial!"

"I am trying my best," said the cosmopolitan, still calmly
companionable. "A moment since, we talked of Pizarro, gold, and Peru; no
doubt, now, you remember that when the Spaniard first entered Atahalpa's
treasure-chamber, and saw such profusion of plate stacked up, right and
left, with the wantonness of old barrels in a brewer's yard, the needy
fellow felt a twinge of misgiving, of want of confidence, as to the
genuineness of an opulence so profuse. He went about rapping the shining
vases with his knuckles. But it was all gold, pure gold, good gold,
sterling gold, which how cheerfully would have been stamped such at
Goldsmiths' Hall. And just so those needy minds, which, through their
own insincerity, having no confidence in mankind, doubt lest the liberal
geniality of this age be spurious. They are small Pizarros in their
way--by the very princeliness of men's geniality stunned into distrust
of it."

"Far be such distrust from you and me, my genial friend," cried the
other fervently; "fill up, fill up!"

"Well, this all along seems a division of labor," smiled the
cosmopolitan. "I do about all the drinking, and you do about all--the
genial. But yours is a nature competent to do that to a large
population. And now, my friend," with a peculiarly grave air, evidently
foreshadowing something not unimportant, and very likely of close
personal interest; "wine, you know, opens the heart, and----"

"Opens it!" with exultation, "it thaws it right out. Every heart is
ice-bound till wine melt it, and reveal the tender grass and sweet
herbage budding below, with every dear secret, hidden before like a
dropped jewel in a snow-bank, lying there unsuspected through winter
till spring."

"And just in that way, my dear Charlie, is one of my little secrets now
to be shown forth."

"Ah!" eagerly moving round his chair, "what is it?"

"Be not so impetuous, my dear Charlie. Let me explain. You see,
naturally, I am a man not overgifted with assurance; in general, I am,
if anything, diffidently reserved; so, if I shall presently seem
otherwise, the reason is, that you, by the geniality you have evinced in
all your talk, and especially the noble way in which, while affirming
your good opinion of men, you intimated that you never could prove false
to any man, but most by your indignation at a particularly illiberal
passage in Polonius' advice--in short, in short," with extreme
embarrassment, "how shall I express what I mean, unless I add that by
your whole character you impel me to throw myself upon your nobleness;
in one word, put confidence in you, a generous confidence?"

"I see, I see," with heightened interest, "something of moment you wish
to confide. Now, what is it, Frank? Love affair?"

"No, not that."

"What, then, my _dear_ Frank? Speak--depend upon me to the last. Out
with it."

"Out it shall come, then," said the cosmopolitan. "I am in want, urgent
want, of money."




CHAPTER XXXI.

A METAMORPHOSIS MORE SURPRISING THAN ANY IN OVID.


"In want of money!" pushing back his chair as from a suddenly-disclosed
man-trap or crater.

"Yes," naïvely assented the cosmopolitan, "and you are going to loan me
fifty dollars. I could almost wish I was in need of more, only for your
sake. Yes, my dear Charlie, for your sake; that you might the better
prove your noble, kindliness, my dear Charlie."

"None of your dear Charlies," cried the other, springing to his feet,
and buttoning up his coat, as if hastily to depart upon a long journey.

"Why, why, why?" painfully looking up.

"None of your why, why, whys!" tossing out a foot, "go to the devil,
sir! Beggar, impostor!--never so deceived in a man in my life."




CHAPTER XXXII.

SHOWING THAT THE AGE OF MAGIC AND MAGICIANS IS NOT YET OVER.


While speaking or rather hissing those words, the boon companion
underwent much such a change as one reads of in fairy-books. Out of old
materials sprang a new creature. Cadmus glided into the snake.

The cosmopolitan rose, the traces of previous feeling vanished; looked
steadfastly at his transformed friend a moment, then, taking ten
half-eagles from his pocket, stooped down, and laid them, one by one, in
a circle round him; and, retiring a pace, waved his long tasseled pipe
with the air of a necromancer, an air heightened by his costume,
accompanying each wave with a solemn murmur of cabalistical words.

Meantime, he within the magic-ring stood suddenly rapt, exhibiting every
symptom of a successful charm--a turned cheek, a fixed attitude, a
frozen eye; spellbound, not more by the waving wand than by the ten
invincible talismans on the floor.

"Reappear, reappear, reappear, oh, my former friend! Replace this
hideous apparition with thy blest shape, and be the token of thy return
the words, 'My dear Frank.'"

"My dear Frank," now cried the restored friend, cordially stepping out
of the ring, with regained self-possession regaining lost identity, "My
dear Frank, what a funny man you are; full of fun as an egg of meat. How
could you tell me that absurd story of your being in need? But I relish
a good joke too well to spoil it by letting on. Of course, I humored the
thing; and, on my side, put on all the cruel airs you would have me.
Come, this little episode of fictitious estrangement will but enhance
the delightful reality. Let us sit down again, and finish our bottle."

"With all my heart," said the cosmopolitan, dropping the necromancer
with the same facility with which he had assumed it. "Yes," he added,
soberly picking up the gold pieces, and returning them with a chink to
his pocket, "yes, I am something of a funny man now and then; while for
you, Charlie," eying him in tenderness, "what you say about your
humoring the thing is true enough; never did man second a joke better
than you did just now. You played your part better than I did mine; you
played it, Charlie, to the life."

"You see, I once belonged to an amateur play company; that accounts for
it. But come, fill up, and let's talk of something else."

"Well," acquiesced the cosmopolitan, seating himself, and quietly
brimming his glass, "what shall we talk about?"

"Oh, anything you please," a sort of nervously accommodating.

"Well, suppose we talk about Charlemont?"

"Charlemont? What's Charlemont? Who's Charlemont?"

"You shall hear, my dear Charlie," answered the cosmopolitan. "I will
tell you the story of Charlemont, the gentleman-madman."




CHAPTER XXXIII.

WHICH MAY PASS FOR WHATEVER IT MAY PROVE TO BE WORTH.


But ere be given the rather grave story of Charlemont, a reply must in
civility be made to a certain voice which methinks I hear, that, in view
of past chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics
appear, exclaims: How unreal all this is! Who did ever dress or act like
your cosmopolitan? And who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act
like harlequin?

Strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life
should be exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work,
sufficiently shows that he is not unwilling to drop real life, and turn,
for a time, to something different. Yes, it is, indeed, strange that any
one should clamor for the thing he is weary of; that any one, who, for
any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of him who is to
divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that dullness.

There is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a
work of amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the
same expectations and feelings. They look that fancy shall evoke scenes
different from those of the same old crowd round the custom-house
counter, and same old dishes on the boardinghouse table, with characters
unlike those of the same old acquaintances they meet in the same old way
every day in the same old street. And as, in real life, the proprieties
will not allow people to act out themselves with that unreserve
permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction, they look not only for
more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real
life itself can show. Thus, though they want novelty, they want nature,
too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. In this
way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play,
must dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act
as nobody exactly acts. It is with fiction as with religion: it should
present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie.

If, then, something is to be pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a
little is to be allowed to that writer who, in all his scenes, does but
seek to minister to what, as he understands it, is the implied wish of
the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom harlequin can
never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too fantastic.

One word more. Though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all
cases vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that
he is never in the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of
his kind, that to rest, though but under an imaginary censure applied to
but a work of imagination, is no easy thing. The mention of this
weakness will explain why such readers as may think they perceive
something harmonious between the boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan
with the bristling cynic, and his restrained good-nature with the
boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter where some similar
apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general principles,
modestly endeavored to-be apologized for.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN TELLS THE STORY OF THE GENTLEMAN MADMAN.


"Charlemont was a young merchant of French descent, living in St.
Louis--a man not deficient in mind, and possessed of that sterling and
captivating kindliness, seldom in perfection seen but in youthful
bachelors, united at times to a remarkable sort of gracefully
devil-may-care and witty good-humor. Of course, he was admired by
everybody, and loved, as only mankind can love, by not a few. But in his
twenty-ninth year a change came over him. Like one whose hair turns gray
in a night, so in a day Charlemont turned from affable to morose. His
acquaintances were passed without greeting; while, as for his
confidential friends, them he pointedly, unscrupulously, and with a kind
of fierceness, cut dead.

"One, provoked by such conduct, would fain have resented it with words
as disdainful; while another, shocked by the change, and, in concern for
a friend, magnanimously overlooking affronts, implored to know what
sudden, secret grief had distempered him. But from resentment and from
tenderness Charlemont alike turned away.

"Ere long, to the general surprise, the merchant Charlemont was
gazetted, and the same day it was reported that he had withdrawn from
town, but not before placing his entire property in the hands of
responsible assignees for the benefit of creditors.

"Whither he had vanished, none could guess. At length, nothing being
heard, it was surmised that he must have made away with himself--a
surmise, doubtless, originating in the remembrance of the change some
months previous to his bankruptcy--a change of a sort only to be
ascribed to a mind suddenly thrown from its balance.

"Years passed. It was spring-time, and lo, one bright morning,
Charlemont lounged into the St. Louis coffee-houses--gay, polite,
humane, companionable, and dressed in the height of costly elegance. Not
only was he alive, but he was himself again. Upon meeting with old
acquaintances, he made the first advances, and in such a manner that it
was impossible not to meet him half-way. Upon other old friends, whom he
did not chance casually to meet, he either personally called, or left
his card and compliments for them; and to several, sent presents of game
or hampers of wine.

"They say the world is sometimes harshly unforgiving, but it was not so
to Charlemont. The world feels a return of love for one who returns to
it as he did. Expressive of its renewed interest was a whisper, an
inquiring whisper, how now, exactly, so long after his bankruptcy, it
fared with Charlemont's purse. Rumor, seldom at a loss for answers,
replied that he had spent nine years in Marseilles in France, and there
acquiring a second fortune, had returned with it, a man devoted
henceforth to genial friendships.

"Added years went by, and the restored wanderer still the same; or
rather, by his noble qualities, grew up like golden maize in the
encouraging sun of good opinions. But still the latent wonder was, what
had caused that change in him at a period when, pretty much as now, he
was, to all appearance, in the possession of the same fortune, the same
friends, the same popularity. But nobody thought it would be the thing
to question him here.

"At last, at a dinner at his house, when all the guests but one had
successively departed; this remaining guest, an old acquaintance, being
just enough under the influence of wine to set aside the fear of
touching upon a delicate point, ventured, in a way which perhaps spoke
more favorably for his heart than his tact, to beg of his host to
explain the one enigma of his life. Deep melancholy overspread the
before cheery face of Charlemont; he sat for some moments tremulously
silent; then pushing a full decanter towards the guest, in a choked
voice, said: 'No, no! when by art, and care, and time, flowers are made
to bloom over a grave, who would seek to dig all up again only to know
the mystery?--The wine.' When both glasses were filled, Charlemont took
his, and lifting it, added lowly: 'If ever, in days to come, you shall
see ruin at hand, and, thinking you understand mankind, shall tremble
for your friendships, and tremble for your pride; and, partly through
love for the one and fear for the other, shall resolve to be beforehand
with the world, and save it from a sin by prospectively taking that sin
to yourself, then will you do as one I now dream of once did, and like
him will you suffer; but how fortunate and how grateful should you be,
if like him, after all that had happened, you could be a little happy
again.'

"When the guest went away, it was with the persuasion, that though
outwardly restored in mind as in fortune, yet, some taint of
Charlemont's old malady survived, and that it was not well for friends
to touch one dangerous string."




CHAPTER XXXV.

IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN STRIKINGLY EVINCES THE ARTLESSNESS OF HIS
NATURE.


"Well, what do you think of the story of Charlemont?" mildly asked he
who had told it.

"A very strange one," answered the auditor, who had been such not with
perfect ease, "but is it true?"

"Of course not; it is a story which I told with the purpose of every
story-teller--to amuse. Hence, if it seem strange to you, that
strangeness is the romance; it is what contrasts it with real life; it
is the invention, in brief, the fiction as opposed to the fact. For do
but ask yourself, my dear Charlie," lovingly leaning over towards him,
"I rest it with your own heart now, whether such a forereaching motive
as Charlemont hinted he had acted on in his change--whether such a
motive, I say, were a sort of one at all justified by the nature of
human society? Would you, for one, turn the cold shoulder to a friend--a
convivial one, say, whose pennilessness should be suddenly revealed to
you?"

"How can you ask me, my dear Frank? You know I would scorn such
meanness." But rising somewhat disconcerted--"really, early as it is, I
think I must retire; my head," putting up his hand to it, "feels
unpleasantly; this confounded elixir of logwood, little as I drank of
it, has played the deuce with me."

"Little as you drank of this elixir of logwood? Why, Charlie, you are
losing your mind. To talk so of the genuine, mellow old port. Yes, I
think that by all means you had better away, and sleep it off.
There--don't apologize--don't explain--go, go--I understand you exactly.
I will see you to-morrow."




CHAPTER XXXVI.

IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN IS ACCOSTED BY A MYSTIC, WHEREUPON ENSUES
PRETTY MUCH SUCH TALK AS MIGHT BE EXPECTED.


As, not without some haste, the boon companion withdrew, a stranger
advanced, and touching the cosmopolitan, said: "I think I heard you say
you would see that man again. Be warned; don't you do so."

He turned, surveying the speaker; a blue-eyed man, sandy-haired, and
Saxon-looking; perhaps five and forty; tall, and, but for a certain
angularity, well made; little touch of the drawing-room about him, but a
look of plain propriety of a Puritan sort, with a kind of farmer
dignity. His age seemed betokened more by his brow, placidly thoughtful,
than by his general aspect, which had that look of youthfulness in
maturity, peculiar sometimes to habitual health of body, the original
gift of nature, or in part the effect or reward of steady temperance of
the passions, kept so, perhaps, by constitution as much as morality. A
neat, comely, almost ruddy cheek, coolly fresh, like a red
clover-blossom at coolish dawn--the color of warmth preserved by the
virtue of chill. Toning the whole man, was one-knows-not-what of
shrewdness and mythiness, strangely jumbled; in that way, he seemed a
kind of cross between a Yankee peddler and a Tartar priest, though it
seemed as if, at a pinch, the first would not in all probability play
second fiddle to the last.

"Sir," said the cosmopolitan, rising and bowing with slow dignity, "if I
cannot with unmixed satisfaction hail a hint pointed at one who has just
been clinking the social glass with me, on the other hand, I am not
disposed to underrate the motive which, in the present case, could alone
have prompted such an intimation. My friend, whose seat is still warm,
has retired for the night, leaving more or less in his bottle here.
Pray, sit down in his seat, and partake with me; and then, if you choose
to hint aught further unfavorable to the man, the genial warmth of whose
person in part passes into yours, and whose genial hospitality meanders
through you--be it so."

"Quite beautiful conceits," said the stranger, now scholastically and
artistically eying the picturesque speaker, as if he were a statue in
the Pitti Palace; "very beautiful:" then with the gravest interest,
"yours, sir, if I mistake not, must be a beautiful soul--one full of all
love and truth; for where beauty is, there must those be."

"A pleasing belief," rejoined the cosmopolitan, beginning with an even
air, "and to confess, long ago it pleased me. Yes, with you and
Schiller, I am pleased to believe that beauty is at bottom incompatible
with ill, and therefore am so eccentric as to have confidence in the
latent benignity of that beautiful creature, the rattle-snake, whose
lithe neck and burnished maze of tawny gold, as he sleekly curls aloft
in the sun, who on the prairie can behold without wonder?"

As he breathed these words, he seemed so to enter into their spirit--as
some earnest descriptive speakers will--as unconsciously to wreathe his
form and sidelong crest his head, till he all but seemed the creature
described. Meantime, the stranger regarded him with little surprise,
apparently, though with much contemplativeness of a mystical sort, and
presently said:

"When charmed by the beauty of that viper, did it never occur to you to
change personalities with him? to feel what it was to be a snake? to
glide unsuspected in grass? to sting, to kill at a touch; your whole
beautiful body one iridescent scabbard of death? In short, did the wish
never occur to you to feel yourself exempt from knowledge, and
conscience, and revel for a while in the carefree, joyous life of a
perfectly instinctive, unscrupulous, and irresponsible creature?"

"Such a wish," replied the other, not perceptibly disturbed, "I must
confess, never consciously was mine. Such a wish, indeed, could hardly
occur to ordinary imaginations, and mine I cannot think much above the
average."

"But now that the idea is suggested," said the stranger, with infantile
intellectuality, "does it not raise the desire?"

"Hardly. For though I do not think I have any uncharitable prejudice
against the rattle-snake, still, I should not like to be one. If I were
a rattle-snake now, there would be no such thing as being genial with
men--men would be afraid of me, and then I should be a very lonesome and
miserable rattle-snake."

"True, men would be afraid of you. And why? Because of your rattle, your
hollow rattle--a sound, as I have been told, like the shaking together
of small, dry skulls in a tune of the Waltz of Death. And here we have
another beautiful truth. When any creature is by its make inimical to
other creatures, nature in effect labels that creature, much as an
apothecary does a poison. So that whoever is destroyed by a
rattle-snake, or other harmful agent, it is his own fault. He should
have respected the label. Hence that significant passage in Scripture,
'Who will pity the charmer that is bitten with a serpent?'"

"_I_ would pity him," said the cosmopolitan, a little bluntly, perhaps.

"But don't you think," rejoined the other, still maintaining his
passionless air, "don't you think, that for a man to pity where nature
is pitiless, is a little presuming?"

"Let casuists decide the casuistry, but the compassion the heart decides
for itself. But, sir," deepening in seriousness, "as I now for the first
realize, you but a moment since introduced the word irresponsible in a
way I am not used to. Now, sir, though, out of a tolerant spirit, as I
hope, I try my best never to be frightened at any speculation, so long
as it is pursued in honesty, yet, for once, I must acknowledge that you
do really, in the point cited, cause me uneasiness; because a proper
view of the universe, that view which is suited to breed a proper
confidence, teaches, if I err not, that since all things are justly
presided over, not very many living agents but must be some way
accountable."

"Is a rattle-snake accountable?" asked the stranger with such a
preternaturally cold, gemmy glance out of his pellucid blue eye, that he
seemed more a metaphysical merman than a feeling man; "is a rattle-snake
accountable?"

"If I will not affirm that it is," returned the other, with the caution
of no inexperienced thinker, "neither will I deny it. But if we suppose
it so, I need not say that such accountability is neither to you, nor
me, nor the Court of Common Pleas, but to something superior."

He was proceeding, when the stranger would have interrupted him; but as
reading his argument in his eye, the cosmopolitan, without waiting for
it to be put into words, at once spoke to it: "You object to my
supposition, for but such it is, that the rattle-snake's accountability
is not by nature manifest; but might not much the same thing be urged
against man's? A _reductio ad absurdum_, proving the objection vain. But
if now," he continued, "you consider what capacity for mischief there is
in a rattle-snake (observe, I do not charge it with being mischievous, I
but say it has the capacity), could you well avoid admitting that that
would be no symmetrical view of the universe which should maintain that,
while to man it is forbidden to kill, without judicial cause, his
fellow, yet the rattle-snake has an implied permit of unaccountability
to murder any creature it takes capricious umbrage at--man
included?--But," with a wearied air, "this is no genial talk; at least
it is not so to me. Zeal at unawares embarked me in it. I regret it.
Pray, sit down, and take some of this wine."

"Your suggestions are new to me," said the other, with a kind of
condescending appreciativeness, as of one who, out of devotion to
knowledge, disdains not to appropriate the least crumb of it, even from
a pauper's board; "and, as I am a very Athenian in hailing a new
thought, I cannot consent to let it drop so abruptly. Now, the
rattle-snake----"

"Nothing more about rattle-snakes, I beseech," in distress; "I must
positively decline to reenter upon that subject. Sit down, sir, I beg,
and take some of this wine."

"To invite me to sit down with you is hospitable," collectedly
acquiescing now in the change of topics; "and hospitality being fabled
to be of oriental origin, and forming, as it does, the subject of a
pleasing Arabian romance, as well as being a very romantic thing in
itself--hence I always hear the expressions of hospitality with
pleasure. But, as for the wine, my regard for that beverage is so
extreme, and I am so fearful of letting it sate me, that I keep my love
for it in the lasting condition of an untried abstraction. Briefly, I
quaff immense draughts of wine from the page of Hafiz, but wine from a
cup I seldom as much as sip."

The cosmopolitan turned a mild glance upon the speaker, who, now
occupying the chair opposite him, sat there purely and coldly radiant as
a prism. It seemed as if one could almost hear him vitreously chime and
ring. That moment a waiter passed, whom, arresting with a sign, the
cosmopolitan bid go bring a goblet of ice-water. "Ice it well, waiter,"
said he; "and now," turning to the stranger, "will you, if you please,
give me your reason for the warning words you first addressed to me?"

"I hope they were not such warnings as most warnings are," said the
stranger; "warnings which do not forewarn, but in mockery come after the
fact. And yet something in you bids me think now, that whatever latent
design your impostor friend might have had upon you, it as yet remains
unaccomplished. You read his label."

"And what did it say? 'This is a genial soul,' So you see you must
either give up your doctrine of labels, or else your prejudice against
my friend. But tell me," with renewed earnestness, "what do you take him
for? What is he?"

"What are you? What am I? Nobody knows who anybody is. The data which
life furnishes, towards forming a true estimate of any being, are as
insufficient to that end as in geometry one side given would be to
determine the triangle."

"But is not this doctrine of triangles someway inconsistent with your
doctrine of labels?"

"Yes; but what of that? I seldom care to be consistent. In a
philosophical view, consistency is a certain level at all times,
maintained in all the thoughts of one's mind. But, since nature is
nearly all hill and dale, how can one keep naturally advancing in
knowledge without submitting to the natural inequalities in the
progress? Advance into knowledge is just like advance upon the grand
Erie canal, where, from the character of the country, change of level is
inevitable; you are locked up and locked down with perpetual
inconsistencies, and yet all the time you get on; while the dullest part
of the whole route is what the boatmen call the 'long level'--a
consistently-flat surface of sixty miles through stagnant swamps."

"In one particular," rejoined the cosmopolitan, "your simile is,
perhaps, unfortunate. For, after all these weary lockings-up and
lockings-down, upon how much of a higher plain do you finally stand?
Enough to make it an object? Having from youth been taught reverence for
knowledge, you must pardon me if, on but this one account, I reject your
analogy. But really you someway bewitch me with your tempting discourse,
so that I keep straying from my point unawares. You tell me you cannot
certainly know who or what my friend is; pray, what do you conjecture
him to be?"

"I conjecture him to be what, among the ancient Egyptians, was called a
----" using some unknown word.

"A ----! And what is that?"

"A ---- is what Proclus, in a little note to his third book on the
theology of Plato, defines as ---- ----" coming out with a sentence of
Greek.

Holding up his glass, and steadily looking through its transparency, the
cosmopolitan rejoined: "That, in so defining the thing, Proclus set it
to modern understandings in the most crystal light it was susceptible
of, I will not rashly deny; still, if you could put the definition in
words suited to perceptions like mine, I should take it for a favor.

"A favor!" slightly lifting his cool eyebrows; "a bridal favor I
understand, a knot of white ribands, a very beautiful type of the purity
of true marriage; but of other favors I am yet to learn; and still, in a
vague way, the word, as you employ it, strikes me as unpleasingly
significant in general of some poor, unheroic submission to being done
good to."

Here the goblet of iced-water was brought, and, in compliance with a
sign from the cosmopolitan, was placed before the stranger, who, not
before expressing acknowledgments, took a draught, apparently
refreshing--its very coldness, as with some is the case, proving not
entirely uncongenial.

At last, setting down the goblet, and gently wiping from his lips the
beads of water freshly clinging there as to the valve of a coral-shell
upon a reef, he turned upon the cosmopolitan, and, in a manner the most
cool, self-possessed, and matter-of-fact possible, said: "I hold to the
metempsychosis; and whoever I may be now, I feel that I was once the
stoic Arrian, and have inklings of having been equally puzzled by a word
in the current language of that former time, very probably answering to
your word _favor_."

"Would you favor me by explaining?" said the cosmopolitan, blandly.

"Sir," responded the stranger, with a very slight degree of severity, "I
like lucidity, of all things, and am afraid I shall hardly be able to
converse satisfactorily with you, unless you bear it in mind."

The cosmopolitan ruminatingly eyed him awhile, then said: "The best way,
as I have heard, to get out of a labyrinth, is to retrace one's steps. I
will accordingly retrace mine, and beg you will accompany me. In short,
once again to return to the point: for what reason did you warn me
against my friend?"

"Briefly, then, and clearly, because, as before said, I conjecture him
to be what, among the ancient Egyptians----"

"Pray, now," earnestly deprecated the cosmopolitan, "pray, now, why
disturb the repose of those ancient Egyptians? What to us are their
words or their thoughts? Are we pauper Arabs, without a house of our
own, that, with the mummies, we must turn squatters among the dust of
the Catacombs?"

"Pharaoh's poorest brick-maker lies proudlier in his rags than the
Emperor of all the Russias in his hollands," oracularly said the
stranger; "for death, though in a worm, is majestic; while life, though
in a king, is contemptible. So talk not against mummies. It is a part of
my mission to teach mankind a due reverence for mummies."

Fortunately, to arrest these incoherencies, or rather, to vary them, a
haggard, inspired-looking man now approached--a crazy beggar, asking
alms under the form of peddling a rhapsodical tract, composed by
himself, and setting forth his claims to some rhapsodical apostleship.
Though ragged and dirty, there was about him no touch of vulgarity; for,
by nature, his manner was not unrefined, his frame slender, and appeared
the more so from the broad, untanned frontlet of his brow, tangled over
with a disheveled mass of raven curls, throwing a still deeper tinge
upon a complexion like that of a shriveled berry. Nothing could exceed
his look of picturesque Italian ruin and dethronement, heightened by
what seemed just one glimmering peep of reason, insufficient to do him
any lasting good, but enough, perhaps, to suggest a torment of latent
doubts at times, whether his addled dream of glory were true.

Accepting the tract offered him, the cosmopolitan glanced over it, and,
seeming to see just what it was, closed it, put it in his pocket, eyed
the man a moment, then, leaning over and presenting him with a shilling,
said to him, in tones kind and considerate: "I am sorry, my friend, that
I happen to be engaged just now; but, having purchased your work, I
promise myself much satisfaction in its perusal at my earliest leisure."

In his tattered, single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned meagerly up to his
chin, the shutter-brain made him a bow, which, for courtesy, would not
have misbecome a viscount, then turned with silent appeal to the
stranger. But the stranger sat more like a cold prism than ever, while
an expression of keen Yankee cuteness, now replacing his former mystical
one, lent added icicles to his aspect. His whole air said: "Nothing
from me." The repulsed petitioner threw a look full of resentful pride
and cracked disdain upon him, and went his way.

"Come, now," said the cosmopolitan, a little reproachfully, "you ought
to have sympathized with that man; tell me, did you feel no
fellow-feeling? Look at his tract here, quite in the transcendental
vein."

"Excuse me," said the stranger, declining the tract, "I never patronize
scoundrels."

"Scoundrels?"

"I detected in him, sir, a damning peep of sense--damning, I say; for
sense in a seeming madman is scoundrelism. I take him for a cunning
vagabond, who picks up a vagabond living by adroitly playing the madman.
Did you not remark how he flinched under my eye?'

"Really?" drawing a long, astonished breath, "I could hardly have
divined in you a temper so subtlely distrustful. Flinched? to be sure he
did, poor fellow; you received him with so lame a welcome. As for his
adroitly playing the madman, invidious critics might object the same to
some one or two strolling magi of these days. But that is a matter I
know nothing about. But, once more, and for the last time, to return to
the point: why sir, did you warn me against my friend? I shall rejoice,
if, as I think it will prove, your want of confidence in my friend rests
upon a basis equally slender with your distrust of the lunatic. Come,
why did you warn me? Put it, I beseech, in few words, and those
English."

"I warned you against him because he is suspected for what on these
boats is known--so they tell me--as a Mississippi operator."

"An operator, ah? he operates, does he? My friend, then, is something
like what the Indians call a Great Medicine, is he? He operates, he
purges, he drains off the repletions."

"I perceive, sir," said the stranger, constitutionally obtuse to the
pleasant drollery, "that your notion, of what is called a Great
Medicine, needs correction. The Great Medicine among the Indians is less
a bolus than a man in grave esteem for his politic sagacity."

"And is not my friend politic? Is not my friend sagacious? By your own
definition, is not my friend a Great Medicine?"

"No, he is an operator, a Mississippi operator; an equivocal character.
That he is such, I little doubt, having had him pointed out to me as
such by one desirous of initiating me into any little novelty of this
western region, where I never before traveled. And, sir, if I am not
mistaken, you also are a stranger here (but, indeed, where in this
strange universe is not one a stranger?) and that is a reason why I felt
moved to warn you against a companion who could not be otherwise than
perilous to one of a free and trustful disposition. But I repeat the
hope, that, thus far at least, he has not succeeded with you, and trust
that, for the future, he will not."

"Thank you for your concern; but hardly can I equally thank you for so
steadily maintaining the hypothesis of my friend's objectionableness.
True, I but made his acquaintance for the first to-day, and know little
of his antecedents; but that would seem no just reason why a nature like
his should not of itself inspire confidence. And since your own
knowledge of the gentleman is not, by your account, so exact as it might
be, you will pardon me if I decline to welcome any further suggestions
unflattering to him. Indeed, sir," with friendly decision, "let us
change the subject."




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE MYSTICAL MASTER INTRODUCES THE PRACTICAL DISCIPLE.


"Both, the subject and the interlocutor," replied the stranger rising,
and waiting the return towards him of a promenader, that moment turning
at the further end of his walk.

"Egbert!" said he, calling.

Egbert, a well-dressed, commercial-looking gentleman of about thirty,
responded in a way strikingly deferential, and in a moment stood near,
in the attitude less of an equal companion apparently than a
confidential follower.

"This," said the stranger, taking Egbert by the hand and leading him to
the cosmopolitan, "this is Egbert, a disciple. I wish you to know
Egbert. Egbert was the first among mankind to reduce to practice the
principles of Mark Winsome--principles previously accounted as less
adapted to life than the closet. Egbert," turning to the disciple, who,
with seeming modesty, a little shrank under these compliments, "Egbert,
this," with a salute towards the cosmopolitan, "is, like all of us, a
stranger. I wish you, Egbert, to know this brother stranger; be
communicative with him. Particularly if, by anything hitherto dropped,
his curiosity has been roused as to the precise nature of my philosophy,
I trust you will not leave such curiosity ungratified. You, Egbert, by
simply setting forth your practice, can do more to enlighten one as to
my theory, than I myself can by mere speech. Indeed, it is by you that I
myself best understand myself. For to every philosophy are certain rear
parts, very important parts, and these, like the rear of one's head, are
best seen by reflection. Now, as in a glass, you, Egbert, in your life,
reflect to me the more important part of my system. He, who approves
you, approves the philosophy of Mark Winsome."

Though portions of this harangue may, perhaps, in the phraseology seem
self-complaisant, yet no trace of self-complacency was perceptible in
the speaker's manner, which throughout was plain, unassuming, dignified,
and manly; the teacher and prophet seemed to lurk more in the idea, so
to speak, than in the mere bearing of him who was the vehicle of it.

"Sir," said the cosmopolitan, who seemed not a little interested in this
new aspect of matters, "you speak of a certain philosophy, and a more or
less occult one it may be, and hint of its bearing upon practical life;
pray, tell me, if the study of this philosophy tends to the same
formation of character with the experiences of the world?"

"It does; and that is the test of its truth; for any philosophy that,
being in operation contradictory to the ways of the world, tends to
produce a character at odds with it, such a philosophy must necessarily
be but a cheat and a dream."

"You a little surprise me," answered the cosmopolitan; "for, from an
occasional profundity in you, and also from your allusions to a profound
work on the theology of Plato, it would seem but natural to surmise
that, if you are the originator of any philosophy, it must needs so
partake of the abstruse, as to exalt it above the comparatively vile
uses of life."

"No uncommon mistake with regard to me," rejoined the other. Then meekly
standing like a Raphael: "If still in golden accents old Memnon murmurs
his riddle, none the less does the balance-sheet of every man's ledger
unriddle the profit or loss of life. Sir," with calm energy, "man came
into this world, not to sit down and muse, not to befog himself with
vain subtleties, but to gird up his loins and to work. Mystery is in the
morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery is
everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that mouth and purse must
be filled. If, hitherto, you have supposed me a visionary, be
undeceived. I am no one-ideaed one, either; no more than the seers
before me. Was not Seneca a usurer? Bacon a courtier? and Swedenborg,
though with one eye on the invisible, did he not keep the other on the
main chance? Along with whatever else it may be given me to be, I am a
man of serviceable knowledge, and a man of the world. Know me for such.
And as for my disciple here," turning towards him, "if you look to find
any soft Utopianisms and last year's sunsets in him, I smile to think
how he will set you right. The doctrines I have taught him will, I
trust, lead him neither to the mad-house nor the poor-house, as so many
other doctrines have served credulous sticklers. Furthermore," glancing
upon him paternally, "Egbert is both my disciple and my poet. For poetry
is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of thought and act, and, in the
latter way, is by any one to be found anywhere, when in useful action
sought. In a word, my disciple here is a thriving young merchant, a
practical poet in the West India trade. There," presenting Egbert's hand
to the cosmopolitan, "I join you, and leave you." With which words, and
without bowing, the master withdrew.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE DISCIPLE UNBENDS, AND CONSENTS TO ACT A SOCIAL PART.


In the master's presence the disciple had stood as one not ignorant of
his place; modesty was in his expression, with a sort of reverential
depression. But the presence of the superior withdrawn, he seemed
lithely to shoot up erect from beneath it, like one of those wire men
from a toy snuff-box.

He was, as before said, a young man of about thirty. His countenance of
that neuter sort, which, in repose, is neither prepossessing nor
disagreeable; so that it seemed quite uncertain how he would turn out.
His dress was neat, with just enough of the mode to save it from the
reproach of originality; in which general respect, though with a
readjustment of details, his costume seemed modeled upon his master's.
But, upon the whole, he was, to all appearances, the last person in the
world that one would take for the disciple of any transcendental
philosophy; though, indeed, something about his sharp nose and shaved
chin seemed to hint that if mysticism, as a lesson, ever came in his
way, he might, with the characteristic knack of a true New-Englander,
turn even so profitless a thing to some profitable account.

"Well" said he, now familiarly seating himself in the vacated chair,
"what do you think of Mark? Sublime fellow, ain't he?"

"That each member of the human guild is worthy respect my friend,"
rejoined the cosmopolitan, "is a fact which no admirer of that guild
will question; but that, in view of higher natures, the word sublime, so
frequently applied to them, can, without confusion, be also applied to
man, is a point which man will decide for himself; though, indeed, if he
decide it in the affirmative, it is not for me to object. But I am
curious to know more of that philosophy of which, at present, I have but
inklings. You, its first disciple among men, it seems, are peculiarly
qualified to expound it. Have you any objections to begin now?"

"None at all," squaring himself to the table. "Where shall I begin? At
first principles?"

"You remember that it was in a practical way that you were represented
as being fitted for the clear exposition. Now, what you call first
principles, I have, in some things, found to be more or less vague.
Permit me, then, in a plain way, to suppose some common case in real
life, and that done, I would like you to tell me how you, the practical
disciple of the philosophy I wish to know about, would, in that case,
conduct."

"A business-like view. Propose the case."

"Not only the case, but the persons. The case is this: There are two
friends, friends from childhood, bosom-friends; one of whom, for the
first time, being in need, for the first time seeks a loan from the
other, who, so far as fortune goes, is more than competent to grant it.
And the persons are to be you and I: you, the friend from whom the loan
is sought--I, the friend who seeks it; you, the disciple of the
philosophy in question--I, a common man, with no more philosophy than to
know that when I am comfortably warm I don't feel cold, and when I have
the ague I shake. Mind, now, you must work up your imagination, and, as
much as possible, talk and behave just as if the case supposed were a
fact. For brevity, you shall call me Frank, and I will call you Charlie.
Are you agreed?"

"Perfectly. You begin."

The cosmopolitan paused a moment, then, assuming a serious and care-worn
air, suitable to the part to be enacted, addressed his hypothesized
friend.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE HYPOTHETICAL FRIENDS.


"Charlie, I am going to put confidence in you."

"You always have, and with reason. What is it Frank?"

"Charlie, I am in want--urgent want of money."

"That's not well."

"But it _will_ be well, Charlie, if you loan me a hundred dollars. I
would not ask this of you, only my need is sore, and you and I have so
long shared hearts and minds together, however unequally on my side,
that nothing remains to prove our friendship than, with the same
inequality on my side, to share purses. You will do me the favor won't
you?"

"Favor? What do you mean by asking me to do you a favor?"

"Why, Charlie, you never used to talk so."

"Because, Frank, you on your side, never used to talk so."

"But won't you loan me the money?"

"No, Frank."

"Why?"

"Because my rule forbids. I give away money, but never loan it; and of
course the man who calls himself my friend is above receiving alms. The
negotiation of a loan is a business transaction. And I will transact no
business with a friend. What a friend is, he is socially and
intellectually; and I rate social and intellectual friendship too high
to degrade it on either side into a pecuniary make-shift. To be sure
there are, and I have, what is called business friends; that is,
commercial acquaintances, very convenient persons. But I draw a red-ink
line between them and my friends in the true sense--my friends social
and intellectual. In brief, a true friend has nothing to do with loans;
he should have a soul above loans. Loans are such unfriendly
accommodations as are to be had from the soulless corporation of a bank,
by giving the regular security and paying the regular discount."

"An _unfriendly_ accommodation? Do those words go together handsomely?"

"Like the poor farmer's team, of an old man and a cow--not handsomely,
but to the purpose. Look, Frank, a loan of money on interest is a sale
of money on credit. To sell a thing on credit may be an accommodation,
but where is the friendliness? Few men in their senses, except
operators, borrow money on interest, except upon a necessity akin to
starvation. Well, now, where is the friendliness of my letting a
starving man have, say, the money's worth of a barrel of flour upon the
condition that, on a given day, he shall let me have the money's worth
of a barrel and a half of flour; especially if I add this further
proviso, that if he fail so to do, I shall then, to secure to myself
the money's worth of my barrel and his half barrel, put his heart up at
public auction, and, as it is cruel to part families, throw in his
wife's and children's?"

"I understand," with a pathetic shudder; "but even did it come to that,
such a step on the creditor's part, let us, for the honor of human
nature, hope, were less the intention than the contingency."

"But, Frank, a contingency not unprovided for in the taking beforehand
of due securities."

"Still, Charlie, was not the loan in the first place a friend's act?"

"And the auction in the last place an enemy's act. Don't you see? The
enmity lies couched in the friendship, just as the ruin in the relief."

"I must be very stupid to-day, Charlie, but really, I can't understand
this. Excuse me, my dear friend, but it strikes me that in going into
the philosophy of the subject, you go somewhat out of your depth."

"So said the incautious wader out to the ocean; but the ocean replied:
'It is just the other way, my wet friend,' and drowned him."

"That, Charlie, is a fable about as unjust to the ocean, as some of
Æsop's are to the animals. The ocean is a magnanimous element, and would
scorn to assassinate a poor fellow, let alone taunting him in the act.
But I don't understand what you say about enmity couched in friendship,
and ruin in relief."

"I will illustrate, Frank, The needy man is a train slipped off the
rail. He who loans him money on interest is the one who, by way of
accommodation, helps get the train back where it belongs; but then, by
way of making all square, and a little more, telegraphs to an agent,
thirty miles a-head by a precipice, to throw just there, on his account,
a beam across the track. Your needy man's principle-and-interest friend
is, I say again, a friend with an enmity in reserve. No, no, my dear
friend, no interest for me. I scorn interest."

"Well, Charlie, none need you charge. Loan me without interest."

"That would be alms again."

"Alms, if the sum borrowed is returned?"

"Yes: an alms, not of the principle, but the interest."

"Well, I am in sore need, so I will not decline the alms. Seeing that it
is you, Charlie, gratefully will I accept the alms of the interest. No
humiliation between friends."

"Now, how in the refined view of friendship can you suffer yourself to
talk so, my dear Frank. It pains me. For though I am not of the sour
mind of Solomon, that, in the hour of need, a stranger is better than a
brother; yet, I entirely agree with my sublime master, who, in his Essay
on Friendship, says so nobly, that if he want a terrestrial convenience,
not to his friend celestial (or friend social and intellectual) would he
go; no: for his terrestrial convenience, to his friend terrestrial (or
humbler business-friend) he goes. Very lucidly he adds the reason:
Because, for the superior nature, which on no account can ever descend
to do good, to be annoyed with requests to do it, when the inferior
one, which by no instruction can ever rise above that capacity, stands
always inclined to it--this is unsuitable."

"Then I will not consider you as my friend celestial, but as the other."

"It racks me to come to that; but, to oblige you, I'll do it. We are
business friends; business is business. You want to negotiate a loan.
Very good. On what paper? Will you pay three per cent a month? Where is
your security?"

"Surely, you will not exact those formalities from your old
schoolmate--him with whom you have so often sauntered down the groves of
Academe, discoursing of the beauty of virtue, and the grace that is in
kindliness--and all for so paltry a sum. Security? Our being
fellow-academics, and friends from childhood up, is security."

"Pardon me, my dear Frank, our being fellow-academics is the worst of
securities; while, our having been friends from childhood up is just no
security at all. You forget we are now business friends."

"And you, on your side, forget, Charlie, that as your business friend I
can give you no security; my need being so sore that I cannot get an
indorser."

"No indorser, then, no business loan."

"Since then, Charlie, neither as the one nor the other sort of friend
you have defined, can I prevail with you; how if, combining the two, I
sue as both?"

"Are you a centaur?"

"When all is said then, what good have I of your friendship, regarded in
what light you will?"

"The good which is in the philosophy of Mark Winsome, as reduced to
practice by a practical disciple."

"And why don't you add, much good may the philosophy of Mark Winsome do
me? Ah," turning invokingly, "what is friendship, if it be not the
helping hand and the feeling heart, the good Samaritan pouring out at
need the purse as the vial!"

"Now, my dear Frank, don't be childish. Through tears never did man see
his way in the dark. I should hold you unworthy that sincere friendship
I bear you, could I think that friendship in the ideal is too lofty for
you to conceive. And let me tell you, my dear Frank, that you would
seriously shake the foundations of our love, if ever again you should
repeat the present scene. The philosophy, which is mine in the strongest
way, teaches plain-dealing. Let me, then, now, as at the most suitable
time, candidly disclose certain circumstances you seem in ignorance of.
Though our friendship began in boyhood, think not that, on my side at
least, it began injudiciously. Boys are little men, it is said. You, I
juvenilely picked out for my friend, for your favorable points at the
time; not the least of which were your good manners, handsome dress, and
your parents' rank and repute of wealth. In short, like any grown man,
boy though I was, I went into the market and chose me my mutton, not for
its leanness, but its fatness. In other words, there seemed in you, the
schoolboy who always had silver in his pocket, a reasonable probability
that you would never stand in lean need of fat succor; and if my early
impression has not been verified by the event, it is only because of
the caprice of fortune producing a fallibility of human expectations,
however discreet.'"

"Oh, that I should listen to this cold-blooded disclosure!"

"A little cold blood in your ardent veins, my dear Frank, wouldn't do
you any harm, let me tell you. Cold-blooded? You say that, because my
disclosure seems to involve a vile prudence on my side. But not so. My
reason for choosing you in part for the points I have mentioned, was
solely with a view of preserving inviolate the delicacy of the
connection. For--do but think of it--what more distressing to delicate
friendship, formed early, than your friend's eventually, in manhood,
dropping in of a rainy night for his little loan of five dollars or so?
Can delicate friendship stand that? And, on the other side, would
delicate friendship, so long as it retained its delicacy, do that? Would
you not instinctively say of your dripping friend in the entry, 'I have
been deceived, fraudulently deceived, in this man; he is no true friend
that, in platonic love to demand love-rites?'"

"And rites, doubly rights, they are, cruel Charlie!"

"Take it how you will, heed well how, by too importunately claiming
those rights, as you call them, you shake those foundations I hinted of.
For though, as it turns out, I, in my early friendship, built me a fair
house on a poor site; yet such pains and cost have I lavished on that
house, that, after all, it is dear to me. No, I would not lose the sweet
boon of your friendship, Frank. But beware."

"And of what? Of being in need? Oh, Charlie! you talk not to a god, a
being who in himself holds his own estate, but to a man who, being a
man, is the sport of fate's wind and wave, and who mounts towards heaven
or sinks towards hell, as the billows roll him in trough or on crest."

"Tut! Frank. Man is no such poor devil as that comes to--no poor
drifting sea-weed of the universe. Man has a soul; which, if he will,
puts him beyond fortune's finger and the future's spite. Don't whine
like fortune's whipped dog, Frank, or by the heart of a true friend, I
will cut ye."

"Cut me you have already, cruel Charlie, and to the quick. Call to mind
the days we went nutting, the times we walked in the woods, arms
wreathed about each other, showing trunks invined like the trees:--oh,
Charlie!"

"Pish! we were boys."

"Then lucky the fate of the first-born of Egypt, cold in the grave ere
maturity struck them with a sharper frost.--Charlie?"

"Fie! you're a girl."

"Help, help, Charlie, I want help!"

"Help? to say nothing of the friend, there is something wrong about the
man who wants help. There is somewhere a defect, a want, in brief, a
need, a crying need, somewhere about that man."

"So there is, Charlie.--Help, Help!"

"How foolish a cry, when to implore help, is itself the proof of
undesert of it."

"Oh, this, all along, is not you, Charlie, but some ventriloquist who
usurps your larynx. It is Mark Winsome that speaks, not Charlie."

"If so, thank heaven, the voice of Mark Winsome is not alien but
congenial to my larynx. If the philosophy of that illustrious teacher
find little response among mankind at large, it is less that they do not
possess teachable tempers, than because they are so unfortunate as not
to have natures predisposed to accord with him.

"Welcome, that compliment to humanity," exclaimed Frank with energy,
"the truer because unintended. And long in this respect may humanity
remain what you affirm it. And long it will; since humanity, inwardly
feeling how subject it is to straits, and hence how precious is help,
will, for selfishness' sake, if no other, long postpone ratifying a
philosophy that banishes help from the world. But Charlie, Charlie!
speak as you used to; tell me you will help me. Were the case reversed,
not less freely would I loan you the money than you would ask me to loan
it.

"_I_ ask? _I_ ask a loan? Frank, by this hand, under no circumstances
would I accept a loan, though without asking pressed on me. The
experience of China Aster might warn me."

"And what was that?"

"Not very unlike the experience of the man that built himself a palace
of moon-beams, and when the moon set was surprised that his palace
vanished with it. I will tell you about China Aster. I wish I could do
so in my own words, but unhappily the original story-teller here has so
tyrannized over me, that it is quite impossible for me to repeat his
incidents without sliding into his style. I forewarn you of this, that
you may not think me so maudlin as, in some parts, the story would seem
to make its narrator. It is too bad that any intellect, especially in so
small a matter, should have such power to impose itself upon another,
against its best exerted will, too. However, it is satisfaction to know
that the main moral, to which all tends, I fully approve. But, to
begin."




CHAPTER XL.

IN WHICH THE STORY OF CHINA ASTER IS AT SECOND-HAND TOLD BY ONE WHO,
WHILE NOT DISAPPROVING THE MORAL, DISCLAIMS THE SPIRIT OF THE STYLE.


"China Aster was a young candle-maker of Marietta, at the mouth of the
Muskingum--one whose trade would seem a kind of subordinate branch of
that parent craft and mystery of the hosts of heaven, to be the means,
effectively or otherwise, of shedding some light through the darkness of
a planet benighted. But he made little money by the business. Much ado
had poor China Aster and his family to live; he could, if he chose,
light up from his stores a whole street, but not so easily could he
light up with prosperity the hearts of his household.

"Now, China Aster, it so happened, had a friend, Orchis, a shoemaker;
one whose calling it is to defend the understandings of men from naked
contact with the substance of things: a very useful vocation, and which,
spite of all the wiseacres may prophesy, will hardly go out of fashion
so long as rocks are hard and flints will gall. All at once, by a
capital prize in a lottery, this useful shoemaker was raised from a
bench to a sofa. A small nabob was the shoemaker now, and the
understandings of men, let them shift for themselves. Not that Orchis
was, by prosperity, elated into heartlessness. Not at all. Because, in
his fine apparel, strolling one morning into the candlery, and gayly
switching about at the candle-boxes with his gold-headed cane--while
poor China Aster, with his greasy paper cap and leather apron, was
selling one candle for one penny to a poor orange-woman, who, with the
patronizing coolness of a liberal customer, required it to be carefully
rolled up and tied in a half sheet of paper--lively Orchis, the woman
being gone, discontinued his gay switchings and said: 'This is poor
business for you, friend China Aster; your capital is too small. You
must drop this vile tallow and hold up pure spermaceti to the world. I
tell you what it is, you shall have one thousand dollars to extend with.
In fact, you must make money, China Aster. I don't like to see your
little boy paddling about without shoes, as he does.'

"'Heaven bless your goodness, friend Orchis,' replied the candle-maker,
'but don't take it illy if I call to mind the word of my uncle, the
blacksmith, who, when a loan was offered him, declined it, saying: "To
ply my own hammer, light though it be, I think best, rather than piece
it out heavier by welding to it a bit off a neighbor's hammer, though
that may have some weight to spare; otherwise, were the borrowed bit
suddenly wanted again, it might not split off at the welding, but too
much to one side or the other."'

"'Nonsense, friend China Aster, don't be so honest; your boy is
barefoot. Besides, a rich man lose by a poor man? Or a friend be the
worse by a friend? China Aster, I am afraid that, in leaning over into
your vats here, this, morning, you have spilled out your wisdom. Hush! I
won't hear any more. Where's your desk? Oh, here.' With that, Orchis
dashed off a check on his bank, and off-handedly presenting it, said:
'There, friend China Aster, is your one thousand dollars; when you make
it ten thousand, as you soon enough will (for experience, the only true
knowledge, teaches me that, for every one, good luck is in store), then,
China Aster, why, then you can return me the money or not, just as you
please. But, in any event, give yourself no concern, for I shall never
demand payment.'

"Now, as kind heaven will so have it that to a hungry man bread is a
great temptation, and, therefore, he is not too harshly to be blamed,
if, when freely offered, he take it, even though it be uncertain whether
he shall ever be able to reciprocate; so, to a poor man, proffered money
is equally enticing, and the worst that can be said of him, if he accept
it, is just what can be said in the other case of the hungry man. In
short, the poor candle-maker's scrupulous morality succumbed to his
unscrupulous necessity, as is now and then apt to be the case. He took
the check, and was about carefully putting it away for the present, when
Orchis, switching about again with his gold-headed cane, said:
'By-the-way, China Aster, it don't mean anything, but suppose you make a
little memorandum of this; won't do any harm, you know.' So China Aster
gave Orchis his note for one thousand dollars on demand. Orchis took it,
and looked at it a moment, 'Pooh, I told you, friend China Aster, I
wasn't going ever to make any _demand_.' Then tearing up the note, and
switching away again at the candle-boxes, said, carelessly; 'Put it at
four years.' So China Aster gave Orchis his note for one thousand
dollars at four years. 'You see I'll never trouble you about this,' said
Orchis, slipping it in his pocket-book, 'give yourself no further
thought, friend China Aster, than how best to invest your money. And
don't forget my hint about spermaceti. Go into that, and I'll buy all my
light of you,' with which encouraging words, he, with wonted, rattling
kindness, took leave.

"China Aster remained standing just where Orchis had left him; when,
suddenly, two elderly friends, having nothing better to do, dropped in
for a chat. The chat over, China Aster, in greasy cap and apron, ran
after Orchis, and said: 'Friend Orchis, heaven will reward you for your
good intentions, but here is your check, and now give me my note.'

"'Your honesty is a bore, China Aster,' said Orchis, not without
displeasure. 'I won't take the check from you.'

"'Then you must take it from the pavement, Orchis,' said China Aster;
and, picking up a stone, he placed the check under it on the walk.

"'China Aster,' said Orchis, inquisitively eying him, after my leaving
the candlery just now, what asses dropped in there to advise with you,
that now you hurry after me, and act so like a fool? Shouldn't wonder if
it was those two old asses that the boys nickname Old Plain Talk and Old
Prudence.'

"'Yes, it was those two, Orchis, but don't call them names.'

"'A brace of spavined old croakers. Old Plain Talk had a shrew for a
wife, and that's made him shrewish; and Old Prudence, when a boy, broke
down in an apple-stall, and that discouraged him for life. No better
sport for a knowing spark like me than to hear Old Plain Talk wheeze out
his sour old saws, while Old Prudence stands by, leaning on his staff,
wagging his frosty old pow, and chiming in at every clause.'

"'How can you speak so, friend Orchis, of those who were my father's
friends?'"

"'Save me from my friends, if those old croakers were Old Honesty's
friends. I call your father so, for every one used to. Why did they let
him go in his old age on the town? Why, China Aster, I've often heard
from my mother, the chronicler, that those two old fellows, with Old
Conscience--as the boys called the crabbed old quaker, that's dead
now--they three used to go to the poor-house when your father was there,
and get round his bed, and talk to him for all the world as Eliphaz,
Bildad, and Zophar did to poor old pauper Job. Yes, Job's comforters
were Old Plain Talk, and Old Prudence, and Old Conscience, to your poor
old father. Friends? I should like to know who you call foes? With their
everlasting croaking and reproaching they tormented poor Old Honesty,
your father, to death.'

"At these words, recalling the sad end of his worthy parent, China Aster
could not restrain some tears. Upon which Orchis said: 'Why, China
Aster, you are the dolefulest creature. Why don't you, China Aster,
take a bright view of life? You will never get on in your business or
anything else, if you don't take the bright view of life. It's the
ruination of a man to take the dismal one.' Then, gayly poking at him
with his gold-headed cane, 'Why don't you, then? Why don't you be bright
and hopeful, like me? Why don't you have confidence, China Aster?

"I'm sure I don't know, friend Orchis,' soberly replied China Aster,
'but may be my not having drawn a lottery-prize, like you, may make some
difference.'

"Nonsense! before I knew anything about the prize I was gay as a lark,
just as gay as I am now. In fact, it has always been a principle with me
to hold to the bright view.'

"Upon this, China Aster looked a little hard at Orchis, because the
truth was, that until the lucky prize came to him, Orchis had gone under
the nickname of Doleful Dumps, he having been beforetimes of a
hypochondriac turn, so much so as to save up and put by a few dollars of
his scanty earnings against that rainy day he used to groan so much
about.

"I tell you what it is, now, friend China Aster,' said Orchis, pointing
down to the check under the stone, and then slapping his pocket, 'the
check shall lie there if you say so, but your note shan't keep it
company. In fact, China Aster, I am too sincerely your friend to take
advantage of a passing fit of the blues in you. You _shall_ reap the
benefit of my friendship.' With which, buttoning up his coat in a
jiffy, away he ran, leaving the check behind.

"At first, China Aster was going to tear it up, but thinking that this
ought not to be done except in the presence of the drawer of the check,
he mused a while, and picking it up, trudged back to the candlery, fully
resolved to call upon Orchis soon as his day's work was over, and
destroy the check before his eyes. But it so happened that when China
Aster called, Orchis was out, and, having waited for him a weary time in
vain, China Aster went home, still with the check, but still resolved
not to keep it another day. Bright and early next morning he would a
second time go after Orchis, and would, no doubt, make a sure thing of
it, by finding him in his bed; for since the lottery-prize came to him,
Orchis, besides becoming more cheery, had also grown a little lazy. But
as destiny would have it, that same night China Aster had a dream, in
which a being in the guise of a smiling angel, and holding a kind of
cornucopia in her hand, hovered over him, pouring down showers of small
gold dollars, thick as kernels of corn. 'I am Bright Future, friend
China Aster,' said the angel, 'and if you do what friend Orchis would
have you do, just see what will come of it.' With which Bright Future,
with another swing of her cornucopia, poured such another shower of
small gold dollars upon him, that it seemed to bank him up all round,
and he waded about in it like a maltster in malt.

"Now, dreams are wonderful things, as everybody knows--so wonderful,
indeed, that some people stop not short of ascribing them directly to
heaven; and China Aster, who was of a proper turn of mind in everything,
thought that in consideration of the dream, it would be but well to wait
a little, ere seeking Orchis again. During the day, China Aster's mind
dwelling continually upon the dream, he was so full of it, that when Old
Plain Talk dropped in to see him, just before dinnertime, as he often
did, out of the interest he took in Old Honesty's son, China Aster told
all about his vision, adding that he could not think that so radiant an
angel could deceive; and, indeed, talked at such a rate that one would
have thought he believed the angel some beautiful human philanthropist.
Something in this sort Old Plain Talk understood him, and, accordingly,
in his plain way, said: 'China Aster, you tell me that an angel appeared
to you in a dream. Now, what does that amount to but this, that you
dreamed an angel appeared to you? Go right away, China Aster, and return
the check, as I advised you before. If friend Prudence were here, he
would say just the same thing.' With which words Old Plain Talk went off
to find friend Prudence, but not succeeding, was returning to the
candlery himself, when, at distance mistaking him for a dun who had long
annoyed him, China Aster in a panic barred all his doors, and ran to the
back part of the candlery, where no knock could be heard.

"By this sad mistake, being left with no friend to argue the other side
of the question, China Aster was so worked upon at last, by musing over
his dream, that nothing would do but he must get the check cashed, and
lay out the money the very same day in buying a good lot of spermaceti
to make into candles, by which operation he counted upon turning a
better penny than he ever had before in his life; in fact, this he
believed would prove the foundation of that famous fortune which the
angel had promised him.

"Now, in using the money, China Aster was resolved punctually to pay the
interest every six months till the principal should be returned, howbeit
not a word about such a thing had been breathed by Orchis; though,
indeed, according to custom, as well as law, in such matters, interest
would legitimately accrue on the loan, nothing to the contrary having
been put in the bond. Whether Orchis at the time had this in mind or
not, there is no sure telling; but, to all appearance, he never so much
as cared to think about the matter, one way or other.

"Though the spermaceti venture rather disappointed China Aster's
sanguine expectations, yet he made out to pay the first six months'
interest, and though his next venture turned out still less
prosperously, yet by pinching his family in the matter of fresh meat,
and, what pained him still more, his boys' schooling, he contrived to
pay the second six months' interest, sincerely grieved that integrity,
as well as its opposite, though not in an equal degree, costs something,
sometimes.

"Meanwhile, Orchis had gone on a trip to Europe by advice of a
physician; it so happening that, since the lottery-prize came to him, it
had been discovered to Orchis that his health was not very firm, though
he had never complained of anything before but a slight ailing of the
spleen, scarce worth talking about at the time. So Orchis, being abroad,
could not help China Aster's paying his interest as he did, however much
he might have been opposed to it; for China Aster paid it to Orchis's
agent, who was of too business-like a turn to decline interest regularly
paid in on a loan.

"But overmuch to trouble the agent on that score was not again to be the
fate of China Aster; for, not being of that skeptical spirit which
refuses to trust customers, his third venture resulted, through bad
debts, in almost a total loss--a bad blow for the candle-maker. Neither
did Old Plain Talk, and Old Prudence neglect the opportunity to read him
an uncheerful enough lesson upon the consequences of his disregarding
their advice in the matter of having nothing to do with borrowed money.
'It's all just as I predicted,' said Old Plain Talk, blowing his old
nose with his old bandana. 'Yea, indeed is it,' chimed in Old Prudence,
rapping his staff on the floor, and then leaning upon it, looking with
solemn forebodings upon China Aster. Low-spirited enough felt the poor
candle-maker; till all at once who should come with a bright face to him
but his bright friend, the angel, in another dream. Again the cornucopia
poured out its treasure, and promised still more. Revived by the vision,
he resolved not to be down-hearted, but up and at it once more--contrary
to the advice of Old Plain Talk, backed as usual by his crony, which was
to the effect, that, under present circumstances, the best thing China
Aster could do, would be to wind up his business, settle, if he could,
all his liabilities, and then go to work as a journeyman, by which he
could earn good wages, and give up, from that time henceforth, all
thoughts of rising above being a paid subordinate to men more able than
himself, for China Aster's career thus far plainly proved him the
legitimate son of Old Honesty, who, as every one knew, had never shown
much business-talent, so little, in fact, that many said of him that he
had no business to be in business. And just this plain saying Plain Talk
now plainly applied to China Aster, and Old Prudence never disagreed
with him. But the angel in the dream did, and, maugre Plain Talk, put
quite other notions into the candle-maker.

"He considered what he should do towards reëstablishing himself.
Doubtless, had Orchis been in the country, he would have aided him in
this strait. As it was, he applied to others; and as in the world, much
as some may hint to the contrary, an honest man in misfortune still can
find friends to stay by him and help him, even so it proved with China
Aster, who at last succeeded in borrowing from a rich old farmer the sum
of six hundred dollars, at the usual interest of money-lenders, upon the
security of a secret bond signed by China Aster's wife and himself, to
the effect that all such right and title to any property that should be
left her by a well-to-do childless uncle, an invalid tanner, such
property should, in the event of China Aster's failing to return the
borrowed sum on the given day, be the lawful possession of the
money-lender. True, it was just as much as China Aster could possibly do
to induce his wife, a careful woman, to sign this bond; because she had
always regarded her promised share in her uncle's estate as an anchor
well to windward of the hard times in which China Aster had always been
more or less involved, and from which, in her bosom, she never had seen
much chance of his freeing himself. Some notion may be had of China
Aster's standing in the heart and head of his wife, by a short sentence
commonly used in reply to such persons as happened to sound her on the
point. 'China Aster,' she would say, 'is a good husband, but a bad
business man!' Indeed, she was a connection on the maternal side of Old
Plain Talk's. But had not China Aster taken good care not to let Old
Plain Talk and Old Prudence hear of his dealings with the old farmer,
ten to one they would, in some way, have interfered with his success in
that quarter.

"It has been hinted that the honesty of China Aster was what mainly
induced the money-lender to befriend him in his misfortune, and this
must be apparent; for, had China Aster been a different man, the
money-lender might have dreaded lest, in the event of his failing to
meet his note, he might some way prove slippery--more especially as, in
the hour of distress, worked upon by remorse for so jeopardizing his
wife's money, his heart might prove a traitor to his bond, not to hint
that it was more than doubtful how such a secret security and claim, as
in the last resort would be the old farmer's, would stand in a court of
law. But though one inference from all this may be, that had China Aster
been something else than what he was, he would not have been trusted,
and, therefore, he would have been effectually shut out from running his
own and wife's head into the usurer's noose; yet those who, when
everything at last came out, maintained that, in this view and to this
extent, the honesty of the candle-maker was no advantage to him, in so
saying, such persons said what every good heart must deplore, and no
prudent tongue will admit.

"It may be mentioned, that the old farmer made China Aster take part of
his loan in three old dried-up cows and one lame horse, not improved by
the glanders. These were thrown in at a pretty high figure, the old
money-lender having a singular prejudice in regard to the high value of
any sort of stock raised on his farm. With a great deal of difficulty,
and at more loss, China Aster disposed of his cattle at public auction,
no private purchaser being found who could be prevailed upon to invest.
And now, raking and scraping in every way, and working early and late,
China Aster at last started afresh, nor without again largely and
confidently extending himself. However, he did not try his hand at the
spermaceti again, but, admonished by experience, returned to tallow.
But, having bought a good lot of it, by the time he got it into candles,
tallow fell so low, and candles with it, that his candles per pound
barely sold for what he had paid for the tallow. Meantime, a year's
unpaid interest had accrued on Orchis' loan, but China Aster gave
himself not so much concern about that as about the interest now due to
the old farmer. But he was glad that the principal there had yet some
time to run. However, the skinny old fellow gave him some trouble by
coming after him every day or two on a scraggy old white horse,
furnished with a musty old saddle, and goaded into his shambling old
paces with a withered old raw hide. All the neighbors said that surely
Death himself on the pale horse was after poor China Aster now. And
something so it proved; for, ere long, China Aster found himself
involved in troubles mortal enough.

At this juncture Orchis was heard of. Orchis, it seemed had returned
from his travels, and clandestinely married, and, in a kind of queer
way, was living in Pennsylvania among his wife's relations, who, among
other things, had induced him to join a church, or rather semi-religious
school, of Come-Outers; and what was still more, Orchis, without coming
to the spot himself, had sent word to his agent to dispose of some of
his property in Marietta, and remit him the proceeds. Within a year
after, China Aster received a letter from Orchis, commending him for his
punctuality in paying the first year's interest, and regretting the
necessity that he (Orchis) was now under of using all his dividends; so
he relied upon China Aster's paying the next six months' interest, and
of course with the back interest. Not more surprised than alarmed, China
Aster thought of taking steamboat to go and see Orchis, but he was saved
that expense by the unexpected arrival in Marietta of Orchis in person,
suddenly called there by that strange kind of capriciousness lately
characterizing him. No sooner did China Aster hear of his old friend's
arrival than he hurried to call upon him. He found him curiously rusty
in dress, sallow in cheek, and decidedly less gay and cordial in manner,
which the more surprised China Aster, because, in former days, he had
more than once heard Orchis, in his light rattling way, declare that all
he (Orchis) wanted to make him a perfectly happy, hilarious, and
benignant man, was a voyage to Europe and a wife, with a free
development of his inmost nature.

"Upon China Aster's stating his case, his trusted friend was silent for
a time; then, in an odd way, said that he would not crowd China Aster,
but still his (Orchis') necessities were urgent. Could not China Aster
mortgage the candlery? He was honest, and must have moneyed friends; and
could he not press his sales of candles? Could not the market be forced
a little in that particular? The profits on candles must be very great.
Seeing, now, that Orchis had the notion that the candle-making business
was a very profitable one, and knowing sorely enough what an error was
here, China Aster tried to undeceive him. But he could not drive the
truth into Orchis--Orchis being very obtuse here, and, at the same time,
strange to say, very melancholy. Finally, Orchis glanced off from so
unpleasing a subject into the most unexpected reflections, taken from a
religious point of view, upon the unstableness and deceitfulness of the
human heart. But having, as he thought, experienced something of that
sort of thing, China Aster did not take exception to his friend's
observations, but still refrained from so doing, almost as much for the
sake of sympathetic sociality as anything else. Presently, Orchis,
without much ceremony, rose, and saying he must write a letter to his
wife, bade his friend good-bye, but without warmly shaking him by the
hand as of old.

"In much concern at the change, China Aster made earnest inquiries in
suitable quarters, as to what things, as yet unheard of, had befallen
Orchis, to bring about such a revolution; and learned at last that,
besides traveling, and getting married, and joining the sect of
Come-Outers, Orchis had somehow got a bad dyspepsia, and lost
considerable property through a breach of trust on the part of a factor
in New York. Telling these things to Old Plain Talk, that man of some
knowledge of the world shook his old head, and told China Aster that,
though he hoped it might prove otherwise, yet it seemed to him that all
he had communicated about Orchis worked together for bad omens as to his
future forbearance--especially, he added with a grim sort of smile, in
view of his joining the sect of Come-Outers; for, if some men knew what
was their inmost natures, instead of coming out with it, they would try
their best to keep it in, which, indeed, was the way with the prudent
sort. In all which sour notions Old Prudence, as usual, chimed in.

"When interest-day came again, China Aster, by the utmost exertions,
could only pay Orchis' agent a small part of what was due, and a part of
that was made up by his children's gift money (bright tenpenny pieces
and new quarters, kept in their little money-boxes), and pawning his
best clothes, with those of his wife and children, so that all were
subjected to the hardship of staying away from church. And the old
usurer, too, now beginning to be obstreperous, China Aster paid him his
interest and some other pressing debts with money got by, at last,
mortgaging the candlery.

"When next interest-day came round for Orchis, not a penny could be
raised. With much grief of heart, China Aster so informed Orchis' agent.
Meantime, the note to the old usurer fell due, and nothing from China
Aster was ready to meet it; yet, as heaven sends its rain on the just
and unjust alike, by a coincidence not unfavorable to the old farmer,
the well-to-do uncle, the tanner, having died, the usurer entered upon
possession of such part of his property left by will to the wife of
China Aster. When still the next interest-day for Orchis came round, it
found China Aster worse off than ever; for, besides his other troubles,
he was now weak with sickness. Feebly dragging himself to Orchis' agent,
he met him in the street, told him just how it was; upon which the
agent, with a grave enough face, said that he had instructions from his
employer not to crowd him about the interest at present, but to say to
him that about the time the note would mature, Orchis would have heavy
liabilities to meet, and therefore the note must at that time be
certainly paid, and, of course, the back interest with it; and not only
so, but, as Orchis had had to allow the interest for good part of the
time, he hoped that, for the back interest, China Aster would, in
reciprocation, have no objections to allowing interest on the interest
annually. To be sure, this was not the law; but, between friends who
accommodate each other, it was the custom.

"Just then, Old Plain Talk with Old Prudence turned the corner, coming
plump upon China Aster as the agent left him; and whether it was a
sun-stroke, or whether they accidentally ran against him, or whether it
was his being so weak, or whether it was everything together, or how it
was exactly, there is no telling, but poor China Aster fell to the
earth, and, striking his head sharply, was picked up senseless. It was a
day in July; such a light and heat as only the midsummer banks of the
inland Ohio know. China Aster was taken home on a door; lingered a few
days with a wandering mind, and kept wandering on, till at last, at dead
of night, when nobody was aware, his spirit wandered away into the other
world.

"Old Plain Talk and Old Prudence, neither of whom ever omitted attending
any funeral, which, indeed, was their chief exercise--these two were
among the sincerest mourners who followed the remains of the son of
their ancient friend to the grave.

"It is needless to tell of the executions that followed; how that the
candlery was sold by the mortgagee; how Orchis never got a penny for his
loan; and how, in the case of the poor widow, chastisement was tempered
with mercy; for, though she was left penniless, she was not left
childless. Yet, unmindful of the alleviation, a spirit of complaint, at
what she impatiently called the bitterness of her lot and the hardness
of the world, so preyed upon her, as ere long to hurry her from the
obscurity of indigence to the deeper shades of the tomb.

"But though the straits in which China Aster had left his family had,
besides apparently dimming the world's regard, likewise seemed to dim
its sense of the probity of its deceased head, and though this, as some
thought, did not speak well for the world, yet it happened in this case,
as in others, that, though the world may for a time seem insensible to
that merit which lies under a cloud, yet, sooner or later, it always
renders honor where honor is due; for, upon the death of the widow, the
freemen of Marietta, as a tribute of respect for China Aster, and an
expression of their conviction of his high moral worth, passed a
resolution, that, until they attained maturity, his children should be
considered the town's guests. No mere verbal compliment, like those of
some public bodies; for, on the same day, the orphans were officially
installed in that hospitable edifice where their worthy grandfather, the
town's guest before them, had breathed his last breath.

"But sometimes honor maybe paid to the memory of an honest man, and
still his mound remain without a monument. Not so, however, with the
candle-maker. At an early day, Plain Talk had procured a plain stone,
and was digesting in his mind what pithy word or two to place upon it,
when there was discovered, in China Aster's otherwise empty wallet, an
epitaph, written, probably, in one of those disconsolate hours, attended
with more or less mental aberration, perhaps, so frequent with him for
some months prior to his end. A memorandum on the back expressed the
wish that it might be placed over his grave. Though with the sentiment
of the epitaph Plain Talk did not disagree, he himself being at times of
a hypochondriac turn--at least, so many said--yet the language struck
him as too much drawn out; so, after consultation with Old Prudence, he
decided upon making use of the epitaph, yet not without verbal
retrenchments. And though, when these were made, the thing still
appeared wordy to him, nevertheless, thinking that, since a dead man was
to be spoken about, it was but just to let him speak for himself,
especially when he spoke sincerely, and when, by so doing, the more
salutary lesson would be given, he had the retrenched inscription
chiseled as follows upon the stone.

  'HERE LIE
  THE REMAINS OF
  CHINA ASTER THE CANDLE-MAKER,
  WHOSE CAREER
  WAS AN EXAMPLE OF THE TRUTH OF SCRIPTURE, AS FOUND
  IN THE
  SOBER PHILOSOPHY
  OF
  SOLOMON THE WISE;
  FOR HE WAS RUINED BY ALLOWING HIMSELF TO BE PERSUADED,
  AGAINST HIS BETTER SENSE,
  INTO THE FREE INDULGENCE OF CONFIDENCE,
  AND
  AN ARDENTLY BRIGHT VIEW OF LIFE,
  TO THE EXCLUSION
  OF
  THAT COUNSEL WHICH COMES BY HEEDING
  THE
  OPPOSITE VIEW.'

"This inscription raised some talk in the town, and was rather severely
criticised by the capitalist--one of a very cheerful turn--who had
secured his loan to China Aster by the mortgage; and though it also
proved obnoxious to the man who, in town-meeting, had first moved for
the compliment to China Aster's memory, and, indeed, was deemed by him a
sort of slur upon the candle-maker, to that degree that he refused to
believe that the candle-maker himself had composed it, charging Old
Plain Talk with the authorship, alleging that the internal evidence
showed that none but that veteran old croaker could have penned such a
jeremiade--yet, for all this, the stone stood. In everything, of course,
Old Plain Talk was seconded by Old Prudence; who, one day going to the
grave-yard, in great-coat and over-shoes--for, though it was a sunshiny
morning, he thought that, owing to heavy dews, dampness might lurk in
the ground--long stood before the stone, sharply leaning over on his
staff, spectacles on nose, spelling out the epitaph word by word; and,
afterwards meeting Old Plain Talk in the street, gave a great rap with
his stick, and said: 'Friend, Plain Talk, that epitaph will do very
well. Nevertheless, one short sentence is wanting.' Upon which, Plain
Talk said it was too late, the chiseled words being so arranged, after
the usual manner of such inscriptions, that nothing could be interlined.
Then,' said Old Prudence, 'I will put it in the shape of a postscript.'
Accordingly, with the approbation of Old Plain Talk, he had the
following words chiseled at the left-hand corner of the stone, and
pretty low down:

  'The root of all was a friendly loan.'"




CHAPTER XLI.

ENDING WITH A RUPTURE OF THE HYPOTHESIS.


"With what heart," cried Frank, still in character, "have you told me
this story? A story I can no way approve; for its moral, if accepted,
would drain me of all reliance upon my last stay, and, therefore, of my
last courage in life. For, what was that bright view of China Aster but
a cheerful trust that, if he but kept up a brave heart, worked hard, and
ever hoped for the best, all at last would go well? If your purpose,
Charlie, in telling me this story, was to pain me, and keenly, you have
succeeded; but, if it was to destroy my last confidence, I praise God
you have not."

"Confidence?" cried Charlie, who, on his side, seemed with his whole
heart to enter into the spirit of the thing, "what has confidence to do
with the matter? That moral of the story, which I am for commending to
you, is this: the folly, on both sides, of a friend's helping a friend.
For was not that loan of Orchis to China Aster the first step towards
their estrangement? And did it not bring about what in effect was the
enmity of Orchis? I tell you, Frank, true friendship, like other
precious things, is not rashly to be meddled with. And what more
meddlesome between friends than a loan? A regular marplot. For how can
you help that the helper must turn out a creditor? And creditor and
friend, can they ever be one? no, not in the most lenient case; since,
out of lenity to forego one's claim, is less to be a friendly creditor
than to cease to be a creditor at all. But it will not do to rely upon
this lenity, no, not in the best man; for the best man, as the worst, is
subject to all mortal contingencies. He may travel, he may marry, he may
join the Come-Outers, or some equally untoward school or sect, not to
speak of other things that more or less tend to new-cast the character.
And were there nothing else, who shall answer for his digestion, upon
which so much depends?"

"But Charlie, dear Charlie----"

"Nay, wait.--You have hearkened to my story in vain, if you do not see
that, however indulgent and right-minded I may seem to you now, that is
no guarantee for the future. And into the power of that uncertain
personality which, through the mutability of my humanity, I may
hereafter become, should not common sense dissuade you, my dear Frank,
from putting yourself? Consider. Would you, in your present need, be
willing to accept a loan from a friend, securing him by a mortgage on
your homestead, and do so, knowing that you had no reason to feel
satisfied that the mortgage might not eventually be transferred into the
hands of a foe? Yet the difference between this man and that man is not
so great as the difference between what the same man be to-day and what
he may be in days to come. For there is no bent of heart or turn of
thought which any man holds by virtue of an unalterable nature or will.
Even those feelings and opinions deemed most identical with eternal
right and truth, it is not impossible but that, as personal persuasions,
they may in reality be but the result of some chance tip of Fate's elbow
in throwing her dice. For, not to go into the first seeds of things, and
passing by the accident of parentage predisposing to this or that habit
of mind, descend below these, and tell me, if you change this man's
experiences or that man's books, will wisdom go surety for his unchanged
convictions? As particular food begets particular dreams, so particular
experiences or books particular feelings or beliefs. I will hear nothing
of that fine babble about development and its laws; there is no
development in opinion and feeling but the developments of time and
tide. You may deem all this talk idle, Frank; but conscience bids me
show you how fundamental the reasons for treating you as I do."

"But Charlie, dear Charlie, what new notions are these? I thought that
man was no poor drifting weed of the universe, as you phrased it; that,
if so minded, he could have a will, a way, a thought, and a heart of his
own? But now you have turned everything upside down again, with an
inconsistency that amazes and shocks me."

"Inconsistency? Bah!"

"There speaks the ventriloquist again," sighed Frank, in bitterness.

Illy pleased, it may be, by this repetition of an allusion little
flattering to his originality, however much so to his docility, the
disciple sought to carry it off by exclaiming: "Yes, I turn over day and
night, with indefatigable pains, the sublime pages of my master, and
unfortunately for you, my dear friend, I find nothing _there_ that leads
me to think otherwise than I do. But enough: in this matter the
experience of China Aster teaches a moral more to the point than
anything Mark Winsome can offer, or I either."

"I cannot think so, Charlie; for neither am I China Aster, nor do I
stand in his position. The loan to China Aster was to extend his
business with; the loan I seek is to relieve my necessities."

"Your dress, my dear Frank, is respectable; your cheek is not gaunt. Why
talk of necessities when nakedness and starvation beget the only real
necessities?"

"But I need relief, Charlie; and so sorely, that I now conjure you to
forget that I was ever your friend, while I apply to you only as a
fellow-being, whom, surely, you will not turn away."

"That I will not. Take off your hat, bow over to the ground, and
supplicate an alms of me in the way of London streets, and you shall not
be a sturdy beggar in vain. But no man drops pennies into the hat of a
friend, let me tell you. If you turn beggar, then, for the honor of
noble friendship, I turn stranger."

"Enough," cried the other, rising, and with a toss of his shoulders
seeming disdainfully to throw off the character he had assumed.
"Enough. I have had my fill of the philosophy of Mark Winsome as put
into action. And moonshiny as it in theory may be, yet a very practical
philosophy it turns out in effect, as he himself engaged I should find.
But, miserable for my race should I be, if I thought he spoke truth when
he claimed, for proof of the soundness of his system, that the study of
it tended to much the same formation of character with the experiences
of the world.--Apt disciple! Why wrinkle the brow, and waste the oil
both of life and the lamp, only to turn out a head kept cool by the
under ice of the heart? What your illustrious magian has taught you, any
poor, old, broken-down, heart-shrunken dandy might have lisped. Pray,
leave me, and with you take the last dregs of your inhuman philosophy.
And here, take this shilling, and at the first wood-landing buy yourself
a few chips to warm the frozen natures of you and your philosopher by."

With these words and a grand scorn the cosmopolitan turned on his heel,
leaving his companion at a loss to determine where exactly the
fictitious character had been dropped, and the real one, if any,
resumed. If any, because, with pointed meaning, there occurred to him,
as he gazed after the cosmopolitan, these familiar lines:

                  "All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players,
    Who have their exits and their entrances,
    And one man in his time plays many parts."




CHAPTER XLII.

UPON THE HEEL OF THE LAST SCENE THE COSMOPOLITAN ENTERS THE BARBER'S
SHOP, A BENEDICTION ON HIS LIPS.


"Bless you, barber!"

Now, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone
until within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather
dullish company to himself, he thought he would have a good time with
Souter John and Tam O'Shanter, otherwise called Somnus and Morpheus, two
very good fellows, though one was not very bright, and the other an
arrant rattlebrain, who, though much listened to by some, no wise man
would believe under oath.

In short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the
door, the honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and
dreaming in his chair; so that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction
above, pronounced in tones not unangelic, starting up, half awake, he
stared before him, but saw nothing, for the stranger stood behind. What
with cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments, therefore, the voice seemed a
sort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that, for the moment, he
stood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the air.

"Why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?"

"Ah!" turning round disenchanted, "it is only a man, then."

"_Only_ a man? As if to be but a man were nothing. But don't be too sure
what I am. You call me _man_, just as the townsfolk called the angels
who, in man's form, came to Lot's house; just as the Jew rustics called
the devils who, in man's form, haunted the tombs. You can conclude
nothing absolute from the human form, barber."

"But I can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of
dress," shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained
self-possession, and not without some latent touch of apprehension at
being alone with him. What was passing in his mind seemed divined by the
other, who now, more rationally and gravely, and as if he expected it
should be attended to, said: "Whatever else you may conclude upon, it is
my desire that you conclude to give me a good shave," at the same time
loosening his neck-cloth. "Are you competent to a good shave, barber?"

"No broker more so, sir," answered the barber, whom the business-like
proposition instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the
visitor.

"Broker? What has a broker to do with lather? A broker I have always
understood to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals."

"He, he!" taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he
being a customer, it might be as well to appreciate, "he, he! You
understand well enough, sir. Take this seat, sir," laying his hand on a
great stuffed chair, high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and
raised on a sort of dais, and which seemed but to lack a canopy and
quarterings, to make it in aspect quite a throne, "take this seat, sir."

"Thank you," sitting down; "and now, pray, explain that about the
broker. But look, look--what's this?" suddenly rising, and pointing,
with his long pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored
fly-papers from the ceiling, like a tavern sign, "_No Trust?_" "No trust
means distrust; distrust means no confidence. Barber," turning upon him
excitedly, "what fell suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession?
My life!" stamping his foot, "if but to tell a dog that you have no
confidence in him be matter for affront to the dog, what an insult to
take that way the whole haughty race of man by the beard! By my heart,
sir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of Thersites with
the pluck of Agamemnon."

"Your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line," said the barber,
rather ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not
without return of uneasiness; "not in my line, sir," he emphatically
repeated.

"But the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which I
sadly fear has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. For how,
indeed, may respectful conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual
habit of taking him by the nose? But, tell me, though I, too, clearly
see the import of your notification, I do not, as yet, perceive the
object. What is it?"

"Now you speak a little in my line, sir," said the barber, not
unrelieved at this return to plain talk; "that notification I find very
useful, sparing me much work which would not pay. Yes, I lost a good
deal, off and on, before putting that up," gratefully glancing towards
it.

"But what is its object? Surely, you don't mean to say, in so many
words, that you have no confidence? For instance, now," flinging aside
his neck-cloth, throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the
tonsorial throne, at sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically
filled a cup with hot water from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp,
"for instance, now, suppose I say to you, 'Barber, my dear barber,
unhappily I have no small change by me to-night, but shave me, and
depend upon your money to-morrow'--suppose I should say that now, you
would put trust in me, wouldn't you? You would have confidence?"

"Seeing that it is you, sir," with complaisance replied the barber, now
mixing the lather, "seeing that it is _you_ sir, I won't answer that
question. No need to."

"Of course, of course--in that view. But, as a supposition--you would
have confidence in me, wouldn't you?"

"Why--yes, yes."

"Then why that sign?"

"Ah, sir, all people ain't like you," was the smooth reply, at the same
time, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply
the lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested
against by the subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was
done in these words:

"All people ain't like me. Then I must be either better or worse than
most people. Worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean
that; hardly that. It remains, then, that you think me better than most
people. But that I ain't vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, I
confess, I could never yet, by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself;
nor, indeed, to be frank, am I at bottom over anxious to--this same
vanity, barber, being so harmless, so useful, so comfortable, so
pleasingly preposterous a passion."

"Very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. But the
lather is getting a little cold, sir."

"Better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. Why that cold sign? Ah,
I don't wonder you try to shirk the confession. You feel in your soul
how ungenerous a hint is there. And yet, barber, now that I look into
your eyes--which somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so
often looked into them before me--I dare say, though you may not think
it, that the spirit of that notification is not one with your nature.
For look now, setting, business views aside, regarding the thing in an
abstract light; in short, supposing a case, barber; supposing, I say,
you see a stranger, his face accidentally averted, but his visible part
very respectable-looking; what now, barber--I put it to your conscience,
to your charity--what would be your impression of that man, in a moral
point of view? Being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that,
signally set him down for a knave?"

"Certainly not, sir; by no means," cried the barber, humanely resentful.

"You would upon the face of him----"

"Hold, sir," said the barber, "nothing about the face; you remember,
sir, that is out of sight."

"I forgot that. Well then, you would, upon the _back_ of him, conclude
him to be, not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an
honest man: wouldn't you?"

"Not unlikely I should, sir."

"Well now--don't be so impatient with your brush, barber--suppose that
honest man meet you by night in some dark corner of the boat where his
face would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him for a shave--how
then?"

"Wouldn't trust him, sir."

"But is not an honest man to be trusted?"

"Why--why--yes, sir."

"There! don't you see, now?"

"See what?" asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly.

"Why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don't you?"

"No," doggedly.

"Barber," gravely, and after a pause of concern, "the enemies of our
race have a saying that insincerity is the most universal and
inveterate vice of man--the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of
individuals or of the world. Don't you now, barber, by your stubbornness
on this occasion, give color to such a calumny?"

"Hity-tity!" cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect;
"stubbornness?" Then clattering round the brush in the cup, "Will you be
shaved, or won't you?"

"Barber, I will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don't raise
your voice that way. Why, now, if you go through life gritting your
teeth in that fashion, what a comfortless time you will have."

"I take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man," cried
the barber, whom the other's sweetness of temper seemed rather to
exasperate than soothe.

"To resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness I have often
observed to be peculiar to certain orders of men," said the other
pensively, and half to himself, "just as to be indifferent to that
imputation, from holding happiness but for a secondary good and inferior
grace, I have observed to be equally peculiar to other kinds of men.
Pray, barber," innocently looking up, "which think you is the superior
creature?"

"All this sort of talk," cried the barber, still unmollified, "is, as I
told you once before, not in my line. In a few minutes I shall shut up
this shop. Will you be shaved?"

"Shave away, barber. What hinders?" turning up his face like a flower.

The shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became
necessary to prepare to relather a little--affording an opportunity for
resuming the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip.

"Barber," with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, "barber,
now have a little patience with me; do; trust me, I wish not to offend.
I have been thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted
face, and I cannot rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite
replies to my questions at the time, you showed yourself much of a piece
with a good many other men--that is, you have confidence, and then
again, you have none. Now, what I would ask is, do you think it sensible
standing for a sensible man, one foot on confidence and the other on
suspicion? Don't you think, barber, that you ought to elect? Don't you
think consistency requires that you should either say 'I have confidence
in all men,' and take down your notification; or else say, 'I suspect
all men,' and keep it up."

This dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not
fail to impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him.
Likewise, from its pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for,
instead of going to the copper vessel for more water, as he had
purposed, he halted half-way towards it, and, after a pause, cup in
hand, said: "Sir, I hope you would not do me injustice. I don't say, and
can't say, and wouldn't say, that I suspect all men; but I _do_ say that
strangers are not to be trusted, and so," pointing up to the sign, "no
trust."

"But look, now, I beg, barber," rejoined the other deprecatingly, not
presuming too much upon the barber's changed temper; "look, now; to say
that strangers are not to be trusted, does not that imply something like
saying that mankind is not to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are
they not necessarily strangers to each individual man? Come, come, my
friend," winningly, "you are no Timon to hold the mass of mankind
untrustworthy. Take down your notification; it is misanthropical; much
the same sign that Timon traced with charcoal on the forehead of a skull
stuck over his cave. Take it down, barber; take it down to-night. Trust
men. Just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little trip.
Come now, I'm a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a
cent."

The barber shook his head dryly, and answered, "Sir, you must excuse me.
I have a family."




CHAPTER XLIII

VERY CHARMING.


"So you are a philanthropist, sir," added the barber with an illuminated
look; "that accounts, then, for all. Very odd sort of man the
philanthropist. You are the second one, sir, I have seen. Very odd sort
of man, indeed, the philanthropist. Ah, sir," again meditatively
stirring in the shaving-cup, "I sadly fear, lest you philanthropists
know better what goodness is, than what men are." Then, eying him as if
he were some strange creature behind cage-bars, "So you are a
philanthropist, sir."

"I am Philanthropos, and love mankind. And, what is more than you do,
barber, I trust them."

Here the barber, casually recalled to his business, would have
replenished his shaving-cup, but finding now that on his last visit to
the water-vessel he had not replaced it over the lamp, he did so now;
and, while waiting for it to heat again, became almost as sociable as if
the heating water were meant for whisky-punch; and almost as pleasantly
garrulous as the pleasant barbers in romances.

"Sir," said he, taking a throne beside his customer (for in a row there
were three thrones on the dais, as for the three kings of Cologne, those
patron saints of the barber), "sir, you say you trust men. Well, I
suppose I might share some of your trust, were it not for this trade,
that I follow, too much letting me in behind the scenes."

"I think I understand," with a saddened look; "and much the same thing I
have heard from persons in pursuits different from yours--from the
lawyer, from the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others,
each, with a strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming for his
vocation the distinction of affording the surest inlets to the
conviction that man is no better than he should be. All of which
testimony, if reliable, would, by mutual corroboration, justify some
disturbance in a good man's mind. But no, no; it is a mistake--all a
mistake."

"True, sir, very true," assented the barber.

"Glad to hear that," brightening up.

"Not so fast, sir," said the barber; "I agree with you in thinking that
the lawyer, and the congressman, and the editor, are in error, but only
in so far as each claims peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge
in question; because, you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or
pursuit which brings one into contact with the facts, sir, such trade or
pursuit is equally an avenue to those facts."

"_How_ exactly is that?"

"Why, sir, in my opinion--and for the last twenty years I have, at odd
times, turned the matter over some in my mind--he who comes to know
man, will not remain in ignorance of man. I think I am not rash in
saying that; am I, sir?"

"Barber, you talk like an oracle--obscurely, barber, obscurely."

"Well, sir," with some self-complacency, "the barber has always been
held an oracle, but as for the obscurity, that I don't admit."

"But pray, now, by your account, what precisely may be this mysterious
knowledge gained in your trade? I grant you, indeed, as before hinted,
that your trade, imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking
the noses of mankind, is, in that respect, unfortunate, very much so;
nevertheless, a well-regulated imagination should be proof even to such
a provocation to improper conceits. But what I want to learn from you,
barber, is, how does the mere handling of the outside of men's heads
lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts?

"What, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever dealing in macassar
oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and
still believe that men are wholly what they look to be? What think you,
sir, are a thoughtful barber's reflections, when, behind a careful
curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and then dismisses
it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? To contrast the shamefaced
air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly
discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful assurance
and challenging pride with which the same man steps forth again, a gay
deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow
humbly gives him the wall! Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of
truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies,
lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!"

"You twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it. Look, now; take it
this way: A modest man thrust out naked into the street, would he not be
abashed? Take him in and clothe him; would not his confidence be
restored? And in either case, is any reproach involved? Now, what is
true of the whole, holds proportionably true of the part. The bald head
is a nakedness which the wig is a coat to. To feel uneasy at the
possibility of the exposure of one's nakedness at top, and to feel
comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed--these feelings,
instead of being dishonorable to a bold man, do, in fact, but attest a
proper respect for himself and his fellows. And as for the deception,
you may as well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception, since,
like a fine wig, it also is an artificial cover to the head, and
equally, in the common eye, decorates the wearer.--I have confuted you,
my dear barber; I have confounded you."

"Pardon," said the barber, "but I do not see that you have. His coat and
his roof no man pretends to palm off as a part of himself, but the bald
man palms off hair, not his, for his own."

"Not _his_, barber? If he have fairly purchased his hair, the law will
protect him in its ownership, even against the claims of the head on
which it grew. But it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber;
you talk merely for the humor. I could not think so of you as to suppose
that you would contentedly deal in the impostures you condemn."

"Ah, sir, I must live."

"And can't you do that without sinning against your conscience, as you
believe? Take up some other calling."

"Wouldn't mend the matter much, sir."

"Do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point, all the trades
and callings of men are much on a par? Fatal, indeed," raising his hand,
"inexpressibly dreadful, the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions
it necessarily leads. Barber," eying him not without emotion, "you
appear to me not so much a misbeliever, as a man misled. Now, let me set
you on the right track; let me restore you to trust in human nature, and
by no other means than the very trade that has brought you to suspect
it."

"You mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment of taking down that
notification," again pointing to it with his brush; "but, dear me, while
I sit chatting here, the water boils over."

With which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug, expression, as
they say some men have when they think their little stratagem has
succeeded, he hurried to the copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming
up with white bubbles, as if it were a mug of new ale.

Meantime, the other would have fain gone on with the discourse; but the
cunning barber lathered him with so generous a brush, so piled up the
foam on him, that his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and
vain to think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in the sea
to exhort his fellow-sinners on a raft. Nothing would do, but he must
keep his mouth shut. Doubtless, the interval was not, in a meditative
way, unimproved; for, upon the traces of the operation being at last
removed, the cosmopolitan rose, and, for added refreshment, washed his
face and hands; and having generally readjusted himself, began, at last,
addressing the barber in a manner different, singularly so, from his
previous one. Hard to say exactly what the manner was, any more than to
hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign way, not wholly unlike the
manner, fabled or otherwise, of certain creatures in nature, which have
the power of persuasive fascination--the power of holding another
creature by the button of the eye, as it were, despite the serious
disinclination, and, indeed, earnest protest, of the victim. With this
manner the conclusion of the matter was not out of keeping; for, in the
end, all argument and expostulation proved vain, the barber being
irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the remainder of the present
trip, the experiment of trusting men, as both phrased it. True, to save
his credit as a free agent, he was loud in averring that it was only for
the novelty of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the other,
as before volunteered, to go security to him against any loss that might
ensue; but still the fact remained, that he engaged to trust men, a
thing he had before said he would not do, at least not unreservedly.
Still the more to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last
point, that the agreement should be put in black and white, especially
the security part. The other made no demur; pen, ink, and paper were
provided, and grave as any notary the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere
taking the pen, glanced up at the notification, and said: "First down
with that sign, barber--Timon's sign, there; down with it."

This, being in the agreement, was done--though a little
reluctantly--with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put
away in a drawer.

"Now, then, for the writing," said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself.
"Ah," with a sigh, "I shall make a poor lawyer, I fear. Ain't used, you
see, barber, to a business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds
no nail fast till clinched. Strange, barber," taking up the blank paper,
"that such flimsy stuff as this should make such strong hawsers; vile
hawsers, too. Barber," starting up, "I won't put it in black and white.
It were a reflection upon our joint honor. I will take your word, and
you shall take mine."

"But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well for you, on your
side, to have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you
know."

"That, indeed! Yes, and it would help _your_ memory, too, wouldn't it,
barber? Yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, I dare say. Ah,
barber! how ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate
each other's little delicacies, don't we? What better proof, now, that
we are kind, considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings--eh,
barber? But to business. Let me see. What's your name, barber?"

"William Cream, sir."

Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections,
leaned back, and read aloud the following:

     "AGREEMENT
     Between
     FRANK GOODMAN, Philanthropist, and Citizen of the World,
     and
     WILLIAM CREAM, Barber of the Mississippi steamer, Fidèle.

     "The first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may
     come from his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the
     residue of the present trip; PROVIDED that William Cream keep out
     of sight, for the given term, his notification of NO TRUST, and by
     no other mode convey any, the least hint or intimation, tending to
     discourage men from soliciting trust from him, in the way of his
     vocation, for the time above specified; but, on the contrary, he
     do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners, and
     looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially
     strangers; otherwise, this agreement to be void.

     "Done, in good faith, this 1st day of April 18--, at a quarter to
     twelve o'clock, P. M., in the shop of said William Cream, on board
     the said boat, Fidèle."

"There, barber; will that do?"

"That will do," said the barber, "only now put down your name."

Both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber,
who should have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he
settled for himself, by proposing that both should go together to the
captain, and give the document into his hands--the barber hinting that
this would be a safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a
party disinterested, and, what was more, could not, from the nature of
the present case, make anything by a breach of trust. All of which was
listened to with some surprise and concern.

"Why, barber," said the cosmopolitan, "this don't show the right spirit;
for me, I have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but
he shall have nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no
confidence in me, barber, I have in you. There, keep the paper
yourself," handing it magnanimously.

"Very good," said the barber, "and now nothing remains but for me to
receive the cash."

Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous
equivalents, in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one's purse,
is attended with a more or less noteworthy effect upon the human
countenance, producing in many an abrupt fall of it--in others, a
writhing and screwing up of the features to a point not undistressing to
behold, in some, attended with a blank pallor and fatal
consternation--yet no trace of any of these symptoms was visible upon
the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be
more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand.

"You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?"

"In a nearer one, sir," answered the barber, less blandly, "than I
thought the man with the sweet voice stood, who wanted me to trust him
once for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin."

"Indeed, and what did you say to him?"

"I said, 'Thank you, sir, but I don't see the connection,'"

"How could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?"

"Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in the True Book: 'An
enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips;' and so I did what the son of
Sirach advises in such cases: 'I believed not his many words.'"

"What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the
True Book, by which, of course, you mean the Bible?"

"Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the Book of Proverbs."

"That's strange, now, barber; for I never happen to have met with those
passages you cite. Before I go to bed this night, I'll inspect the Bible
I saw on the cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn't quote the True
Book that way to people coming in here; it would be impliedly a
violation of the contract. But you don't know how glad I feel that you
have for one while signed off all that sort of thing."

"No, sir; not unless you down with the cash."

"Cash again! What do you mean?"

"Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a
certain loss, and----"

"Certain? Is it so _certain_ you are going to lose?"

"Why, that way of taking the word may not be amiss, but I didn't mean
it so. I meant a _certain_ loss; you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is
to say, a certain loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing and
saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a
money-pledge, sufficient to that end?"

"I see; the material pledge."

"Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars."

"Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber, for a given time
engage to trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step,
make a demand implying no confidence in the very man you engage with.
But fifty dollars is nothing, and I would let you have it cheerfully,
only I unfortunately happen to have but little change with me just now."

"But you have money in your trunk, though?"

"To be sure. But you see--in fact, barber, you must be consistent. No, I
won't let you have the money now; I won't let you violate the inmost
spirit of our contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you
again."

"Stay, sir"--humming and hawing--"you have forgotten something."

"Handkerchief?--gloves? No, forgotten nothing. Good-night."

"Stay, sir--the--the shaving."

"Ah, I _did_ forget that. But now that it strikes me, I shan't pay you
at present. Look at your agreement; you must trust. Tut! against loss
you hold the guarantee. Good-night, my dear barber."

With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring
after.

But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that
nothing can act where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being
restored to his self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which
perhaps was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he
put it back where it belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore
up; which he felt the more free to do from the impression that in all
human probability he would never again see the person who had drawn it.
Whether that impression proved well-founded or not, does not appear. But
in after days, telling the night's adventure to his friends, the worthy
barber always spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer--as certain
East Indians are called snake-charmers--and all his friends united in
thinking him QUITE AN ORIGINAL.




CHAPTER XLIV.

IN WHICH THE LAST THREE WORDS OF THE LAST CHAPTER ARE MADE THE TEXT OF
DISCOURSE, WHICH WILL BE SURE OF RECEIVING MORE OR LESS ATTENTION FROM
THOSE READERS WHO DO NOT SKIP IT.


"Quite an original:" A phrase, we fancy, rather oftener used by the
young, or the unlearned, or the untraveled, than by the old, or the
well-read, or the man who has made the grand tour. Certainly, the sense
of originality exists at its highest in an infant, and probably at its
lowest in him who has completed the circle of the sciences.

As for original characters in fiction, a grateful reader will, on
meeting with one, keep the anniversary of that day. True, we sometimes
hear of an author who, at one creation, produces some two or three score
such characters; it may be possible. But they can hardly be original in
the sense that Hamlet is, or Don Quixote, or Milton's Satan. That is to
say, they are not, in a thorough sense, original at all. They are novel,
or singular, or striking, or captivating, or all four at once.

More likely, they are what are called odd characters; but for that, are
no more original, than what is called an odd genius, in his way, is.
But, if original, whence came they? Or where did the novelist pick them
up?

Where does any novelist pick up any character? For the most part, in
town, to be sure. Every great town is a kind of man-show, where the
novelist goes for his stock, just as the agriculturist goes to the
cattle-show for his. But in the one fair, new species of quadrupeds are
hardly more rare, than in the other are new species of characters--that
is, original ones. Their rarity may still the more appear from this,
that, while characters, merely singular, imply but singular forms so to
speak, original ones, truly so, imply original instincts.

In short, a due conception of what is to be held for this sort of
personage in fiction would make him almost as much of a prodigy there,
as in real history is a new law-giver, a revolutionizing philosopher, or
the founder of a new religion.

In nearly all the original characters, loosely accounted such in works
of invention, there is discernible something prevailingly local, or of
the age; which circumstance, of itself, would seem to invalidate the
claim, judged by the principles here suggested.

Furthermore, if we consider, what is popularly held to entitle
characters in fiction to being deemed original, is but something
personal--confined to itself. The character sheds not its characteristic
on its surroundings, whereas, the original character, essentially such,
is like a revolving Drummond light, raying away from itself all round
it--everything is lit by it, everything starts up to it (mark how it is
with Hamlet), so that, in certain minds, there follows upon the adequate
conception of such a character, an effect, in its way, akin to that
which in Genesis attends upon the beginning of things.

For much the same reason that there is but one planet to one orbit, so
can there be but one such original character to one work of invention.
Two would conflict to chaos. In this view, to say that there are more
than one to a book, is good presumption there is none at all. But for
new, singular, striking, odd, eccentric, and all sorts of entertaining
and instructive characters, a good fiction may be full of them. To
produce such characters, an author, beside other things, must have seen
much, and seen through much: to produce but one original character, he
must have had much luck.

There would seem but one point in common between this sort of phenomenon
in fiction and all other sorts: it cannot be born in the author's
imagination--it being as true in literature as in zoology, that all life
is from the egg.

In the endeavor to show, if possible, the impropriety of the phrase,
_Quite an Original_, as applied by the barber's friends, we have, at
unawares, been led into a dissertation bordering upon the prosy, perhaps
upon the smoky. If so, the best use the smoke can be turned to, will be,
by retiring under cover of it, in good trim as may be, to the story.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE COSMOPOLITAN INCREASES IN SERIOUSNESS.


In the middle of the gentleman's cabin burned a solar lamp, swung from
the ceiling, and whose shade of ground glass was all round fancifully
variegated, in transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from
which flames rose, alternate with the figure of a robed man, his head
encircled by a halo. The light of this lamp, after dazzlingly striking
on marble, snow-white and round--the slab of a centre-table beneath--on
all sides went rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness, till,
like circles from a stone dropped in water, the rays died dimly away in
the furthest nook of the place.

Here and there, true to their place, but not to their function, swung
other lamps, barren planets, which had either gone out from exhaustion,
or been extinguished by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed,
or who wanted to sleep, not see.

By a perverse man, in a berth not remote, the remaining lamp would have
been extinguished as well, had not a steward forbade, saying that the
commands of the captain required it to be kept burning till the natural
light of day should come to relieve it. This steward, who, like many in
his vocation, was apt to be a little free-spoken at times, had been
provoked by the man's pertinacity to remind him, not only of the sad
consequences which might, upon occasion, ensue from the cabin being left
in darkness, but, also, of the circumstance that, in a place full of
strangers, to show one's self anxious to produce darkness there, such an
anxiety was, to say the least, not becoming. So the lamp--last survivor
of many--burned on, inwardly blessed by those in some berths, and
inwardly execrated by those in others.

Keeping his lone vigils beneath his lone lamp, which lighted his book on
the table, sat a clean, comely, old man, his head snowy as the marble,
and a countenance like that which imagination ascribes to good Simeon,
when, having at last beheld the Master of Faith, he blessed him and
departed in peace. From his hale look of greenness in winter, and his
hands ingrained with the tan, less, apparently, of the present summer,
than of accumulated ones past, the old man seemed a well-to-do farmer,
happily dismissed, after a thrifty life of activity, from the fields to
the fireside--one of those who, at three-score-and-ten, are
fresh-hearted as at fifteen; to whom seclusion gives a boon more blessed
than knowledge, and at last sends them to heaven untainted by the world,
because ignorant of it; just as a countryman putting up at a London inn,
and never stirring out of it as a sight-seer, will leave London at last
without once being lost in its fog, or soiled by its mud.

Redolent from the barber's shop, as any bridegroom tripping to the
bridal chamber might come, and by his look of cheeriness seeming to
dispense a sort of morning through the night, in came the cosmopolitan;
but marking the old man, and how he was occupied, he toned himself down,
and trod softly, and took a seat on the other side of the table, and
said nothing. Still, there was a kind of waiting expression about him.

"Sir," said the old man, after looking up puzzled at him a moment,
"sir," said he, "one would think this was a coffee-house, and it was
war-time, and I had a newspaper here with great news, and the only copy
to be had, you sit there looking at me so eager."

"And so you _have_ good news there, sir--the very best of good news."

"Too good to be true," here came from one of the curtained berths.

"Hark!" said the cosmopolitan. "Some one talks in his sleep."

"Yes," said the old man, "and you--_you_ seem to be talking in a dream.
Why speak you, sir, of news, and all that, when you must see this is a
book I have here--the Bible, not a newspaper?"

"I know that; and when you are through with it--but not a moment
sooner--I will thank you for it. It belongs to the boat, I believe--a
present from a society."

"Oh, take it, take it!"

"Nay, sir, I did not mean to touch you at all. I simply stated the fact
in explanation of my waiting here--nothing more. Read on, sir, or you
will distress me."

This courtesy was not without effect. Removing his spectacles, and
saying he had about finished his chapter, the old man kindly presented
the volume, which was received with thanks equally kind. After reading
for some minutes, until his expression merged from attentiveness into
seriousness, and from that into a kind of pain, the cosmopolitan slowly
laid down the book, and turning to the old man, who thus far had been
watching him with benign curiosity, said: "Can you, my aged friend,
resolve me a doubt--a disturbing doubt?"

"There are doubts, sir," replied the old man, with a changed
countenance, "there are doubts, sir, which, if man have them, it is not
man that can solve them."

"True; but look, now, what my doubt is. I am one who thinks well of man.
I love man. I have confidence in man. But what was told me not a
half-hour since? I was told that I would find it written--'Believe not
his many words--an enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips'--and also I was
told that I would find a good deal more to the same effect, and all in
this book. I could not think it; and, coming here to look for myself,
what do I read? Not only just what was quoted, but also, as was engaged,
more to the same purpose, such as this: 'With much communication he will
tempt thee; he will smile upon thee, and speak thee fair, and say What
wantest thou? If thou be for his profit he will use thee; he will make
thee bear, and will not be sorry for it. Observe and take good heed.
When thou hearest these things, awake in thy sleep.'"

"Who's that describing the confidence-man?" here came from the berth
again.

"Awake in his sleep, sure enough, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan,
again looking off in surprise. "Same voice as before, ain't it? Strange
sort of dreamy man, that. Which is his berth, pray?"

"Never mind _him_, sir," said the old man anxiously, "but tell me truly,
did you, indeed, read from the book just now?"

"I did," with changed air, "and gall and wormwood it is to me, a truster
in man; to me, a philanthropist."

"Why," moved, "you don't mean to say, that what you repeated is really
down there? Man and boy, I have read the good book this seventy years,
and don't remember seeing anything like that. Let me see it," rising
earnestly, and going round to him.

"There it is; and there--and there"--turning over the leaves, and
pointing to the sentences one by one; "there--all down in the 'Wisdom of
Jesus, the Son of Sirach.'"

"Ah!" cried the old man, brightening up, "now I know. Look," turning the
leaves forward and back, till all the Old Testament lay flat on one
side, and all the New Testament flat on the other, while in his fingers
he supported vertically the portion between, "look, sir, all this to the
right is certain truth, and all this to the left is certain truth, but
all I hold in my hand here is apocrypha."

"Apocrypha?"

"Yes; and there's the word in black and white," pointing to it. "And
what says the word? It says as much as 'not warranted;' for what do
college men say of anything of that sort? They say it is apocryphal. The
word itself, I've heard from the pulpit, implies something of uncertain
credit. So if your disturbance be raised from aught in this apocrypha,"
again taking up the pages, "in that case, think no more of it, for it's
apocrypha."

"What's that about the Apocalypse?" here, a third time, came from the
berth.

"He's seeing visions now, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, once more
looking in the direction of the interruption. "But, sir," resuming, "I
cannot tell you how thankful I am for your reminding me about the
apocrypha here. For the moment, its being such escaped me. Fact is, when
all is bound up together, it's sometimes confusing. The uncanonical part
should be bound distinct. And, now that I think of it, how well did
those learned doctors who rejected for us this whole book of Sirach. I
never read anything so calculated to destroy man's confidence in man.
This son of Sirach even says--I saw it but just now: 'Take heed of thy
friends;' not, observe, thy seeming friends, thy hypocritical friends,
thy false friends, but thy _friends_, thy real friends--that is to say,
not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly trusted. Can
Rochefoucault equal that? I should not wonder if his view of human
nature, like Machiavelli's, was taken from this Son of Sirach. And to
call it wisdom--the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach! Wisdom, indeed! What an
ugly thing wisdom must be! Give me the folly that dimples the cheek,
say I, rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. But no, no; it
ain't wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir. For how can that be
trustworthy that teaches distrust?"

"I tell you what it is," here cried the same voice as before, only more
in less of mockery, "if you two don't know enough to sleep, don't be
keeping wiser men awake. And if you want to know what wisdom is, go find
it under your blankets."

"Wisdom?" cried another voice with a brogue; "arrah and is't wisdom the
two geese are gabbling about all this while? To bed with ye, ye divils,
and don't be after burning your fingers with the likes of wisdom."

"We must talk lower," said the old man; "I fear we have annoyed these
good people."

"I should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one," said the other; "but we
will lower our voices, as you say. To resume: taking the thing as I did,
can you be surprised at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged
with the spirit of distrust?"

"No, sir, I am not surprised," said the old man; then added: "from what
you say, I see you are something of my way of thinking--you think that
to distrust the creature, is a kind of distrusting of the Creator. Well,
my young friend, what is it? This is rather late for you to be about.
What do you want of me?"

These questions were put to a boy in the fragment of an old linen coat,
bedraggled and yellow, who, coming in from the deck barefooted on the
soft carpet, had been unheard. All pointed and fluttering, the rags of
the little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his yellow
coat, flamed about him like the painted flames in the robes of a victim
in _auto-da-fe_. His face, too, wore such a polish of seasoned grime,
that his sloe-eyes sparkled from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh
coal. He was a juvenile peddler, or _marchand_, as the polite French
might have called him, of travelers' conveniences; and, having no
allotted sleeping-place, had, in his wanderings about the boat, spied,
through glass doors, the two in the cabin; and, late though it was,
thought it might never be too much so for turning a penny.

Among other things, he carried a curious affair--a miniature mahogany
door, hinged to its frame, and suitably furnished in all respects but
one, which will shortly appear. This little door he now meaningly held
before the old man, who, after staring at it a while, said: "Go thy ways
with thy toys, child."

"Now, may I never get so old and wise as that comes to," laughed the boy
through his grime; and, by so doing, disclosing leopard-like teeth, like
those of Murillo's wild beggar-boy's.

"The divils are laughing now, are they?" here came the brogue from the
berth. "What do the divils find to laugh about in wisdom, begorrah? To
bed with ye, ye divils, and no more of ye."

"You see, child, you have disturbed that person," said the old man; "you
mustn't laugh any more."

"Ah, now," said the cosmopolitan, "don't, pray, say that; don't let him
think that poor Laughter is persecuted for a fool in this world."

"Well," said the old man to the boy, "you must, at any rate, speak very
low."

"Yes, that wouldn't be amiss, perhaps," said the cosmopolitan; "but, my
fine fellow, you were about saying something to my aged friend here;
what was it?"

"Oh," with a lowered voice, coolly opening and shutting his little door,
"only this: when I kept a toy-stand at the fair in Cincinnati last
month, I sold more than one old man a child's rattle."

"No doubt of it," said the old man. "I myself often buy such things for
my little grandchildren."

"But these old men I talk of were old bachelors."

The old man stared at him a moment; then, whispering to the
cosmopolitan: "Strange boy, this; sort of simple, ain't he? Don't know
much, hey?"

"Not much," said the boy, "or I wouldn't be so ragged."

"Why, child, what sharp ears you have!" exclaimed the old man.

"If they were duller, I would hear less ill of myself," said the boy.

"You seem pretty wise, my lad," said the cosmopolitan; "why don't you
sell your wisdom, and buy a coat?"

"Faith," said the boy, "that's what I did to-day, and this is the coat
that the price of my wisdom bought. But won't you trade? See, now, it
is not the door I want to sell; I only carry the door round for a
specimen, like. Look now, sir," standing the thing up on the table,
"supposing this little door is your state-room door; well," opening it,
"you go in for the night; you close your door behind you--thus. Now, is
all safe?"

"I suppose so, child," said the old man.

"Of course it is, my fine fellow," said the cosmopolitan.

"All safe. Well. Now, about two o'clock in the morning, say, a
soft-handed gentleman comes softly and tries the knob here--thus; in
creeps my soft-handed gentleman; and hey, presto! how comes on the soft
cash?"

"I see, I see, child," said the old man; "your fine gentleman is a fine
thief, and there's no lock to your little door to keep him out;" with
which words he peered at it more closely than before.

"Well, now," again showing his white teeth, "well, now, some of you old
folks are knowing 'uns, sure enough; but now comes the great invention,"
producing a small steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious, and
which, being clapped on the inside of the little door, secured it as
with a bolt. "There now," admiringly holding it off at arm's-length,
"there now, let that soft-handed gentleman come now a' softly trying
this little knob here, and let him keep a' trying till he finds his head
as soft as his hand. Buy the traveler's patent lock, sir, only
twenty-five cents."

"Dear me," cried the old man, "this beats printing. Yes, child, I will
have one, and use it this very night."

With the phlegm of an old banker pouching the change, the boy now turned
to the other: "Sell you one, sir?"

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use such blacksmiths' things."

"Those who give the blacksmith most work seldom do," said the boy,
tipping him a wink expressive of a degree of indefinite knowingness, not
uninteresting to consider in one of his years. But the wink was not
marked by the old man, nor, to all appearances, by him for whom it was
intended.

"Now then," said the boy, again addressing the old man. "With your
traveler's lock on your door to-night, you will think yourself all safe,
won't you?"

"I think I will, child."

"But how about the window?"

"Dear me, the window, child. I never thought of that. I must see to
that."

"Never you mind about the window," said the boy, "nor, to be honor
bright, about the traveler's lock either, (though I ain't sorry for
selling one), do you just buy one of these little jokers," producing a
number of suspender-like objects, which he dangled before the old man;
"money-belts, sir; only fifty cents."

"Money-belt? never heard of such a thing."

"A sort of pocket-book," said the boy, "only a safer sort. Very good for
travelers."

"Oh, a pocket-book. Queer looking pocket-books though, seems to me.
Ain't they rather long and narrow for pocket-books?"

"They go round the waist, sir, inside," said the boy "door open or
locked, wide awake on your feet or fast asleep in your chair, impossible
to be robbed with a money-belt."

"I see, I see. It _would_ be hard to rob one's money-belt. And I was
told to-day the Mississippi is a bad river for pick-pockets. How much
are they?"

"Only fifty cents, sir."

"I'll take one. There!"

"Thank-ee. And now there's a present for ye," with which, drawing from
his breast a batch of little papers, he threw one before the old man,
who, looking at it, read "_Counterfeit Detector_."

"Very good thing," said the boy, "I give it to all my customers who
trade seventy-five cents' worth; best present can be made them. Sell you
a money-belt, sir?" turning to the cosmopolitan.

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use that sort of thing; my money
I carry loose."

"Loose bait ain't bad," said the boy, "look a lie and find the truth;
don't care about a Counterfeit Detector, do ye? or is the wind East,
d'ye think?"

"Child," said the old man in some concern, "you mustn't sit up any
longer, it affects your mind; there, go away, go to bed."

"If I had some people's brains to lie on. I would," said the boy, "but
planks is hard, you know."

"Go, child--go, go!"

"Yes, child,--yes, yes," said the boy, with which roguish parody, by way
of congé, he scraped back his hard foot on the woven flowers of the
carpet, much as a mischievous steer in May scrapes back his horny hoof
in the pasture; and then with a flourish of his hat--which, like the
rest of his tatters, was, thanks to hard times, a belonging beyond his
years, though not beyond his experience, being a grown man's cast-off
beaver--turned, and with the air of a young Caffre, quitted the place.

"That's a strange boy," said the old man, looking after him. "I wonder
who's his mother; and whether she knows what late hours he keeps?"

"The probability is," observed the other, "that his mother does not
know. But if you remember, sir, you were saying something, when the boy
interrupted you with his door."

"So I was.--Let me see," unmindful of his purchases for the moment,
"what, now, was it? What was that I was saying? Do _you_ remember?"

"Not perfectly, sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it was something like
this: you hoped you did not distrust the creature; for that would imply
distrust of the Creator."

"Yes, that was something like it," mechanically and unintelligently
letting his eye fall now on his purchases.

"Pray, will you put your money in your belt to-night?"

"It's best, ain't it?" with a slight start. "Never too late to be
cautious. 'Beware of pick-pockets' is all over the boat."

"Yes, and it must have been the Son of Sirach, or some other morbid
cynic, who put them there. But that's not to the purpose. Since you are
minded to it, pray, sir, let me help you about the belt. I think that,
between us, we can make a secure thing of it."

"Oh no, no, no!" said the old man, not unperturbed, "no, no, I wouldn't
trouble you for the world," then, nervously folding up the belt, "and I
won't be so impolite as to do it for myself, before you, either. But,
now that I think of it," after a pause, carefully taking a little wad
from a remote corner of his vest pocket, "here are two bills they gave
me at St. Louis, yesterday. No doubt they are all right; but just to
pass time, I'll compare them with the Detector here. Blessed boy to make
me such a present. Public benefactor, that little boy!"

Laying the Detector square before him on the table, he then, with
something of the air of an officer bringing by the collar a brace of
culprits to the bar, placed the two bills opposite the Detector, upon
which, the examination began, lasting some time, prosecuted with no
small research and vigilance, the forefinger of the right hand proving
of lawyer-like efficacy in tracing out and pointing the evidence,
whichever way it might go.

After watching him a while, the cosmopolitan said in a formal voice,
"Well, what say you, Mr. Foreman; guilty, or not guilty?--Not guilty,
ain't it?"

"I don't know, I don't know," returned the old man, perplexed, "there's
so many marks of all sorts to go by, it makes it a kind of uncertain.
Here, now, is this bill," touching one, "it looks to be a three dollar
bill on the Vicksburgh Trust and Insurance Banking Company. Well, the
Detector says----"

"But why, in this case, care what it says? Trust and Insurance! What
more would you have?"

"No; but the Detector says, among fifty other things, that, if a good
bill, it must have, thickened here and there into the substance of the
paper, little wavy spots of red; and it says they must have a kind of
silky feel, being made by the lint of a red silk handkerchief stirred up
in the paper-maker's vat--the paper being made to order for the
company."

"Well, and is----"

"Stay. But then it adds, that sign is not always to be relied on; for
some good bills get so worn, the red marks get rubbed out. And that's
the case with my bill here--see how old it is--or else it's a
counterfeit, or else--I don't see right--or else--dear, dear me--I don't
know what else to think."

"What a peck of trouble that Detector makes for you now; believe me, the
bill is good; don't be so distrustful. Proves what I've always thought,
that much of the want of confidence, in these days, is owing to these
Counterfeit Detectors you see on every desk and counter. Puts people up
to suspecting good bills. Throw it away, I beg, if only because of the
trouble it breeds you."

"No; it's troublesome, but I think I'll keep it.--Stay, now, here's
another sign. It says that, if the bill is good, it must have in one
corner, mixed in with the vignette, the figure of a goose, very small,
indeed, all but microscopic; and, for added precaution, like the figure
of Napoleon outlined by the tree, not observable, even if magnified,
unless the attention is directed to it. Now, pore over it as I will, I
can't see this goose."

"Can't see the goose? why, I can; and a famous goose it is. There"
(reaching over and pointing to a spot in the vignette).

"I don't see it--dear me--I don't see the goose. Is it a real goose?"

"A perfect goose; beautiful goose."

"Dear, dear, I don't see it."

"Then throw that Detector away, I say again; it only makes you purblind;
don't you see what a wild-goose chase it has led you? The bill is good.
Throw the Detector away."

"No; it ain't so satisfactory as I thought for, but I must examine this
other bill."

"As you please, but I can't in conscience assist you any more; pray,
then, excuse me."

So, while the old man with much painstakings resumed his work, the
cosmopolitan, to allow him every facility, resumed his reading. At
length, seeing that he had given up his undertaking as hopeless, and was
at leisure again, the cosmopolitan addressed some gravely interesting
remarks to him about the book before him, and, presently, becoming more
and more grave, said, as he turned the large volume slowly over on the
table, and with much difficulty traced the faded remains of the gilt
inscription giving the name of the society who had presented it to the
boat, "Ah, sir, though every one must be pleased at the thought of the
presence in public places of such a book, yet there is something that
abates the satisfaction. Look at this volume; on the outside, battered
as any old valise in the baggage-room; and inside, white and virgin as
the hearts of lilies in bud."

"So it is, so it is," said the old man sadly, his attention for the
first directed to the circumstance.

"Nor is this the only time," continued the other, "that I have observed
these public Bibles in boats and hotels. All much like this--old
without, and new within. True, this aptly typifies that internal
freshness, the best mark of truth, however ancient; but then, it speaks
not so well as could be wished for the good book's esteem in the minds
of the traveling public. I may err, but it seems to me that if more
confidence was put in it by the traveling public, it would hardly be
so."

With an expression very unlike that with which he had bent over the
Detector, the old man sat meditating upon his companions remarks a
while; and, at last, with a rapt look, said: "And yet, of all people,
the traveling public most need to put trust in that guardianship which
is made known in this book."

"True, true," thoughtfully assented the other. "And one would think they
would want to, and be glad to," continued the old man kindling; "for,
in all our wanderings through this vale, how pleasant, not less than
obligatory, to feel that we need start at no wild alarms, provide for no
wild perils; trusting in that Power which is alike able and willing to
protect us when we cannot ourselves."

His manner produced something answering to it in the cosmopolitan, who,
leaning over towards him, said sadly: "Though this is a theme on which
travelers seldom talk to each other, yet, to you, sir, I will say, that
I share something of your sense of security. I have moved much about the
world, and still keep at it; nevertheless, though in this land, and
especially in these parts of it, some stories are told about steamboats
and railroads fitted to make one a little apprehensive, yet, I may say
that, neither by land nor by water, am I ever seriously disquieted,
however, at times, transiently uneasy; since, with you, sir, I believe
in a Committee of Safety, holding silent sessions over all, in an
invisible patrol, most alert when we soundest sleep, and whose beat lies
as much through forests as towns, along rivers as streets. In short, I
never forget that passage of Scripture which says, 'Jehovah shall be thy
confidence.' The traveler who has not this trust, what miserable
misgivings must be his; or, what vain, short-sighted care must he take
of himself."

"Even so," said the old man, lowly.

"There is a chapter," continued the other, again taking the book,
"which, as not amiss, I must read you. But this lamp, solar-lamp as it
is, begins to burn dimly."

"So it does, so it does," said the old man with changed air, "dear me,
it must be very late. I must to bed, to bed! Let me see," rising and
looking wistfully all round, first on the stools and settees, and then
on the carpet, "let me see, let me see;--is there anything I have
forgot,--forgot? Something I a sort of dimly remember. Something, my
son--careful man--told me at starting this morning, this very morning.
Something about seeing to--something before I got into my berth. What
could it be? Something for safety. Oh, my poor old memory!"

"Let me give a little guess, sir. Life-preserver?"

"So it was. He told me not to omit seeing I had a life-preserver in my
state-room; said the boat supplied them, too. But where are they? I
don't see any. What are they like?"

"They are something like this, sir, I believe," lifting a brown stool
with a curved tin compartment underneath; "yes, this, I think, is a
life-preserver, sir; and a very good one, I should say, though I don't
pretend to know much about such things, never using them myself."

"Why, indeed, now! Who would have thought it? _that_ a life-preserver?
That's the very stool I was sitting on, ain't it?"

"It is. And that shows that one's life is looked out for, when he ain't
looking out for it himself. In fact, any of these stools here will float
you, sir, should the boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. But,
since you want one in your room, pray take this one," handing it to him.
"I think I can recommend this one; the tin part," rapping it with his
knuckles, "seems so perfect--sounds so very hollow."

"Sure it's _quite_ perfect, though?" Then, anxiously putting on his
spectacles, he scrutinized it pretty closely--"well soldered? quite
tight?"

"I should say so, sir; though, indeed, as I said, I never use this sort
of thing, myself. Still, I think that in case of a wreck, barring
sharp-pointed timbers, you could have confidence in that stool for a
special providence."

"Then, good-night, good-night; and Providence have both of us in its
good keeping."

"Be sure it will," eying the old man with sympathy, as for the moment he
stood, money-belt in hand, and life-preserver under arm, "be sure it
will, sir, since in Providence, as in man, you and I equally put trust.
But, bless me, we are being left in the dark here. Pah! what a smell,
too."

"Ah, my way now," cried the old man, peering before him, "where lies my
way to my state-room?"

"I have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first, for the good of
all lungs, let me extinguish this lamp."

The next moment, the waning light expired, and with it the waning flames
of the horned altar, and the waning halo round the robed man's brow;
while in the darkness which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old
man away. Something further may follow of this Masquerade.



2xxxxxxxxx


MOBY-DICK



CHAPTER 1. Loomings.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having
little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me
on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part
of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and
regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about
the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever
I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever
my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral
principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and
methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to
get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I
quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they
but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other,
cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by
wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her
surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme
downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and
cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of
land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears
Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What
do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand
thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some
leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some
looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the
rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these
are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to
counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are
the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and
seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the
extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder
warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water
as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of
them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets
and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell
me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all
those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take
almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a
dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in
it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest
reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will
infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region.
Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this
experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical
professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for
ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest,
quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley
of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his
trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were
within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up
from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands
winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in
their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and
though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this
shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were
fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June,
when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among
Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop
of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel
your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon
suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy
him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian
trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a
robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea?
Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a
mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out
of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did
the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely
all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that
story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild
image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that
same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image
of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin
to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my
lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a
passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a
purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers
get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy
themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger;
nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a
Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction
of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all
honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind
whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself,
without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not.
And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory
in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I
never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously
buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who
will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled
fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old
Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the
mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast,
plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head.
True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to
spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of
thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor,
particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the
Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if
just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been
lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in
awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a
schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and
the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off
in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom
and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed,
I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel
Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and
respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t
a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may
order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the
satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is
one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or
metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is
passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades,
and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of
paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single
penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must
pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and
being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable
infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But _being
paid_,—what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man
receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly
believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no
account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign
ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome
exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world,
head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if
you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the
Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from
the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not
so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many
other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But
wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a
merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling
voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the
constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in
some unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one else. And,
doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand
programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in
as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive
performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run
something like this:

“_Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States._
“WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the
Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when
others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short
and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I
cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the
circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives
which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced
me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the
delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill
and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale
himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my
curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island
bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all
the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds,
helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things
would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an
everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and
land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to
perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would they let
me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of
the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the
great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild
conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into
my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them
all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.


CHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city
of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night
in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little
packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching
that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at
this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well
be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was
made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a
fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous
old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has
of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though
in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket
was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the
first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket
did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes
to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did
that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with
imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in
order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me
in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a
matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a
very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold
and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had
sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So,
wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of
a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the
north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you
may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to
inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The
Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further
on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came
such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and
ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay
ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me,
when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from
hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most
miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one
moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of
the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t
you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are
stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets
that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not
the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand,
and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At
this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of
the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light
proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood
invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the
uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble
over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying
particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city,
Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then
must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and
hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior
door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black
faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of
Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the
preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping
and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing
out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the
docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a
swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly
representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words
underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought
I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this
Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and
the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated
little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here
from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a
poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very
spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house, one side palsied
as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner,
where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than
ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless,
is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the
hob quietly toasting for bed. “In judging of that tempestuous wind
called Euroclydon,” says an old writer—of whose works I possess the
only copy extant—“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou
lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the
outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where
the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only
glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my
mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are
windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t
stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint
here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The
universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted
off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth
against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with
his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a
corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the
tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken
wrapper—(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty
night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their
oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the
privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up
to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra
than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the
line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in
order to keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the
door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be
moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a
Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a
temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there
is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted
feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.


CHAPTER 3. The Spouter-Inn.

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide,
low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of
the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large
oilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the
unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent
study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of
the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its
purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first
you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New
England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint
of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and
especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the
entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however
wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber,
portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the
picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a
nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive
a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite,
half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to
it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what
that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas,
deceptive idea would dart you through.—It’s the Black Sea in a midnight
gale.—It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It’s a
blasted heath.—It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.—It’s the breaking-up of
the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to
that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. _That_ once found
out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint
resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own,
partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with
whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner
in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its
three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale,
purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of
impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish
array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with
glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots
of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping
round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed
mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal
and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking,
horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances
and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With
this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan
Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that
harpoon—so like a corkscrew now—was flung in Javan seas, and run away
with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The
original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle
sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last
was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way—cut
through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with
fireplaces all round—you enter the public room. A still duskier place
is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled
planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s
cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored
old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like
table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities
gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the
further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den—the bar—a rude
attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the
vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost
drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old
decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction,
like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him),
bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells
the sailors deliriums and death.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true
cylinders without—within, the villanous green goggling glasses
deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians
rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to
_this_ mark, and your charge is but a penny; to _this_ a penny more;
and so on to the full glass—the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp
down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about
a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of _skrimshander_. I
sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with
a room, received for answer that his house was full—not a bed
unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no
objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are
goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should
ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that
if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the
harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander
further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with
the half of any decent man’s blanket.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper?
Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the
Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with
his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space
between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but
he didn’t make much headway, I thought.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an
adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland—no fire at all—the landlord said
he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a
winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold
to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the
fare was of the most substantial kind—not only meat and potatoes, but
dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a
green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful
manner.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead
sartainty.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the
harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he
don’t—he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”

“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”

“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark
complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so
turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into
bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not
what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the
evening as a looker on.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord
cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing
this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now
we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung
open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their
shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters,
all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they
seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from
their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then,
that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth—the bar—when the
wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out
brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon
which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he
swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never
mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador,
or on the weather side of an ice-island.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even
with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began
capering about most obstreperously.

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though
he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his
own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much
noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the
sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though
but a sleeping-partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I
will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six
feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I
have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and
burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the
deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem
to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a
Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of
those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When
the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man
slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my
comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his
shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favourite with
them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s
Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost
supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself
upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the
entrance of the seamen.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal
rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but
people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to
sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town,
and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely
multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should
sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep
two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all
sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and
cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the
thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a
harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of
the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over.
Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home
and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at
midnight—how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep
with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a
mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”—feeling of the knots and
notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane
there in the bar—wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying
he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting
the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning
like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the
plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was
near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit—the
bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing
in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the
shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in
the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a
brown study.

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too
short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too
narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher
than the planed one—so there was no yoking them. I then placed the
first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall,
leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I
soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from
under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all,
especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from
the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in
the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the
night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal
a march on him—bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be
wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea; but upon
second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next
morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be
standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

Still, looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of
spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began
to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices
against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be
dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps
we may become jolly good bedfellows after all—there’s no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes,
and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

“Landlord!” said I, “what sort of a chap is he—does he always keep such
late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be
mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he
answered, “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to
rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out
a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late,
unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

“Can’t sell his head?—What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are
telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say,
landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed
Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around
this town?”

“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t
sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”

“With what?” shouted I.

“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better
stop spinning that yarn to me—I’m not green.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I
rayther guess you’ll be done _brown_ if that ere harpooneer hears you a
slanderin’ his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at
this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“Broke,” said I—“_broke_, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a
snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one
another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a
bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half
belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have
not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and
exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling
towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connexion,
landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest
degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this
harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the
night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay
that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good
evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of
sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, _you_ I mean, landlord, _you_,
sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render
yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long
sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be
easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived
from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand
heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and
that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it
would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is
goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as
he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for
all the airth like a string of inions.”

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed
that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me—but at the
same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a
Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal
business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”

“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful
late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me
slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room
for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why,
afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the
foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and
somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm.
Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a
glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards
me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a
clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that
harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then;
_do_ come; _won’t_ ye come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was
ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough,
with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four
harpooneers to sleep abreast.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest
that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make
yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” I turned round from
eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of
the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then
glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table,
could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf,
the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a
whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a
hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a
large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in
lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone
fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon
standing at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the
light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to
arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it
to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little
tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an
Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as
you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible
that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the
streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to
try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy
and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious
harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit
of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my
life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink
in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this
head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on
the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in
the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a
little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now,
half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about
the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very
late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots,
and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself
to the care of heaven.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery,
there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not
sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had
pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard
a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into
the room from under the door.

Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal
head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word
till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New
Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without
looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on
the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted
cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was
all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time
while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however,
he turned round—when, good heavens! what a sight! Such a face! It was
of a dark, purplish, yellow colour, here and there stuck over with
large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a
terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here
he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his
face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be
sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were
stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this;
but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story
of a white man—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals, had
been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course
of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And
what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be
honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly
complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely
independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be
nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot
sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had
never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these
extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were
passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at
all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced
fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a
seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in
the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head—a ghastly
thing enough—and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his
hat—a new beaver hat—when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise.
There was no hair on his head—none to speak of at least—nothing but a
small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now
looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger
stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker
than ever I bolted a dinner.

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but
it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this
head-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension.
Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and
confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of
him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at
the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game
enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer
concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed
his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were
checkered with the same squares as his face; his back, too, was all
over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’
War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still
more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs
were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that
he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman
in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to
think of it. A peddler of heads too—perhaps the heads of his own
brothers. He might take a fancy to mine—heavens! look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about
something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me
that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall,
or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in
the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image
with a hunch on its back, and exactly the colour of a three days’ old
Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought
that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar
manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened
a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing
but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage
goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board,
sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the
andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty,
so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine
or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but
ill at ease meantime—to see what was next to follow. First he takes
about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places
them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on
top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into
a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the
fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed
to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the
biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite
offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to
fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these
strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from
the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing
some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in
the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the
idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket
as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing
him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business
operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time,
now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which
I had so long been bound.

But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one.
Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for
an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the
handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment
the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between
his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it
now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him
against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might
be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his
guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my
meaning.

“Who-e debel you?”—he at last said—“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.”
And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the
dark.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch!
Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the
cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the
hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire.
But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light
in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t
harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that
infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads
around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look
here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”

“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and
sitting up in bed.

“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and
throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a
civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a
moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely
looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about,
thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just
as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep
with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or
whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will
turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with
me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely
motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to
say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.


CHAPTER 4. The Counterpane.

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown
over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost
thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of
odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and this arm of his
tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no
two parts of which were of one precise shade—owing I suppose to his
keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt
sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times—this same arm of his, I
say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork
quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I
could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues
together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I
could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.

My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a
child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me;
whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The
circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other—I
think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little
sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other,
was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,—my
mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to
bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June,
the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But
there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the
third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time,
and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.

I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse
before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small
of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun
shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the
streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse
and worse—at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my
stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at
her feet, beseeching her as a particular favour to give me a good
slippering for my misbehaviour; anything indeed but condemning me to
lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and
most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For
several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than
I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes.
At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and
slowly waking from it—half steeped in dreams—I opened my eyes, and the
before sun-lit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt
a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and
nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine.
My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable,
silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely
seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there,
frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet
ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid
spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided
away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it
all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in
confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I
often puzzle myself with it.

Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the
supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to
those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm
thrown round me. But at length all the past night’s events soberly
recurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to
the comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm—unlock his
bridegroom clasp—yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly,
as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse
him—“Queequeg!”—but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my
neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a
slight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk
sleeping by the savage’s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A
pretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the
broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg!—in the name of
goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and
loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his
hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in
extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself
all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in
bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if
he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim
consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over
him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings
now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at
last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow,
and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon
the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that,
if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress
afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg,
under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the
truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you
will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this
particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much
civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness;
staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for
the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless,
a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well
worth unusual regarding.

He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall
one, by the by, and then—still minus his trowsers—he hunted up his
boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his
next movement was to crush himself—boots in hand, and hat on—under the
bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he
was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I
ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his
boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition
stage—neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized
to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manners. His
education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not
been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled
himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage,
he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At
last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over
his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not
being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide
ones—probably not made to order either—rather pinched and tormented him
at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.

Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the
street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view
into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that
Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on;
I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and
particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He
complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the
morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my
amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his
chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a
piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water
and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept
his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed
corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it
a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the
wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks.
Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a
vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came
to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how
exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.

The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of
the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his
harpoon like a marshal’s baton.


CHAPTER 5. Breakfast.

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the
grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him,
though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my
bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a
good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper
person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be
backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and be spent in
that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about
him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the
night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were
nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates,
and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and
harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky
beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning
gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This
young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and
would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days
landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades
lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the
complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly
bleached withal; _he_ doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who
could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints,
seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array,
contrasting climates, zone by zone.

“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we
went to breakfast.

They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease
in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though:
Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch
one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But
perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as
Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in
the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s
performances—this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode
of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort
of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that
after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some
good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise, nearly every man
maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked
embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the
slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas—entire
strangers to them—and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here
they sat at a social breakfast table—all of the same calling, all of
kindred tastes—looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they
had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green
Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior
whalemen!

But as for Queequeg—why, Queequeg sat there among them—at the head of
the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I
cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have
cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him,
and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it,
to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks
towards him. But _that_ was certainly very coolly done by him, and
every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly
is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed
coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to
beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew
like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was
sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat
on, when I sallied out for a stroll.


CHAPTER 6. The Street.

If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish
an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a
civilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first
daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.

In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will
frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign
parts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners
will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not
unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live
Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water
Street and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only
sailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street
corners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy
flesh. It makes a stranger stare.

But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians,
and Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft
which unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still
more curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town
scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain
and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames;
fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and
snatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence
they came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old.
Look there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat
and swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and sheath-knife.
Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.

No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one—I mean a
downright bumpkin dandy—a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his
two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a
country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished
reputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the
comical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his
sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his
canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those
straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps,
buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.

But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,
and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a
queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would
this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of
Labrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten
one, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to
live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not
like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run
with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs.
Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more
patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New
Bedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of
a country?

Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty
mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave
houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian
oceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the
bottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?

In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their
daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.
You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say,
they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly
burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.

In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples—long
avenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful
and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by
their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is
art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright
terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at
creation’s final day.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But
roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks
is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that
bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young
girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off
shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of
the Puritanic sands.


CHAPTER 7. The Chapel.

In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are
the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who
fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this
special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving
sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called
bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found
a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and
widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks
of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart
from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and
incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these
silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble
tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the
pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not
pretend to quote:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was
lost overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, _November_
1_st_, 1836. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN,
WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats’
crews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the
Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, _December_ 31_st_, 1839. THIS MARBLE
Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, Who in the bows
of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, _August_
3_d_, 1833. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.

Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated
myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see
Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a
wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage
was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because
he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading
those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of
the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation,
I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery,
and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not
the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here
before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of
those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed
afresh.

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing
among flowers can say—here, _here_ lies my beloved; ye know not the
desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in
those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in
those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden
infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse
resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a
grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as
here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included;
why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no
tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is
that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix
so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if
he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the
Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what
eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies
antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we
still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are
dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all
the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify
a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these
dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a
Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky
light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who
had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But
somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine
chance for promotion, it seems—aye, a stove boat will make me an
immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling—a
speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what
then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death.
Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true
substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too
much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking
that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees
of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is
not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat
and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.


CHAPTER 8. The Pulpit.

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable
robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon
admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation,
sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it
was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he
was a very great favourite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in
his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the
ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy
winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging
into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his
wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing
bloom—the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No
one having previously heard his history, could for the first time
behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were
certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that
adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that
he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for
his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot
cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of
the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one
by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner;
when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a
regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the
floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the
architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and
finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side
ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife
of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of
red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely
headed, and stained with a mahogany colour, the whole contrivance,
considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad
taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both
hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple
cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still
reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if
ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case
with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of
wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of
the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship,
these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not
prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn
round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder
step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him
impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this.
Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and
sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any
mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober
reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen.
Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies
his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties
and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the
word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a
self-containing stronghold—a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial
well of water within the walls.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place,
borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble
cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back
was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating
against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy
breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there
floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s
face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the
ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into
the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel
seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy
helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling
off—serenest azure is at hand.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that
had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the
likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a
projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed
beak.

What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s
foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the
world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first
descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is
the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds.
Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete;
and the pulpit is its prow.


CHAPTER 9. The Sermon.

Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered
the scattered people to condense. “Starboard gangway, there! side away
to larboard—larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”

There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a
still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and
every eye on the preacher.

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his
large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and
offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying
at the bottom of the sea.

This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a
bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog—in such tones he
commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards
the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy—


  “The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,
  While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down
  to doom.

  “I saw the opening maw of hell, With endless pains and sorrows there;
  Which none but they that feel can tell— Oh, I was plunging to
  despair.

  “In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him
  mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints— No more the whale did me
  confine.

  “With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne;
  Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.

  “My song for ever shall record That terrible, that joyful hour; I
  give the glory to my God, His all the mercy and the power.”




Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the
howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned
over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon
the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the
first chapter of Jonah—‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up
Jonah.’”

“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters—four yarns—is one
of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what
depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant
lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in
the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the
floods surging over us; we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the
waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But _what_
is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a
two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to
me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us
all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly
awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally
the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the
sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the
command of God—never mind now what that command was, or how
conveyed—which he found a hard command. But all the things that God
would have us do are hard for us to do—remember that—and hence, he
oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we
must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein
the hardness of obeying God consists.

“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at
God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men
will carry him into countries where God does not reign, but only the
Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks
a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto
unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no
other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men.
And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from
Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when
the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern
Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean,
the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the
westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not
then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee world-wide from God?
Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with
slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the
shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So
disordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen
in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had
been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no
baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,—no friends accompany him
to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he
finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as
he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for
the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s
evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and
confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the
man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but
still serious way, one whispers to the other—“Jack, he’s robbed a
widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I
guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike,
one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill
that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is
moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a
parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and
looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now
crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah
trembles, and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so
much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that
itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the
sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him
pass, and he descends into the cabin.

“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making
out his papers for the Customs—‘Who’s there?’ Oh! how that harmless
question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again.
But he rallies. ‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon
sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah,
though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that
hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. ‘We sail with the
next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing
him. ‘No sooner, sir?’—‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a
passenger.’ Ha! Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away
the Captain from that scent. ‘I’ll sail with ye,’—he says,—‘the passage
money how much is that?—I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written,
shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history,
‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with
the context, this is full of meaning.

“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects
crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In
this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely, and
without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all
frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s
purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum;
and it’s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive;
but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with
gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions
still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit.
Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his
passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now, ‘I’m
travel-weary; I need sleep.’ ‘Thou lookest like it,’ says the Captain,
‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock
contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain
laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of
convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed
and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the
little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is
close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too,
beneath the ship’s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment
of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of
his bowels’ wards.

“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly
oscillates in Jonah’s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the
wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and
all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity
with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight
itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it
hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his
tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful
fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that
contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the
ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh! so my conscience hangs in
me!’ he groans, ‘straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my
soul are all in crookedness!’

“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still
reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the
Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him;
as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy
anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at
last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as
over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and
there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestlings in his berth,
Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.

“And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and
from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening,
glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded
smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not
bear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to
break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when
boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is
shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with
trampling feet right over Jonah’s head; in all this raging tumult,
Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea,
feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far
rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving
the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides
of the ship—a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast
asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead
ear, ‘What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!’ Startled from his lethargy
by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the
deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he
is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave
after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs
roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet
afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the
steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing
bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the
tormented deep.

“Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his
cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The
sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him,
and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to
high Heaven, they fall to casting lots, to see for whose cause this
great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah’s; that discovered, then
how furiously they mob him with their questions. ‘What is thine
occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now,
my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask
him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer
to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put
by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard
hand of God that is upon him.

“‘I am a Hebrew,’ he cries—and then—‘I fear the Lord the God of Heaven
who hath made the sea and the dry land!’ Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well
mightest thou fear the Lord God _then!_ Straightway, he now goes on to
make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more
appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating
God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his
deserts,—when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him
forth into the sea, for he knew that for _his_ sake this great tempest
was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means
to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder;
then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not
unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.

“And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea;
when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea
is still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water
behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless
commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into
the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory
teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed
unto the Lord out of the fish’s belly. But observe his prayer, and
learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and
wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is
just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with
this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards
His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance;
not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing
to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance
of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah
before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a
model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it
like Jonah.”

While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking,
slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who,
when describing Jonah’s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself.
His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed
the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from
off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his
simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.

There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the
leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with
closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.

But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly,
with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these
words:

“Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press
upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that
Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to
me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come
down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit,
and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads _me_ that other
and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to _me_, as a pilot of the
living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true
things, and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the
ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should
raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God
by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never
reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed
him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him
along ‘into the midst of the seas,’ where the eddying depths sucked him
ten thousand fathoms down, and ‘the weeds were wrapped about his head,’
and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond
the reach of any plummet—‘out of the belly of hell’—when the whale
grounded upon the ocean’s utmost bones, even then, God heard the
engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the
fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale
came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the
delights of air and earth; and ‘vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;’
when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and
beaten—his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring
of the ocean—Jonah did the Almighty’s bidding. And what was that,
shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!

“This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of
the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from
Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God
has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than
to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe
to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would
not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him
who, as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is
himself a castaway!”

He dropped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his
face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with
a heavenly enthusiasm,—“But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of
every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight,
than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than
the kelson is low? Delight is to him—a far, far upward, and inward
delight—who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever
stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong
arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has
gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the
truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out
from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,—top-gallant
delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his
God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the
waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake
from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness
will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final
breath—O Father!—chiefly known to me by Thy rod—mortal or immortal,
here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world’s,
or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is
man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?”

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with
his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed,
and he was left alone in the place.


CHAPTER 10. A Bosom Friend.

Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there
quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some
time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the
stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that
little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a
jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to
himself in his heathenish way.

But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going
to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap
began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth
page—as I fancied—stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and
giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He
would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number
one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was
only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his
astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.

With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and
hideously marred about the face—at least to my taste—his countenance
yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You
cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I
saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes,
fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a
thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty
bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not
altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never
had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved,
his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked
more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to
decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent
one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s
head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long
regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were
likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on
top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.

Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be
looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my
presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but
appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous
book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night
previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found
thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference
of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do
not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their
calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems a Socratic wisdom. I had
noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little,
with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever;
appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances.
All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there
was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand
miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is—which was the only
way he could get there—thrown among people as strange to him as though
he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease;
preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship;
always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy;
though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But,
perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of
so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man
gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the
dyspeptic old woman, he must have “broken his digester.”

As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that
mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then
only glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering
round the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the
storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of
strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart
and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing
savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a
nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland
deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to
feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that
would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus
drew me. I’ll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness
has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some
friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At
first he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my
referring to his last night’s hospitalities, he made out to ask me
whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I
thought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented.

We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to
him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures
that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we
went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to
be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and,
producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And
then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it
regularly passing between us.

If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan’s
breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and
left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and
unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his
forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that
henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we
were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a
countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too
premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage
those old rules would not apply.

After supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to our room
together. He made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his
enormous tobacco wallet, and groping under the tobacco, drew out some
thirty dollars in silver; then spreading them on the table, and
mechanically dividing them into two equal portions, pushed one of them
towards me, and said it was mine. I was going to remonstrate; but he
silenced me by pouring them into my trowsers’ pockets. I let them stay.
He then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed
the paper fireboard. By certain signs and symptoms, I thought he seemed
anxious for me to join him; but well knowing what was to follow, I
deliberated a moment whether, in case he invited me, I would comply or
otherwise.

I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible
Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in
worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you
suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and
earth—pagans and all included—can possibly be jealous of an
insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?—to do
the will of God—_that_ is worship. And what is the will of God?—to do
to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me—_that_ is
the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish
that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular
Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him
in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped
prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with
Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that
done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences
and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.

How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential
disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the
very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often
lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our
hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair.


CHAPTER 11. Nightgown.

We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and
Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs
over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free
and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what
little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like
getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.

Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position
began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves
sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the
head-board with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two
noses bending over them, as if our kneepans were warming-pans. We felt
very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors;
indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the
room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some
small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world
that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If
you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been
so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But
if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown
of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general
consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For
this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire,
which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height
of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket
between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there
you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at
once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether
by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always
keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of
being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright
except his eyes be closed; as if darkness were indeed the proper
element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey
part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and
self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the
unilluminated twelve-o’clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable
revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that
perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide
awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs
from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong
repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how
elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them.
For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me,
even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy
then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord’s policy of
insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential
comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend.
With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the
Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue
hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to
far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island;
and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He
gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of
his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar
with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story
such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.


CHAPTER 12. Biographical.

Queequeg was a native of Rokovoko, an island far away to the West and
South. It is not down in any map; true places never are.

When a new-hatched savage running wild about his native woodlands in a
grass clout, followed by the nibbling goats, as if he were a green
sapling; even then, in Queequeg’s ambitious soul, lurked a strong
desire to see something more of Christendom than a specimen whaler or
two. His father was a High Chief, a King; his uncle a High Priest; and
on the maternal side he boasted aunts who were the wives of
unconquerable warriors. There was excellent blood in his veins—royal
stuff; though sadly vitiated, I fear, by the cannibal propensity he
nourished in his untutored youth.

A Sag Harbor ship visited his father’s bay, and Queequeg sought a
passage to Christian lands. But the ship, having her full complement of
seamen, spurned his suit; and not all the King his father’s influence
could prevail. But Queequeg vowed a vow. Alone in his canoe, he paddled
off to a distant strait, which he knew the ship must pass through when
she quitted the island. On one side was a coral reef; on the other a
low tongue of land, covered with mangrove thickets that grew out into
the water. Hiding his canoe, still afloat, among these thickets, with
its prow seaward, he sat down in the stern, paddle low in hand; and
when the ship was gliding by, like a flash he darted out; gained her
side; with one backward dash of his foot capsized and sank his canoe;
climbed up the chains; and throwing himself at full length upon the
deck, grappled a ring-bolt there, and swore not to let it go, though
hacked in pieces.

In vain the captain threatened to throw him overboard; suspended a
cutlass over his naked wrists; Queequeg was the son of a King, and
Queequeg budged not. Struck by his desperate dauntlessness, and his
wild desire to visit Christendom, the captain at last relented, and
told him he might make himself at home. But this fine young savage—this
sea Prince of Wales, never saw the Captain’s cabin. They put him down
among the sailors, and made a whaleman of him. But like Czar Peter
content to toil in the shipyards of foreign cities, Queequeg disdained
no seeming ignominy, if thereby he might happily gain the power of
enlightening his untutored countrymen. For at bottom—so he told me—he
was actuated by a profound desire to learn among the Christians, the
arts whereby to make his people still happier than they were; and more
than that, still better than they were. But, alas! the practices of
whalemen soon convinced him that even Christians could be both
miserable and wicked; infinitely more so, than all his father’s
heathens. Arrived at last in old Sag Harbor; and seeing what the
sailors did there; and then going on to Nantucket, and seeing how they
spent their wages in _that_ place also, poor Queequeg gave it up for
lost. Thought he, it’s a wicked world in all meridians; I’ll die a
pagan.

And thus an old idolator at heart, he yet lived among these Christians,
wore their clothes, and tried to talk their gibberish. Hence the queer
ways about him, though now some time from home.

By hints, I asked him whether he did not propose going back, and having
a coronation; since he might now consider his father dead and gone, he
being very old and feeble at the last accounts. He answered no, not
yet; and added that he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians,
had unfitted him for ascending the pure and undefiled throne of thirty
pagan Kings before him. But by and by, he said, he would return,—as
soon as he felt himself baptized again. For the nonce, however, he
proposed to sail about, and sow his wild oats in all four oceans. They
had made a harpooneer of him, and that barbed iron was in lieu of a
sceptre now.

I asked him what might be his immediate purpose, touching his future
movements. He answered, to go to sea again, in his old vocation. Upon
this, I told him that whaling was my own design, and informed him of my
intention to sail out of Nantucket, as being the most promising port
for an adventurous whaleman to embark from. He at once resolved to
accompany me to that island, ship aboard the same vessel, get into the
same watch, the same boat, the same mess with me, in short to share my
every hap; with both my hands in his, boldly dip into the Potluck of
both worlds. To all this I joyously assented; for besides the affection
I now felt for Queequeg, he was an experienced harpooneer, and as such,
could not fail to be of great usefulness to one, who, like me, was
wholly ignorant of the mysteries of whaling, though well acquainted
with the sea, as known to merchant seamen.

His story being ended with his pipe’s last dying puff, Queequeg
embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the
light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon
were sleeping.


CHAPTER 13. Wheelbarrow.

Next morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber,
for a block, I settled my own and comrade’s bill; using, however, my
comrade’s money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed
amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between
me and Queequeg—especially as Peter Coffin’s cock and bull stories
about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person
whom I now companied with.

We borrowed a wheelbarrow, and embarking our things, including my own
poor carpet-bag, and Queequeg’s canvas sack and hammock, away we went
down to “the Moss,” the little Nantucket packet schooner moored at the
wharf. As we were going along the people stared; not at Queequeg so
much—for they were used to seeing cannibals like him in their
streets,—but at seeing him and me upon such confidential terms. But we
heeded them not, going along wheeling the barrow by turns, and Queequeg
now and then stopping to adjust the sheath on his harpoon barbs. I
asked him why he carried such a troublesome thing with him ashore, and
whether all whaling ships did not find their own harpoons. To this, in
substance, he replied, that though what I hinted was true enough, yet
he had a particular affection for his own harpoon, because it was of
assured stuff, well tried in many a mortal combat, and deeply intimate
with the hearts of whales. In short, like many inland reapers and
mowers, who go into the farmers’ meadows armed with their own
scythes—though in no wise obliged to furnish them—even so, Queequeg,
for his own private reasons, preferred his own harpoon.

Shifting the barrow from my hand to his, he told me a funny story about
the first wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. The
owners of his ship, it seems, had lent him one, in which to carry his
heavy chest to his boarding house. Not to seem ignorant about the
thing—though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise way in
which to manage the barrow—Queequeg puts his chest upon it; lashes it
fast; and then shoulders the barrow and marches up the wharf. “Why,”
said I, “Queequeg, you might have known better than that, one would
think. Didn’t the people laugh?”

Upon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of
Rokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water
of young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; and
this punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the braided
mat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant ship once
touched at Rokovoko, and its commander—from all accounts, a very
stately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain—this
commander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a
pretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding
guests were assembled at the bride’s bamboo cottage, this Captain
marches in, and being assigned the post of honor, placed himself over
against the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his majesty the
King, Queequeg’s father. Grace being said,—for those people have their
grace as well as we—though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such
times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying
the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts—Grace, I
say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial
ceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and
consecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage
circulates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the
ceremony, and thinking himself—being Captain of a ship—as having plain
precedence over a mere island King, especially in the King’s own
house—the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the
punchbowl;—taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass. “Now,” said
Queequeg, “what you tink now?—Didn’t our people laugh?”

At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the
schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one
side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees
all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of
casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the
world-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while
from others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises
of fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises
were on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only
begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on,
for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness
of all earthly effort.

Gaining the more open water, the bracing breeze waxed fresh; the little
Moss tossed the quick foam from her bows, as a young colt his
snortings. How I snuffed that Tartar air!—how I spurned that turnpike
earth!—that common highway all over dented with the marks of slavish
heels and hoofs; and turned me to admire the magnanimity of the sea
which will permit no records.

At the same foam-fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and reel with me.
His dusky nostrils swelled apart; he showed his filed and pointed
teeth. On, on we flew; and our offing gained, the Moss did homage to
the blast; ducked and dived her bows as a slave before the Sultan.
Sideways leaning, we sideways darted; every ropeyarn tingling like a
wire; the two tall masts buckling like Indian canes in land tornadoes.
So full of this reeling scene were we, as we stood by the plunging
bowsprit, that for some time we did not notice the jeering glances of
the passengers, a lubber-like assembly, who marvelled that two fellow
beings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything
more dignified than a whitewashed negro. But there were some boobies
and bumpkins there, who, by their intense greenness, must have come
from the heart and centre of all verdure. Queequeg caught one of these
young saplings mimicking him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin’s
hour of doom was come. Dropping his harpoon, the brawny savage caught
him in his arms, and by an almost miraculous dexterity and strength,
sent him high up bodily into the air; then slightly tapping his stern
in mid-somerset, the fellow landed with bursting lungs upon his feet,
while Queequeg, turning his back upon him, lighted his tomahawk pipe
and passed it to me for a puff.

“Capting! Capting!” yelled the bumpkin, running towards that officer;
“Capting, Capting, here’s the devil.”

“Hallo, _you_ sir,” cried the Captain, a gaunt rib of the sea, stalking
up to Queequeg, “what in thunder do you mean by that? Don’t you know
you might have killed that chap?”

“What him say?” said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.

“He say,” said I, “that you came near kill-e that man there,” pointing
to the still shivering greenhorn.

“Kill-e,” cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly
expression of disdain, “ah! him bevy small-e fish-e; Queequeg no kill-e
so small-e fish-e; Queequeg kill-e big whale!”

“Look you,” roared the Captain, “I’ll kill-e _you_, you cannibal, if
you try any more of your tricks aboard here; so mind your eye.”

But it so happened just then, that it was high time for the Captain to
mind his own eye. The prodigious strain upon the main-sail had parted
the weather-sheet, and the tremendous boom was now flying from side to
side, completely sweeping the entire after part of the deck. The poor
fellow whom Queequeg had handled so roughly, was swept overboard; all
hands were in a panic; and to attempt snatching at the boom to stay it,
seemed madness. It flew from right to left, and back again, almost in
one ticking of a watch, and every instant seemed on the point of
snapping into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed capable
of being done; those on deck rushed towards the bows, and stood eyeing
the boom as if it were the lower jaw of an exasperated whale. In the
midst of this consternation, Queequeg dropped deftly to his knees, and
crawling under the path of the boom, whipped hold of a rope, secured
one end to the bulwarks, and then flinging the other like a lasso,
caught it round the boom as it swept over his head, and at the next
jerk, the spar was that way trapped, and all was safe. The schooner was
run into the wind, and while the hands were clearing away the stern
boat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, darted from the side with a long
living arc of a leap. For three minutes or more he was seen swimming
like a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by
turns revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam. I
looked at the grand and glorious fellow, but saw no one to be saved.
The greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly from the
water, Queequeg, now took an instant’s glance around him, and seeming
to see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes
more, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and with the other
dragging a lifeless form. The boat soon picked them up. The poor
bumpkin was restored. All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the
captain begged his pardon. From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a
barnacle; yea, till poor Queequeg took his last long dive.

Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he
at all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He
only asked for water—fresh water—something to wipe the brine off; that
done, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against the
bulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying to
himself—“It’s a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians. We
cannibals must help these Christians.”


CHAPTER 14. Nantucket.

Nothing more happened on the passage worthy the mentioning; so, after a
fine run, we safely arrived in Nantucket.

Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of
the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely
than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a mere hillock, and elbow of
sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than
you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some
gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they
don’t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have
to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that
pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true
cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses,
to get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an
oasis, three blades in a day’s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand
shoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up,
belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island
of by the ocean, that to their very chairs and tables small clams will
sometimes be found adhering, as to the backs of sea turtles. But these
extravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.

Look now at the wondrous traditional story of how this island was
settled by the red-men. Thus goes the legend. In olden times an eagle
swooped down upon the New England coast, and carried off an infant
Indian in his talons. With loud lament the parents saw their child
borne out of sight over the wide waters. They resolved to follow in the
same direction. Setting out in their canoes, after a perilous passage
they discovered the island, and there they found an empty ivory
casket,—the poor little Indian’s skeleton.

What wonder, then, that these Nantucketers, born on a beach, should
take to the sea for a livelihood! They first caught crabs and quohogs
in the sand; grown bolder, they waded out with nets for mackerel; more
experienced, they pushed off in boats and captured cod; and at last,
launching a navy of great ships on the sea, explored this watery world;
put an incessant belt of circumnavigations round it; peeped in at
Behring’s Straits; and in all seasons and all oceans declared
everlasting war with the mightiest animated mass that has survived the
flood; most monstrous and most mountainous! That Himmalehan, salt-sea
Mastodon, clothed with such portentousness of unconscious power, that
his very panics are more to be dreaded than his most fearless and
malicious assaults!

And thus have these naked Nantucketers, these sea hermits, issuing from
their ant-hill in the sea, overrun and conquered the watery world like
so many Alexanders; parcelling out among them the Atlantic, Pacific,
and Indian oceans, as the three pirate powers did Poland. Let America
add Mexico to Texas, and pile Cuba upon Canada; let the English
overswarm all India, and hang out their blazing banner from the sun;
two thirds of this terraqueous globe are the Nantucketer’s. For the sea
is his; he owns it, as Emperors own empires; other seamen having but a
right of way through it. Merchant ships are but extension bridges;
armed ones but floating forts; even pirates and privateers, though
following the sea as highwaymen the road, they but plunder other ships,
other fragments of the land like themselves, without seeking to draw
their living from the bottomless deep itself. The Nantucketer, he alone
resides and riots on the sea; he alone, in Bible language, goes down to
it in ships; to and fro ploughing it as his own special plantation.
_There_ is his home; _there_ lies his business, which a Noah’s flood
would not interrupt, though it overwhelmed all the millions in China.
He lives on the sea, as prairie cocks in the prairie; he hides among
the waves, he climbs them as chamois hunters climb the Alps. For years
he knows not the land; so that when he comes to it at last, it smells
like another world, more strangely than the moon would to an Earthsman.
With the landless gull, that at sunset folds her wings and is rocked to
sleep between billows; so at nightfall, the Nantucketer, out of sight
of land, furls his sails, and lays him to his rest, while under his
very pillow rush herds of walruses and whales.


CHAPTER 15. Chowder.

It was quite late in the evening when the little Moss came snugly to
anchor, and Queequeg and I went ashore; so we could attend to no
business that day, at least none but a supper and a bed. The landlord
of the Spouter-Inn had recommended us to his cousin Hosea Hussey of the
Try Pots, whom he asserted to be the proprietor of one of the best kept
hotels in all Nantucket, and moreover he had assured us that Cousin
Hosea, as he called him, was famous for his chowders. In short, he
plainly hinted that we could not possibly do better than try pot-luck
at the Try Pots. But the directions he had given us about keeping a
yellow warehouse on our starboard hand till we opened a white church to
the larboard, and then keeping that on the larboard hand till we made a
corner three points to the starboard, and that done, then ask the first
man we met where the place was: these crooked directions of his very
much puzzled us at first, especially as, at the outset, Queequeg
insisted that the yellow warehouse—our first point of departure—must be
left on the larboard hand, whereas I had understood Peter Coffin to say
it was on the starboard. However, by dint of beating about a little in
the dark, and now and then knocking up a peaceable inhabitant to
inquire the way, we at last came to something which there was no
mistaking.

Two enormous wooden pots painted black, and suspended by asses’ ears,
swung from the cross-trees of an old top-mast, planted in front of an
old doorway. The horns of the cross-trees were sawed off on the other
side, so that this old top-mast looked not a little like a gallows.
Perhaps I was over sensitive to such impressions at the time, but I
could not help staring at this gallows with a vague misgiving. A sort
of crick was in my neck as I gazed up to the two remaining horns; yes,
_two_ of them, one for Queequeg, and one for me. It’s ominous, thinks
I. A Coffin my Innkeeper upon landing in my first whaling port;
tombstones staring at me in the whalemen’s chapel; and here a gallows!
and a pair of prodigious black pots too! Are these last throwing out
oblique hints touching Tophet?

I was called from these reflections by the sight of a freckled woman
with yellow hair and a yellow gown, standing in the porch of the inn,
under a dull red lamp swinging there, that looked much like an injured
eye, and carrying on a brisk scolding with a man in a purple woollen
shirt.

“Get along with ye,” said she to the man, “or I’ll be combing ye!”

“Come on, Queequeg,” said I, “all right. There’s Mrs. Hussey.”

And so it turned out; Mr. Hosea Hussey being from home, but leaving
Mrs. Hussey entirely competent to attend to all his affairs. Upon
making known our desires for a supper and a bed, Mrs. Hussey,
postponing further scolding for the present, ushered us into a little
room, and seating us at a table spread with the relics of a recently
concluded repast, turned round to us and said—“Clam or Cod?”

“What’s that about Cods, ma’am?” said I, with much politeness.

“Clam or Cod?” she repeated.

“A clam for supper? a cold clam; is _that_ what you mean, Mrs. Hussey?”
says I, “but that’s a rather cold and clammy reception in the winter
time, ain’t it, Mrs. Hussey?”

But being in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple
Shirt, who was waiting for it in the entry, and seeming to hear nothing
but the word “clam,” Mrs. Hussey hurried towards an open door leading
to the kitchen, and bawling out “clam for two,” disappeared.

“Queequeg,” said I, “do you think that we can make out a supper for us
both on one clam?”

However, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the
apparently cheerless prospect before us. But when that smoking chowder
came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends!
hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than
hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up
into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully
seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the
frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing
food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we
despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and
bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey’s clam and cod announcement, I thought I
would try a little experiment. Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered
the word “cod” with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few
moments the savoury steam came forth again, but with a different
flavor, and in good time a fine cod-chowder was placed before us.

We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I
to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What’s
that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people? “But look,
Queequeg, ain’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”

Fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved its
name; for the pots there were always boiling chowders. Chowder for
breakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you
began to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. The area
before the house was paved with clam-shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a
polished necklace of codfish vertebra; and Hosea Hussey had his account
books bound in superior old shark-skin. There was a fishy flavor to the
milk, too, which I could not at all account for, till one morning
happening to take a stroll along the beach among some fishermen’s
boats, I saw Hosea’s brindled cow feeding on fish remnants, and
marching along the sand with each foot in a cod’s decapitated head,
looking very slip-shod, I assure ye.

Supper concluded, we received a lamp, and directions from Mrs. Hussey
concerning the nearest way to bed; but, as Queequeg was about to
precede me up the stairs, the lady reached forth her arm, and demanded
his harpoon; she allowed no harpoon in her chambers. “Why not?” said I;
“every true whaleman sleeps with his harpoon—but why not?” “Because
it’s dangerous,” says she. “Ever since young Stiggs coming from that
unfort’nt v’y’ge of his, when he was gone four years and a half, with
only three barrels of _ile_, was found dead in my first floor back,
with his harpoon in his side; ever since then I allow no boarders to
take sich dangerous weepons in their rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg”
(for she had learned his name), “I will just take this here iron, and
keep it for you till morning. But the chowder; clam or cod to-morrow
for breakfast, men?”

“Both,” says I; “and let’s have a couple of smoked herring by way of
variety.”


CHAPTER 16. The Ship.

In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no
small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been
diligently consulting Yojo—the name of his black little god—and Yojo
had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it
everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in
harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say,
Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest
wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order
to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself,
I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though
it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship
myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.

I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great
confidence in the excellence of Yojo’s judgment and surprising forecast
of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather
good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in
all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs.

Now, this plan of Queequeg’s, or rather Yojo’s, touching the selection
of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little
relied upon Queequeg’s sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to
carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances
produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and
accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined
rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that
trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up
with Yojo in our little bedroom—for it seemed that it was some sort of
Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with
Queequeg and Yojo that day; _how_ it was I never could find out, for,
though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his
liturgies and XXXIX Articles—leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his
tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of
shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged
sauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three
ships up for three-years’ voyages—The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the
Pequod. _Devil-Dam_, I do not know the origin of; _Tit-bit_ is obvious;
_Pequod_, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated
tribe of Massachusetts Indians; now extinct as the ancient Medes. I
peered and pryed about the Devil-dam; from her, hopped over to the
Tit-bit; and finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for
a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us.

You may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I
know;—square-toed luggers; mountainous Japanese junks; butter-box
galliots, and what not; but take my word for it, you never saw such a
rare old craft as this same rare old Pequod. She was a ship of the old
school, rather small if anything; with an old-fashioned claw-footed
look about her. Long seasoned and weather-stained in the typhoons and
calms of all four oceans, her old hull’s complexion was darkened like a
French grenadier’s, who has alike fought in Egypt and Siberia. Her
venerable bows looked bearded. Her masts—cut somewhere on the coast of
Japan, where her original ones were lost overboard in a gale—her masts
stood stiffly up like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her
ancient decks were worn and wrinkled, like the pilgrim-worshipped
flag-stone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled. But to all these
her old antiquities, were added new and marvellous features, pertaining
to the wild business that for more than half a century she had
followed. Old Captain Peleg, many years her chief-mate, before he
commanded another vessel of his own, and now a retired seaman, and one
of the principal owners of the Pequod,—this old Peleg, during the term
of his chief-mateship, had built upon her original grotesqueness, and
inlaid it, all over, with a quaintness both of material and device,
unmatched by anything except it be Thorkill-Hake’s carved buckler or
bedstead. She was apparelled like any barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his
neck heavy with pendants of polished ivory. She was a thing of
trophies. A cannibal of a craft, tricking herself forth in the chased
bones of her enemies. All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were
garnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the
sperm whale, inserted there for pins, to fasten her old hempen thews
and tendons to. Those thews ran not through base blocks of land wood,
but deftly travelled over sheaves of sea-ivory. Scorning a turnstile
wheel at her reverend helm, she sported there a tiller; and that tiller
was in one mass, curiously carved from the long narrow lower jaw of her
hereditary foe. The helmsman who steered by that tiller in a tempest,
felt like the Tartar, when he holds back his fiery steed by clutching
its jaw. A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things
are touched with that.

Now when I looked about the quarter-deck, for some one having
authority, in order to propose myself as a candidate for the voyage, at
first I saw nobody; but I could not well overlook a strange sort of
tent, or rather wigwam, pitched a little behind the main-mast. It
seemed only a temporary erection used in port. It was of a conical
shape, some ten feet high; consisting of the long, huge slabs of limber
black bone taken from the middle and highest part of the jaws of the
right-whale. Planted with their broad ends on the deck, a circle of
these slabs laced together, mutually sloped towards each other, and at
the apex united in a tufted point, where the loose hairy fibres waved
to and fro like the top-knot on some old Pottowottamie Sachem’s head. A
triangular opening faced towards the bows of the ship, so that the
insider commanded a complete view forward.

And half concealed in this queer tenement, I at length found one who by
his aspect seemed to have authority; and who, it being noon, and the
ship’s work suspended, was now enjoying respite from the burden of
command. He was seated on an old-fashioned oaken chair, wriggling all
over with curious carving; and the bottom of which was formed of a
stout interlacing of the same elastic stuff of which the wigwam was
constructed.

There was nothing so very particular, perhaps, about the appearance of
the elderly man I saw; he was brown and brawny, like most old seamen,
and heavily rolled up in blue pilot-cloth, cut in the Quaker style;
only there was a fine and almost microscopic net-work of the minutest
wrinkles interlacing round his eyes, which must have arisen from his
continual sailings in many hard gales, and always looking to
windward;—for this causes the muscles about the eyes to become pursed
together. Such eye-wrinkles are very effectual in a scowl.

“Is this the Captain of the Pequod?” said I, advancing to the door of
the tent.

“Supposing it be the captain of the Pequod, what dost thou want of
him?” he demanded.

“I was thinking of shipping.”

“Thou wast, wast thou? I see thou art no Nantucketer—ever been in a
stove boat?”

“No, Sir, I never have.”

“Dost know nothing at all about whaling, I dare say—eh?

“Nothing, Sir; but I have no doubt I shall soon learn. I’ve been
several voyages in the merchant service, and I think that—”

“Merchant service be damned. Talk not that lingo to me. Dost see that
leg?—I’ll take that leg away from thy stern, if ever thou talkest of
the marchant service to me again. Marchant service indeed! I suppose
now ye feel considerable proud of having served in those marchant
ships. But flukes! man, what makes thee want to go a whaling, eh?—it
looks a little suspicious, don’t it, eh?—Hast not been a pirate, hast
thou?—Didst not rob thy last Captain, didst thou?—Dost not think of
murdering the officers when thou gettest to sea?”

I protested my innocence of these things. I saw that under the mask of
these half humorous innuendoes, this old seaman, as an insulated
Quakerish Nantucketer, was full of his insular prejudices, and rather
distrustful of all aliens, unless they hailed from Cape Cod or the
Vineyard.

“But what takes thee a-whaling? I want to know that before I think of
shipping ye.”

“Well, sir, I want to see what whaling is. I want to see the world.”

“Want to see what whaling is, eh? Have ye clapped eye on Captain Ahab?”

“Who is Captain Ahab, sir?”

“Aye, aye, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the Captain of this ship.”

“I am mistaken then. I thought I was speaking to the Captain himself.”

“Thou art speaking to Captain Peleg—that’s who ye are speaking to,
young man. It belongs to me and Captain Bildad to see the Pequod fitted
out for the voyage, and supplied with all her needs, including crew. We
are part owners and agents. But as I was going to say, if thou wantest
to know what whaling is, as thou tellest ye do, I can put ye in a way
of finding it out before ye bind yourself to it, past backing out. Clap
eye on Captain Ahab, young man, and thou wilt find that he has only one
leg.”

“What do you mean, sir? Was the other one lost by a whale?”

“Lost by a whale! Young man, come nearer to me: it was devoured, chewed
up, crunched by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever chipped a
boat!—ah, ah!”

I was a little alarmed by his energy, perhaps also a little touched at
the hearty grief in his concluding exclamation, but said as calmly as I
could, “What you say is no doubt true enough, sir; but how could I know
there was any peculiar ferocity in that particular whale, though indeed
I might have inferred as much from the simple fact of the accident.”

“Look ye now, young man, thy lungs are a sort of soft, d’ye see; thou
dost not talk shark a bit. _Sure_, ye’ve been to sea before now; sure
of that?”

“Sir,” said I, “I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in
the merchant—”

“Hard down out of that! Mind what I said about the marchant
service—don’t aggravate me—I won’t have it. But let us understand each
other. I have given thee a hint about what whaling is; do ye yet feel
inclined for it?”

“I do, sir.”

“Very good. Now, art thou the man to pitch a harpoon down a live
whale’s throat, and then jump after it? Answer, quick!”

“I am, sir, if it should be positively indispensable to do so; not to
be got rid of, that is; which I don’t take to be the fact.”

“Good again. Now then, thou not only wantest to go a-whaling, to find
out by experience what whaling is, but ye also want to go in order to
see the world? Was not that what ye said? I thought so. Well then, just
step forward there, and take a peep over the weather-bow, and then back
to me and tell me what ye see there.”

For a moment I stood a little puzzled by this curious request, not
knowing exactly how to take it, whether humorously or in earnest. But
concentrating all his crow’s feet into one scowl, Captain Peleg started
me on the errand.

Going forward and glancing over the weather bow, I perceived that the
ship swinging to her anchor with the flood-tide, was now obliquely
pointing towards the open ocean. The prospect was unlimited, but
exceedingly monotonous and forbidding; not the slightest variety that I
could see.

“Well, what’s the report?” said Peleg when I came back; “what did ye
see?”

“Not much,” I replied—“nothing but water; considerable horizon though,
and there’s a squall coming up, I think.”

“Well, what does thou think then of seeing the world? Do ye wish to go
round Cape Horn to see any more of it, eh? Can’t ye see the world where
you stand?”

I was a little staggered, but go a-whaling I must, and I would; and the
Pequod was as good a ship as any—I thought the best—and all this I now
repeated to Peleg. Seeing me so determined, he expressed his
willingness to ship me.

“And thou mayest as well sign the papers right off,” he added—“come
along with ye.” And so saying, he led the way below deck into the
cabin.

Seated on the transom was what seemed to me a most uncommon and
surprising figure. It turned out to be Captain Bildad, who along with
Captain Peleg was one of the largest owners of the vessel; the other
shares, as is sometimes the case in these ports, being held by a crowd
of old annuitants; widows, fatherless children, and chancery wards;
each owning about the value of a timber head, or a foot of plank, or a
nail or two in the ship. People in Nantucket invest their money in
whaling vessels, the same way that you do yours in approved state
stocks bringing in good interest.

Now, Bildad, like Peleg, and indeed many other Nantucketers, was a
Quaker, the island having been originally settled by that sect; and to
this day its inhabitants in general retain in an uncommon measure the
peculiarities of the Quaker, only variously and anomalously modified by
things altogether alien and heterogeneous. For some of these same
Quakers are the most sanguinary of all sailors and whale-hunters. They
are fighting Quakers; they are Quakers with a vengeance.

So that there are instances among them of men, who, named with
Scripture names—a singularly common fashion on the island—and in
childhood naturally imbibing the stately dramatic thee and thou of the
Quaker idiom; still, from the audacious, daring, and boundless
adventure of their subsequent lives, strangely blend with these
unoutgrown peculiarities, a thousand bold dashes of character, not
unworthy a Scandinavian sea-king, or a poetical Pagan Roman. And when
these things unite in a man of greatly superior natural force, with a
globular brain and a ponderous heart; who has also by the stillness and
seclusion of many long night-watches in the remotest waters, and
beneath constellations never seen here at the north, been led to think
untraditionally and independently; receiving all nature’s sweet or
savage impressions fresh from her own virgin voluntary and confiding
breast, and thereby chiefly, but with some help from accidental
advantages, to learn a bold and nervous lofty language—that man makes
one in a whole nation’s census—a mighty pageant creature, formed for
noble tragedies. Nor will it at all detract from him, dramatically
regarded, if either by birth or other circumstances, he have what seems
a half wilful overruling morbidness at the bottom of his nature. For
all men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. Be
sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease.
But, as yet we have not to do with such an one, but with quite another;
and still a man, who, if indeed peculiar, it only results again from
another phase of the Quaker, modified by individual circumstances.

Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a well-to-do, retired whaleman.
But unlike Captain Peleg—who cared not a rush for what are called
serious things, and indeed deemed those self-same serious things the
veriest of all trifles—Captain Bildad had not only been originally
educated according to the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism, but
all his subsequent ocean life, and the sight of many unclad, lovely
island creatures, round the Horn—all that had not moved this native
born Quaker one single jot, had not so much as altered one angle of his
vest. Still, for all this immutableness, was there some lack of common
consistency about worthy Captain Bildad. Though refusing, from
conscientious scruples, to bear arms against land invaders, yet himself
had illimitably invaded the Atlantic and Pacific; and though a sworn
foe to human bloodshed, yet had he in his straight-bodied coat, spilled
tuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative evening
of his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the
reminiscence, I do not know; but it did not seem to concern him much,
and very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible
conclusion that a man’s religion is one thing, and this practical world
quite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little
cabin-boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a
broad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boat-header,
chief-mate, and captain, and finally a ship owner; Bildad, as I hinted
before, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from
active life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining
days to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income.

Now, Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an
incorrigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard
task-master. They told me in Nantucket, though it certainly seems a
curious story, that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew,
upon arriving home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital,
sore exhausted and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker,
he was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used
to swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an
inordinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When
Bildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-coloured eye intently looking
at you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch
something—a hammer or a marling-spike, and go to work like mad, at
something or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished
before him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his utilitarian
character. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare flesh, no
superfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap to it, like
the worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat.

Such, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when I
followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks
was small; and there, bolt-upright, sat old Bildad, who always sat so,
and never leaned, and this to save his coat tails. His broad-brim was
placed beside him; his legs were stiffly crossed; his drab vesture was
buttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed absorbed in
reading from a ponderous volume.

“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been
studying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my
certain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad?”

As if long habituated to such profane talk from his old shipmate,
Bildad, without noticing his present irreverence, quietly looked up,
and seeing me, glanced again inquiringly towards Peleg.

“He says he’s our man, Bildad,” said Peleg, “he wants to ship.”

“Dost thee?” said Bildad, in a hollow tone, and turning round to me.

“I _dost_,” said I unconsciously, he was so intense a Quaker.

“What do ye think of him, Bildad?” said Peleg.

“He’ll do,” said Bildad, eyeing me, and then went on spelling away at
his book in a mumbling tone quite audible.

I thought him the queerest old Quaker I ever saw, especially as Peleg,
his friend and old shipmate, seemed such a blusterer. But I said
nothing, only looking round me sharply. Peleg now threw open a chest,
and drawing forth the ship’s articles, placed pen and ink before him,
and seated himself at a little table. I began to think it was high time
to settle with myself at what terms I would be willing to engage for
the voyage. I was already aware that in the whaling business they paid
no wages; but all hands, including the captain, received certain shares
of the profits called _lays_, and that these lays were proportioned to
the degree of importance pertaining to the respective duties of the
ship’s company. I was also aware that being a green hand at whaling, my
own lay would not be very large; but considering that I was used to the
sea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and all that, I made no doubt
that from all I had heard I should be offered at least the 275th
lay—that is, the 275th part of the clear net proceeds of the voyage,
whatever that might eventually amount to. And though the 275th lay was
what they call a rather _long lay_, yet it was better than nothing; and
if we had a lucky voyage, might pretty nearly pay for the clothing I
would wear out on it, not to speak of my three years’ beef and board,
for which I would not have to pay one stiver.

It might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely
fortune—and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am one of those
that never take on about princely fortunes, and am quite content if the
world is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this
grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. Upon the whole, I thought that the
275th lay would be about the fair thing, but would not have been
surprised had I been offered the 200th, considering I was of a
broad-shouldered make.

But one thing, nevertheless, that made me a little distrustful about
receiving a generous share of the profits was this: Ashore, I had heard
something of both Captain Peleg and his unaccountable old crony Bildad;
how that they being the principal proprietors of the Pequod, therefore
the other and more inconsiderable and scattered owners, left nearly the
whole management of the ship’s affairs to these two. And I did not know
but what the stingy old Bildad might have a mighty deal to say about
shipping hands, especially as I now found him on board the Pequod,
quite at home there in the cabin, and reading his Bible as if at his
own fireside. Now while Peleg was vainly trying to mend a pen with his
jack-knife, old Bildad, to my no small surprise, considering that he
was such an interested party in these proceedings; Bildad never heeded
us, but went on mumbling to himself out of his book, “_Lay_ not up for
yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth—”

“Well, Captain Bildad,” interrupted Peleg, “what d’ye say, what lay
shall we give this young man?”

“Thou knowest best,” was the sepulchral reply, “the seven hundred and
seventy-seventh wouldn’t be too much, would it?—‘where moth and rust do
corrupt, but _lay_—’”

_Lay_, indeed, thought I, and such a lay! the seven hundred and
seventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one,
shall not _lay_ up many _lays_ here below, where moth and rust do
corrupt. It was an exceedingly _long lay_ that, indeed; and though from
the magnitude of the figure it might at first deceive a landsman, yet
the slightest consideration will show that though seven hundred and
seventy-seven is a pretty large number, yet, when you come to make a
_teenth_ of it, you will then see, I say, that the seven hundred and
seventy-seventh part of a farthing is a good deal less than seven
hundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons; and so I thought at the time.

“Why, blast your eyes, Bildad,” cried Peleg, “thou dost not want to
swindle this young man! he must have more than that.”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seventh,” again said Bildad, without lifting
his eyes; and then went on mumbling—“for where your treasure is, there
will your heart be also.”

“I am going to put him down for the three hundredth,” said Peleg, “do
ye hear that, Bildad! The three hundredth lay, I say.”

Bildad laid down his book, and turning solemnly towards him said,
“Captain Peleg, thou hast a generous heart; but thou must consider the
duty thou owest to the other owners of this ship—widows and orphans,
many of them—and that if we too abundantly reward the labors of this
young man, we may be taking the bread from those widows and those
orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg.”

“Thou Bildad!” roared Peleg, starting up and clattering about the
cabin. “Blast ye, Captain Bildad, if I had followed thy advice in these
matters, I would afore now had a conscience to lug about that would be
heavy enough to founder the largest ship that ever sailed round Cape
Horn.”

“Captain Peleg,” said Bildad steadily, “thy conscience may be drawing
ten inches of water, or ten fathoms, I can’t tell; but as thou art
still an impenitent man, Captain Peleg, I greatly fear lest thy
conscience be but a leaky one; and will in the end sink thee foundering
down to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg.”

“Fiery pit! fiery pit! ye insult me, man; past all natural bearing, ye
insult me. It’s an all-fired outrage to tell any human creature that
he’s bound to hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that again to me,
and start my soul-bolts, but I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll swallow a live goat
with all his hair and horns on. Out of the cabin, ye canting,
drab-coloured son of a wooden gun—a straight wake with ye!”

As he thundered out this he made a rush at Bildad, but with a
marvellous oblique, sliding celerity, Bildad for that time eluded him.

Alarmed at this terrible outburst between the two principal and
responsible owners of the ship, and feeling half a mind to give up all
idea of sailing in a vessel so questionably owned and temporarily
commanded, I stepped aside from the door to give egress to Bildad, who,
I made no doubt, was all eagerness to vanish from before the awakened
wrath of Peleg. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the
transom very quietly, and seemed to have not the slightest intention of
withdrawing. He seemed quite used to impenitent Peleg and his ways. As
for Peleg, after letting off his rage as he had, there seemed no more
left in him, and he, too, sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a
little as if still nervously agitated. “Whew!” he whistled at last—“the
squall’s gone off to leeward, I think. Bildad, thou used to be good at
sharpening a lance, mend that pen, will ye. My jack-knife here needs
the grindstone. That’s he; thank ye, Bildad. Now then, my young man,
Ishmael’s thy name, didn’t ye say? Well then, down ye go here, Ishmael,
for the three hundredth lay.”

“Captain Peleg,” said I, “I have a friend with me who wants to ship
too—shall I bring him down to-morrow?”

“To be sure,” said Peleg. “Fetch him along, and we’ll look at him.”

“What lay does he want?” groaned Bildad, glancing up from the book in
which he had again been burying himself.

“Oh! never thee mind about that, Bildad,” said Peleg. “Has he ever
whaled it any?” turning to me.

“Killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg.”

“Well, bring him along then.”

And, after signing the papers, off I went; nothing doubting but that I
had done a good morning’s work, and that the Pequod was the identical
ship that Yojo had provided to carry Queequeg and me round the Cape.

But I had not proceeded far, when I began to bethink me that the
Captain with whom I was to sail yet remained unseen by me; though,
indeed, in many cases, a whale-ship will be completely fitted out, and
receive all her crew on board, ere the captain makes himself visible by
arriving to take command; for sometimes these voyages are so prolonged,
and the shore intervals at home so exceedingly brief, that if the
captain have a family, or any absorbing concernment of that sort, he
does not trouble himself much about his ship in port, but leaves her to
the owners till all is ready for sea. However, it is always as well to
have a look at him before irrevocably committing yourself into his
hands. Turning back I accosted Captain Peleg, inquiring where Captain
Ahab was to be found.

“And what dost thou want of Captain Ahab? It’s all right enough; thou
art shipped.”

“Yes, but I should like to see him.”

“But I don’t think thou wilt be able to at present. I don’t know
exactly what’s the matter with him; but he keeps close inside the
house; a sort of sick, and yet he don’t look so. In fact, he ain’t
sick; but no, he isn’t well either. Any how, young man, he won’t always
see me, so I don’t suppose he will thee. He’s a queer man, Captain
Ahab—so some think—but a good one. Oh, thou’lt like him well enough; no
fear, no fear. He’s a grand, ungodly, god-like man, Captain Ahab;
doesn’t speak much; but, when he does speak, then you may well listen.
Mark ye, be forewarned; Ahab’s above the common; Ahab’s been in
colleges, as well as ’mong the cannibals; been used to deeper wonders
than the waves; fixed his fiery lance in mightier, stranger foes than
whales. His lance! aye, the keenest and the surest that out of all our
isle! Oh! he ain’t Captain Bildad; no, and he ain’t Captain Peleg;
_he’s Ahab_, boy; and Ahab of old, thou knowest, was a crowned king!”

“And a very vile one. When that wicked king was slain, the dogs, did
they not lick his blood?”

“Come hither to me—hither, hither,” said Peleg, with a significance in
his eye that almost startled me. “Look ye, lad; never say that on board
the Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab did not name himself.
’Twas a foolish, ignorant whim of his crazy, widowed mother, who died
when he was only a twelvemonth old. And yet the old squaw Tistig, at
Gayhead, said that the name would somehow prove prophetic. And,
perhaps, other fools like her may tell thee the same. I wish to warn
thee. It’s a lie. I know Captain Ahab well; I’ve sailed with him as
mate years ago; I know what he is—a good man—not a pious, good man,
like Bildad, but a swearing good man—something like me—only there’s a
good deal more of him. Aye, aye, I know that he was never very jolly;
and I know that on the passage home, he was a little out of his mind
for a spell; but it was the sharp shooting pains in his bleeding stump
that brought that about, as any one might see. I know, too, that ever
since he lost his leg last voyage by that accursed whale, he’s been a
kind of moody—desperate moody, and savage sometimes; but that will all
pass off. And once for all, let me tell thee and assure thee, young
man, it’s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad
one. So good-bye to thee—and wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens
to have a wicked name. Besides, my boy, he has a wife—not three voyages
wedded—a sweet, resigned girl. Think of that; by that sweet girl that
old man has a child: hold ye then there can be any utter, hopeless harm
in Ahab? No, no, my lad; stricken, blasted, if he be, Ahab has his
humanities!”

As I walked away, I was full of thoughtfulness; what had been
incidentally revealed to me of Captain Ahab, filled me with a certain
wild vagueness of painfulness concerning him. And somehow, at the time,
I felt a sympathy and a sorrow for him, but for I don’t know what,
unless it was the cruel loss of his leg. And yet I also felt a strange
awe of him; but that sort of awe, which I cannot at all describe, was
not exactly awe; I do not know what it was. But I felt it; and it did
not disincline me towards him; though I felt impatience at what seemed
like mystery in him, so imperfectly as he was known to me then.
However, my thoughts were at length carried in other directions, so
that for the present dark Ahab slipped my mind.


CHAPTER 17. The Ramadan.

As Queequeg’s Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all
day, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I
cherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations,
never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue
even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other
creatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of
footmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the
torso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the
inordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.

I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these
things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals,
pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these
subjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most
absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;—but what of that? Queequeg
thought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content;
and there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let
him be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all—Presbyterians and Pagans
alike—for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and
sadly need mending.

Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and
rituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door;
but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside.
“Queequeg,” said I softly through the key-hole:—all silent. “I say,
Queequeg! why don’t you speak? It’s I—Ishmael.” But all remained still
as before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant
time; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through
the key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the
key-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see
part of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing
more. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden
shaft of Queequeg’s harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous
had taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That’s strange,
thought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he
seldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside
here, and no possible mistake.

“Queequeg!—Queequeg!”—all still. Something must have happened.
Apoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted.
Running down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person
I met—the chamber-maid. “La! la!” she cried, “I thought something must
be the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was
locked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it’s been just so silent ever
since. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your
baggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma’am!—Mistress! murder! Mrs.
Hussey! apoplexy!”—and with these cries, she ran towards the kitchen, I
following.

Mrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a
vinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation
of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy
meantime.

“Wood-house!” cried I, “which way to it? Run for God’s sake, and fetch
something to pry open the door—the axe!—the axe! he’s had a stroke;
depend upon it!”—and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs
again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and
vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.

“What’s the matter with you, young man?”

“Get the axe! For God’s sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry
it open!”

“Look here,” said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet,
so as to have one hand free; “look here; are you talking about prying
open any of my doors?”—and with that she seized my arm. “What’s the
matter with you? What’s the matter with you, shipmate?”

In as calm, but rapid a manner as possible, I gave her to understand
the whole case. Unconsciously clapping the vinegar-cruet to one side of
her nose, she ruminated for an instant; then exclaimed—“No! I haven’t
seen it since I put it there.” Running to a little closet under the
landing of the stairs, she glanced in, and returning, told me that
Queequeg’s harpoon was missing. “He’s killed himself,” she cried. “It’s
unfort’nate Stiggs done over again—there goes another counterpane—God
pity his poor mother!—it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad
a sister? Where’s that girl?—there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter,
and tell him to paint me a sign, with—“no suicides permitted here, and
no smoking in the parlor;”—might as well kill both birds at once. Kill?
The Lord be merciful to his ghost! What’s that noise there? You, young
man, avast there!”

And running up after me, she caught me as I was again trying to force
open the door.

“I don’t allow it; I won’t have my premises spoiled. Go for the
locksmith, there’s one about a mile from here. But avast!” putting her
hand in her side-pocket, “here’s a key that’ll fit, I guess; let’s
see.” And with that, she turned it in the lock; but, alas! Queequeg’s
supplemental bolt remained unwithdrawn within.

“Have to burst it open,” said I, and was running down the entry a
little, for a good start, when the landlady caught at me, again vowing
I should not break down her premises; but I tore from her, and with a
sudden bodily rush dashed myself full against the mark.

With a prodigious noise the door flew open, and the knob slamming
against the wall, sent the plaster to the ceiling; and there, good
heavens! there sat Queequeg, altogether cool and self-collected; right
in the middle of the room; squatting on his hams, and holding Yojo on
top of his head. He looked neither one way nor the other way, but sat
like a carved image with scarce a sign of active life.

“Queequeg,” said I, going up to him, “Queequeg, what’s the matter with
you?”

“He hain’t been a sittin’ so all day, has he?” said the landlady.

But all we said, not a word could we drag out of him; I almost felt
like pushing him over, so as to change his position, for it was almost
intolerable, it seemed so painfully and unnaturally constrained;
especially, as in all probability he had been sitting so for upwards of
eight or ten hours, going too without his regular meals.

“Mrs. Hussey,” said I, “he’s _alive_ at all events; so leave us, if you
please, and I will see to this strange affair myself.”

Closing the door upon the landlady, I endeavored to prevail upon
Queequeg to take a chair; but in vain. There he sat; and all he could
do—for all my polite arts and blandishments—he would not move a peg,
nor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in
the slightest way.

I wonder, thought I, if this can possibly be a part of his Ramadan; do
they fast on their hams that way in his native island. It must be so;
yes, it’s part of his creed, I suppose; well, then, let him rest; he’ll
get up sooner or later, no doubt. It can’t last for ever, thank God,
and his Ramadan only comes once a year; and I don’t believe it’s very
punctual then.

I went down to supper. After sitting a long time listening to the long
stories of some sailors who had just come from a plum-pudding voyage,
as they called it (that is, a short whaling-voyage in a schooner or
brig, confined to the north of the line, in the Atlantic Ocean only);
after listening to these plum-puddingers till nearly eleven o’clock, I
went up stairs to go to bed, feeling quite sure by this time Queequeg
must certainly have brought his Ramadan to a termination. But no; there
he was just where I had left him; he had not stirred an inch. I began
to grow vexed with him; it seemed so downright senseless and insane to
be sitting there all day and half the night on his hams in a cold room,
holding a piece of wood on his head.

“For heaven’s sake, Queequeg, get up and shake yourself; get up and
have some supper. You’ll starve; you’ll kill yourself, Queequeg.” But
not a word did he reply.

Despairing of him, therefore, I determined to go to bed and to sleep;
and no doubt, before a great while, he would follow me. But previous to
turning in, I took my heavy bearskin jacket, and threw it over him, as
it promised to be a very cold night; and he had nothing but his
ordinary round jacket on. For some time, do all I would, I could not
get into the faintest doze. I had blown out the candle; and the mere
thought of Queequeg—not four feet off—sitting there in that uneasy
position, stark alone in the cold and dark; this made me really
wretched. Think of it; sleeping all night in the same room with a wide
awake pagan on his hams in this dreary, unaccountable Ramadan!

But somehow I dropped off at last, and knew nothing more till break of
day; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he
had been screwed down to the floor. But as soon as the first glimpse of
sun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but
with a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his
forehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over.

Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person’s religion,
be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any
other person, because that other person don’t believe it also. But when
a man’s religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment
to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to
lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and
argue the point with him.

And just so I now did with Queequeg. “Queequeg,” said I, “get into bed
now, and lie and listen to me.” I then went on, beginning with the rise
and progress of the primitive religions, and coming down to the various
religions of the present time, during which time I labored to show
Queequeg that all these Lents, Ramadans, and prolonged ham-squattings
in cold, cheerless rooms were stark nonsense; bad for the health;
useless for the soul; opposed, in short, to the obvious laws of Hygiene
and common sense. I told him, too, that he being in other things such
an extremely sensible and sagacious savage, it pained me, very badly
pained me, to see him now so deplorably foolish about this ridiculous
Ramadan of his. Besides, argued I, fasting makes the body cave in;
hence the spirit caves in; and all thoughts born of a fast must
necessarily be half-starved. This is the reason why most dyspeptic
religionists cherish such melancholy notions about their hereafters. In
one word, Queequeg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first
born on an undigested apple-dumpling; and since then perpetuated
through the hereditary dyspepsias nurtured by Ramadans.

I then asked Queequeg whether he himself was ever troubled with
dyspepsia; expressing the idea very plainly, so that he could take it
in. He said no; only upon one memorable occasion. It was after a great
feast given by his father the king, on the gaining of a great battle
wherein fifty of the enemy had been killed by about two o’clock in the
afternoon, and all cooked and eaten that very evening.

“No more, Queequeg,” said I, shuddering; “that will do;” for I knew the
inferences without his further hinting them. I had seen a sailor who
had visited that very island, and he told me that it was the custom,
when a great battle had been gained there, to barbecue all the slain in
the yard or garden of the victor; and then, one by one, they were
placed in great wooden trenchers, and garnished round like a pilau,
with breadfruit and cocoanuts; and with some parsley in their mouths,
were sent round with the victor’s compliments to all his friends, just
as though these presents were so many Christmas turkeys.

After all, I do not think that my remarks about religion made much
impression upon Queequeg. Because, in the first place, he somehow
seemed dull of hearing on that important subject, unless considered
from his own point of view; and, in the second place, he did not more
than one third understand me, couch my ideas simply as I would; and,
finally, he no doubt thought he knew a good deal more about the true
religion than I did. He looked at me with a sort of condescending
concern and compassion, as though he thought it a great pity that such
a sensible young man should be so hopelessly lost to evangelical pagan
piety.

At last we rose and dressed; and Queequeg, taking a prodigiously hearty
breakfast of chowders of all sorts, so that the landlady should not
make much profit by reason of his Ramadan, we sallied out to board the
Pequod, sauntering along, and picking our teeth with halibut bones.


CHAPTER 18. His Mark.

As we were walking down the end of the wharf towards the ship, Queequeg
carrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg in his gruff voice loudly hailed us
from his wigwam, saying he had not suspected my friend was a cannibal,
and furthermore announcing that he let no cannibals on board that
craft, unless they previously produced their papers.

“What do you mean by that, Captain Peleg?” said I, now jumping on the
bulwarks, and leaving my comrade standing on the wharf.

“I mean,” he replied, “he must show his papers.”

“Yes,” said Captain Bildad in his hollow voice, sticking his head from
behind Peleg’s, out of the wigwam. “He must show that he’s converted.
Son of darkness,” he added, turning to Queequeg, “art thou at present
in communion with any Christian church?”

“Why,” said I, “he’s a member of the first Congregational Church.” Here
be it said, that many tattooed savages sailing in Nantucket ships at
last come to be converted into the churches.

“First Congregational Church,” cried Bildad, “what! that worships in
Deacon Deuteronomy Coleman’s meeting-house?” and so saying, taking out
his spectacles, he rubbed them with his great yellow bandana
handkerchief, and putting them on very carefully, came out of the
wigwam, and leaning stiffly over the bulwarks, took a good long look at
Queequeg.

“How long hath he been a member?” he then said, turning to me; “not
very long, I rather guess, young man.”

“No,” said Peleg, “and he hasn’t been baptized right either, or it
would have washed some of that devil’s blue off his face.”

“Do tell, now,” cried Bildad, “is this Philistine a regular member of
Deacon Deuteronomy’s meeting? I never saw him going there, and I pass
it every Lord’s day.”

“I don’t know anything about Deacon Deuteronomy or his meeting,” said
I; “all I know is, that Queequeg here is a born member of the First
Congregational Church. He is a deacon himself, Queequeg is.”

“Young man,” said Bildad sternly, “thou art skylarking with me—explain
thyself, thou young Hittite. What church dost thee mean? answer me.”

Finding myself thus hard pushed, I replied. “I mean, sir, the same
ancient Catholic Church to which you and I, and Captain Peleg there,
and Queequeg here, and all of us, and every mother’s son and soul of us
belong; the great and everlasting First Congregation of this whole
worshipping world; we all belong to that; only some of us cherish some
queer crotchets no ways touching the grand belief; in _that_ we all
join hands.”

“Splice, thou mean’st _splice_ hands,” cried Peleg, drawing nearer.
“Young man, you’d better ship for a missionary, instead of a fore-mast
hand; I never heard a better sermon. Deacon Deuteronomy—why Father
Mapple himself couldn’t beat it, and he’s reckoned something. Come
aboard, come aboard; never mind about the papers. I say, tell Quohog
there—what’s that you call him? tell Quohog to step along. By the great
anchor, what a harpoon he’s got there! looks like good stuff that; and
he handles it about right. I say, Quohog, or whatever your name is, did
you ever stand in the head of a whale-boat? did you ever strike a
fish?”

Without saying a word, Queequeg, in his wild sort of way, jumped upon
the bulwarks, from thence into the bows of one of the whale-boats
hanging to the side; and then bracing his left knee, and poising his
harpoon, cried out in some such way as this:—

“Cap’ain, you see him small drop tar on water dere? You see him? well,
spose him one whale eye, well, den!” and taking sharp aim at it, he
darted the iron right over old Bildad’s broad brim, clean across the
ship’s decks, and struck the glistening tar spot out of sight.

“Now,” said Queequeg, quietly hauling in the line, “spos-ee him whale-e
eye; why, dad whale dead.”

“Quick, Bildad,” said Peleg, his partner, who, aghast at the close
vicinity of the flying harpoon, had retreated towards the cabin
gangway. “Quick, I say, you Bildad, and get the ship’s papers. We must
have Hedgehog there, I mean Quohog, in one of our boats. Look ye,
Quohog, we’ll give ye the ninetieth lay, and that’s more than ever was
given a harpooneer yet out of Nantucket.”

So down we went into the cabin, and to my great joy Queequeg was soon
enrolled among the same ship’s company to which I myself belonged.

When all preliminaries were over and Peleg had got everything ready for
signing, he turned to me and said, “I guess, Quohog there don’t know
how to write, does he? I say, Quohog, blast ye! dost thou sign thy name
or make thy mark?”

But at this question, Queequeg, who had twice or thrice before taken
part in similar ceremonies, looked no ways abashed; but taking the
offered pen, copied upon the paper, in the proper place, an exact
counterpart of a queer round figure which was tattooed upon his arm; so
that through Captain Peleg’s obstinate mistake touching his
appellative, it stood something like this:—

Quohog. his X mark.

Meanwhile Captain Bildad sat earnestly and steadfastly eyeing Queequeg,
and at last rising solemnly and fumbling in the huge pockets of his
broad-skirted drab coat, took out a bundle of tracts, and selecting one
entitled “The Latter Day Coming; or No Time to Lose,” placed it in
Queequeg’s hands, and then grasping them and the book with both his,
looked earnestly into his eyes, and said, “Son of darkness, I must do
my duty by thee; I am part owner of this ship, and feel concerned for
the souls of all its crew; if thou still clingest to thy Pagan ways,
which I sadly fear, I beseech thee, remain not for aye a Belial
bondsman. Spurn the idol Bell, and the hideous dragon; turn from the
wrath to come; mind thine eye, I say; oh! goodness gracious! steer
clear of the fiery pit!”

Something of the salt sea yet lingered in old Bildad’s language,
heterogeneously mixed with Scriptural and domestic phrases.

“Avast there, avast there, Bildad, avast now spoiling our harpooneer,”
cried Peleg. “Pious harpooneers never make good voyagers—it takes the
shark out of ’em; no harpooneer is worth a straw who aint pretty
sharkish. There was young Nat Swaine, once the bravest boat-header out
of all Nantucket and the Vineyard; he joined the meeting, and never
came to good. He got so frightened about his plaguy soul, that he
shrinked and sheered away from whales, for fear of after-claps, in case
he got stove and went to Davy Jones.”

“Peleg! Peleg!” said Bildad, lifting his eyes and hands, “thou thyself,
as I myself, hast seen many a perilous time; thou knowest, Peleg, what
it is to have the fear of death; how, then, can’st thou prate in this
ungodly guise. Thou beliest thine own heart, Peleg. Tell me, when this
same Pequod here had her three masts overboard in that typhoon on
Japan, that same voyage when thou went mate with Captain Ahab, did’st
thou not think of Death and the Judgment then?”

“Hear him, hear him now,” cried Peleg, marching across the cabin, and
thrusting his hands far down into his pockets,—“hear him, all of ye.
Think of that! When every moment we thought the ship would sink! Death
and the Judgment then? What? With all three masts making such an
everlasting thundering against the side; and every sea breaking over
us, fore and aft. Think of Death and the Judgment then? No! no time to
think about Death then. Life was what Captain Ahab and I was thinking
of; and how to save all hands—how to rig jury-masts—how to get into the
nearest port; that was what I was thinking of.”

Bildad said no more, but buttoning up his coat, stalked on deck, where
we followed him. There he stood, very quietly overlooking some
sailmakers who were mending a top-sail in the waist. Now and then he
stooped to pick up a patch, or save an end of tarred twine, which
otherwise might have been wasted.


CHAPTER 19. The Prophet.

“Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship?”

Queequeg and I had just left the Pequod, and were sauntering away from
the water, for the moment each occupied with his own thoughts, when the
above words were put to us by a stranger, who, pausing before us,
levelled his massive forefinger at the vessel in question. He was but
shabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trowsers; a rag of a
black handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent small-pox had in all
directions flowed over his face, and left it like the complicated
ribbed bed of a torrent, when the rushing waters have been dried up.

“Have ye shipped in her?” he repeated.

“You mean the ship Pequod, I suppose,” said I, trying to gain a little
more time for an uninterrupted look at him.

“Aye, the Pequod—that ship there,” he said, drawing back his whole arm,
and then rapidly shoving it straight out from him, with the fixed
bayonet of his pointed finger darted full at the object.

“Yes,” said I, “we have just signed the articles.”

“Anything down there about your souls?”

“About what?”

“Oh, perhaps you hav’n’t got any,” he said quickly. “No matter though,
I know many chaps that hav’n’t got any,—good luck to ’em; and they are
all the better off for it. A soul’s a sort of a fifth wheel to a
wagon.”

“What are you jabbering about, shipmate?” said I.

“_He’s_ got enough, though, to make up for all deficiencies of that
sort in other chaps,” abruptly said the stranger, placing a nervous
emphasis upon the word _he_.

“Queequeg,” said I, “let’s go; this fellow has broken loose from
somewhere; he’s talking about something and somebody we don’t know.”

“Stop!” cried the stranger. “Ye said true—ye hav’n’t seen Old Thunder
yet, have ye?”

“Who’s Old Thunder?” said I, again riveted with the insane earnestness
of his manner.

“Captain Ahab.”

“What! the captain of our ship, the Pequod?”

“Aye, among some of us old sailor chaps, he goes by that name. Ye
hav’n’t seen him yet, have ye?”

“No, we hav’n’t. He’s sick they say, but is getting better, and will be
all right again before long.”

“All right again before long!” laughed the stranger, with a solemnly
derisive sort of laugh. “Look ye; when Captain Ahab is all right, then
this left arm of mine will be all right; not before.”

“What do you know about him?”

“What did they _tell_ you about him? Say that!”

“They didn’t tell much of anything about him; only I’ve heard that he’s
a good whale-hunter, and a good captain to his crew.”

“That’s true, that’s true—yes, both true enough. But you must jump when
he gives an order. Step and growl; growl and go—that’s the word with
Captain Ahab. But nothing about that thing that happened to him off
Cape Horn, long ago, when he lay like dead for three days and nights;
nothing about that deadly skrimmage with the Spaniard afore the altar
in Santa?—heard nothing about that, eh? Nothing about the silver
calabash he spat into? And nothing about his losing his leg last
voyage, according to the prophecy. Didn’t ye hear a word about them
matters and something more, eh? No, I don’t think ye did; how could ye?
Who knows it? Not all Nantucket, I guess. But hows’ever, mayhap, ye’ve
heard tell about the leg, and how he lost it; aye, ye have heard of
that, I dare say. Oh yes, _that_ every one knows a’most—I mean they
know he’s only one leg; and that a parmacetti took the other off.”

“My friend,” said I, “what all this gibberish of yours is about, I
don’t know, and I don’t much care; for it seems to me that you must be
a little damaged in the head. But if you are speaking of Captain Ahab,
of that ship there, the Pequod, then let me tell you, that I know all
about the loss of his leg.”

“_All_ about it, eh—sure you do?—all?”

“Pretty sure.”

With finger pointed and eye levelled at the Pequod, the beggar-like
stranger stood a moment, as if in a troubled reverie; then starting a
little, turned and said:—“Ye’ve shipped, have ye? Names down on the
papers? Well, well, what’s signed, is signed; and what’s to be, will
be; and then again, perhaps it won’t be, after all. Anyhow, it’s all
fixed and arranged a’ready; and some sailors or other must go with him,
I suppose; as well these as any other men, God pity ’em! Morning to ye,
shipmates, morning; the ineffable heavens bless ye; I’m sorry I stopped
ye.”

“Look here, friend,” said I, “if you have anything important to tell
us, out with it; but if you are only trying to bamboozle us, you are
mistaken in your game; that’s all I have to say.”

“And it’s said very well, and I like to hear a chap talk up that way;
you are just the man for him—the likes of ye. Morning to ye, shipmates,
morning! Oh! when ye get there, tell ’em I’ve concluded not to make one
of ’em.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, you can’t fool us that way—you can’t fool us. It
is the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a
great secret in him.”

“Morning to ye, shipmates, morning.”

“Morning it is,” said I. “Come along, Queequeg, let’s leave this crazy
man. But stop, tell me your name, will you?”

“Elijah.”

Elijah! thought I, and we walked away, both commenting, after each
other’s fashion, upon this ragged old sailor; and agreed that he was
nothing but a humbug, trying to be a bugbear. But we had not gone
perhaps above a hundred yards, when chancing to turn a corner, and
looking back as I did so, who should be seen but Elijah following us,
though at a distance. Somehow, the sight of him struck me so, that I
said nothing to Queequeg of his being behind, but passed on with my
comrade, anxious to see whether the stranger would turn the same corner
that we did. He did; and then it seemed to me that he was dogging us,
but with what intent I could not for the life of me imagine. This
circumstance, coupled with his ambiguous, half-hinting, half-revealing,
shrouded sort of talk, now begat in me all kinds of vague wonderments
and half-apprehensions, and all connected with the Pequod; and Captain
Ahab; and the leg he had lost; and the Cape Horn fit; and the silver
calabash; and what Captain Peleg had said of him, when I left the ship
the day previous; and the prediction of the squaw Tistig; and the
voyage we had bound ourselves to sail; and a hundred other shadowy
things.

I was resolved to satisfy myself whether this ragged Elijah was really
dogging us or not, and with that intent crossed the way with Queequeg,
and on that side of it retraced our steps. But Elijah passed on,
without seeming to notice us. This relieved me; and once more, and
finally as it seemed to me, I pronounced him in my heart, a humbug.


CHAPTER 20. All Astir.

A day or two passed, and there was great activity aboard the Pequod.
Not only were the old sails being mended, but new sails were coming on
board, and bolts of canvas, and coils of rigging; in short, everything
betokened that the ship’s preparations were hurrying to a close.
Captain Peleg seldom or never went ashore, but sat in his wigwam
keeping a sharp look-out upon the hands: Bildad did all the purchasing
and providing at the stores; and the men employed in the hold and on
the rigging were working till long after night-fall.

On the day following Queequeg’s signing the articles, word was given at
all the inns where the ship’s company were stopping, that their chests
must be on board before night, for there was no telling how soon the
vessel might be sailing. So Queequeg and I got down our traps,
resolving, however, to sleep ashore till the last. But it seems they
always give very long notice in these cases, and the ship did not sail
for several days. But no wonder; there was a good deal to be done, and
there is no telling how many things to be thought of, before the Pequod
was fully equipped.

Every one knows what a multitude of things—beds, sauce-pans, knives and
forks, shovels and tongs, napkins, nut-crackers, and what not, are
indispensable to the business of housekeeping. Just so with whaling,
which necessitates a three-years’ housekeeping upon the wide ocean, far
from all grocers, costermongers, doctors, bakers, and bankers. And
though this also holds true of merchant vessels, yet not by any means
to the same extent as with whalemen. For besides the great length of
the whaling voyage, the numerous articles peculiar to the prosecution
of the fishery, and the impossibility of replacing them at the remote
harbors usually frequented, it must be remembered, that of all ships,
whaling vessels are the most exposed to accidents of all kinds, and
especially to the destruction and loss of the very things upon which
the success of the voyage most depends. Hence, the spare boats, spare
spars, and spare lines and harpoons, and spare everythings, almost, but
a spare Captain and duplicate ship.

At the period of our arrival at the Island, the heaviest storage of the
Pequod had been almost completed; comprising her beef, bread, water,
fuel, and iron hoops and staves. But, as before hinted, for some time
there was a continual fetching and carrying on board of divers odds and
ends of things, both large and small.

Chief among those who did this fetching and carrying was Captain
Bildad’s sister, a lean old lady of a most determined and indefatigable
spirit, but withal very kindhearted, who seemed resolved that, if _she_
could help it, nothing should be found wanting in the Pequod, after
once fairly getting to sea. At one time she would come on board with a
jar of pickles for the steward’s pantry; another time with a bunch of
quills for the chief mate’s desk, where he kept his log; a third time
with a roll of flannel for the small of some one’s rheumatic back.
Never did any woman better deserve her name, which was Charity—Aunt
Charity, as everybody called her. And like a sister of charity did this
charitable Aunt Charity bustle about hither and thither, ready to turn
her hand and heart to anything that promised to yield safety, comfort,
and consolation to all on board a ship in which her beloved brother
Bildad was concerned, and in which she herself owned a score or two of
well-saved dollars.

But it was startling to see this excellent hearted Quakeress coming on
board, as she did the last day, with a long oil-ladle in one hand, and
a still longer whaling lance in the other. Nor was Bildad himself nor
Captain Peleg at all backward. As for Bildad, he carried about with him
a long list of the articles needed, and at every fresh arrival, down
went his mark opposite that article upon the paper. Every once in a
while Peleg came hobbling out of his whalebone den, roaring at the men
down the hatchways, roaring up to the riggers at the mast-head, and
then concluded by roaring back into his wigwam.

During these days of preparation, Queequeg and I often visited the
craft, and as often I asked about Captain Ahab, and how he was, and
when he was going to come on board his ship. To these questions they
would answer, that he was getting better and better, and was expected
aboard every day; meantime, the two captains, Peleg and Bildad, could
attend to everything necessary to fit the vessel for the voyage. If I
had been downright honest with myself, I would have seen very plainly
in my heart that I did but half fancy being committed this way to so
long a voyage, without once laying my eyes on the man who was to be the
absolute dictator of it, so soon as the ship sailed out upon the open
sea. But when a man suspects any wrong, it sometimes happens that if he
be already involved in the matter, he insensibly strives to cover up
his suspicions even from himself. And much this way it was with me. I
said nothing, and tried to think nothing.

At last it was given out that some time next day the ship would
certainly sail. So next morning, Queequeg and I took a very early
start.


CHAPTER 21. Going Aboard.

It was nearly six o’clock, but only grey imperfect misty dawn, when we
drew nigh the wharf.

“There are some sailors running ahead there, if I see right,” said I to
Queequeg, “it can’t be shadows; she’s off by sunrise, I guess; come
on!”

“Avast!” cried a voice, whose owner at the same time coming close
behind us, laid a hand upon both our shoulders, and then insinuating
himself between us, stood stooping forward a little, in the uncertain
twilight, strangely peering from Queequeg to me. It was Elijah.

“Going aboard?”

“Hands off, will you,” said I.

“Lookee here,” said Queequeg, shaking himself, “go ’way!”

“Ain’t going aboard, then?”

“Yes, we are,” said I, “but what business is that of yours? Do you
know, Mr. Elijah, that I consider you a little impertinent?”

“No, no, no; I wasn’t aware of that,” said Elijah, slowly and
wonderingly looking from me to Queequeg, with the most unaccountable
glances.

“Elijah,” said I, “you will oblige my friend and me by withdrawing. We
are going to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and would prefer not to be
detained.”

“Ye be, be ye? Coming back afore breakfast?”

“He’s cracked, Queequeg,” said I, “come on.”

“Holloa!” cried stationary Elijah, hailing us when we had removed a few
paces.

“Never mind him,” said I, “Queequeg, come on.”

But he stole up to us again, and suddenly clapping his hand on my
shoulder, said—“Did ye see anything looking like men going towards that
ship a while ago?”

Struck by this plain matter-of-fact question, I answered, saying, “Yes,
I thought I did see four or five men; but it was too dim to be sure.”

“Very dim, very dim,” said Elijah. “Morning to ye.”

Once more we quitted him; but once more he came softly after us; and
touching my shoulder again, said, “See if you can find ’em now, will
ye?

“Find who?”

“Morning to ye! morning to ye!” he rejoined, again moving off. “Oh! I
was going to warn ye against—but never mind, never mind—it’s all one,
all in the family too;—sharp frost this morning, ain’t it? Good-bye to
ye. Shan’t see ye again very soon, I guess; unless it’s before the
Grand Jury.” And with these cracked words he finally departed, leaving
me, for the moment, in no small wonderment at his frantic impudence.

At last, stepping on board the Pequod, we found everything in profound
quiet, not a soul moving. The cabin entrance was locked within; the
hatches were all on, and lumbered with coils of rigging. Going forward
to the forecastle, we found the slide of the scuttle open. Seeing a
light, we went down, and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a
tattered pea-jacket. He was thrown at whole length upon two chests, his
face downwards and inclosed in his folded arms. The profoundest slumber
slept upon him.

“Those sailors we saw, Queequeg, where can they have gone to?” said I,
looking dubiously at the sleeper. But it seemed that, when on the
wharf, Queequeg had not at all noticed what I now alluded to; hence I
would have thought myself to have been optically deceived in that
matter, were it not for Elijah’s otherwise inexplicable question. But I
beat the thing down; and again marking the sleeper, jocularly hinted to
Queequeg that perhaps we had best sit up with the body; telling him to
establish himself accordingly. He put his hand upon the sleeper’s rear,
as though feeling if it was soft enough; and then, without more ado,
sat quietly down there.

“Gracious! Queequeg, don’t sit there,” said I.

“Oh! perry dood seat,” said Queequeg, “my country way; won’t hurt him
face.”

“Face!” said I, “call that his face? very benevolent countenance then;
but how hard he breathes, he’s heaving himself; get off, Queequeg, you
are heavy, it’s grinding the face of the poor. Get off, Queequeg! Look,
he’ll twitch you off soon. I wonder he don’t wake.”

Queequeg removed himself to just beyond the head of the sleeper, and
lighted his tomahawk pipe. I sat at the feet. We kept the pipe passing
over the sleeper, from one to the other. Meanwhile, upon questioning
him in his broken fashion, Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his
land, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king,
chiefs, and great people generally, were in the custom of fattening
some of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house
comfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy
fellows, and lay them round in the piers and alcoves. Besides, it was
very convenient on an excursion; much better than those garden-chairs
which are convertible into walking-sticks; upon occasion, a chief
calling his attendant, and desiring him to make a settee of himself
under a spreading tree, perhaps in some damp marshy place.

While narrating these things, every time Queequeg received the tomahawk
from me, he flourished the hatchet-side of it over the sleeper’s head.

“What’s that for, Queequeg?”

“Perry easy, kill-e; oh! perry easy!”

He was going on with some wild reminiscences about his tomahawk-pipe,
which, it seemed, had in its two uses both brained his foes and soothed
his soul, when we were directly attracted to the sleeping rigger. The
strong vapor now completely filling the contracted hole, it began to
tell upon him. He breathed with a sort of muffledness; then seemed
troubled in the nose; then revolved over once or twice; then sat up and
rubbed his eyes.

“Holloa!” he breathed at last, “who be ye smokers?”

“Shipped men,” answered I, “when does she sail?”

“Aye, aye, ye are going in her, be ye? She sails to-day. The Captain
came aboard last night.”

“What Captain?—Ahab?”

“Who but him indeed?”

I was going to ask him some further questions concerning Ahab, when we
heard a noise on deck.

“Holloa! Starbuck’s astir,” said the rigger. “He’s a lively chief mate,
that; good man, and a pious; but all alive now, I must turn to.” And so
saying he went on deck, and we followed.

It was now clear sunrise. Soon the crew came on board in twos and
threes; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively
engaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various
last things on board. Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly
enshrined within his cabin.


CHAPTER 22. Merry Christmas.

At length, towards noon, upon the final dismissal of the ship’s
riggers, and after the Pequod had been hauled out from the wharf, and
after the ever-thoughtful Charity had come off in a whale-boat, with
her last gift—a night-cap for Stubb, the second mate, her
brother-in-law, and a spare Bible for the steward—after all this, the
two Captains, Peleg and Bildad, issued from the cabin, and turning to
the chief mate, Peleg said:

“Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is
all ready—just spoke to him—nothing more to be got from shore, eh?
Well, call all hands, then. Muster ’em aft here—blast ’em!”

“No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg,” said
Bildad, “but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding.”

How now! Here upon the very point of starting for the voyage, Captain
Peleg and Captain Bildad were going it with a high hand on the
quarter-deck, just as if they were to be joint-commanders at sea, as
well as to all appearances in port. And, as for Captain Ahab, no sign
of him was yet to be seen; only, they said he was in the cabin. But
then, the idea was, that his presence was by no means necessary in
getting the ship under weigh, and steering her well out to sea. Indeed,
as that was not at all his proper business, but the pilot’s; and as he
was not yet completely recovered—so they said—therefore, Captain Ahab
stayed below. And all this seemed natural enough; especially as in the
merchant service many captains never show themselves on deck for a
considerable time after heaving up the anchor, but remain over the
cabin table, having a farewell merry-making with their shore friends,
before they quit the ship for good with the pilot.

But there was not much chance to think over the matter, for Captain
Peleg was now all alive. He seemed to do most of the talking and
commanding, and not Bildad.

“Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,” he cried, as the sailors lingered at
the main-mast. “Mr. Starbuck, drive ’em aft.”

“Strike the tent there!”—was the next order. As I hinted before, this
whalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the
Pequod, for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known
to be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.

“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!—jump!”—was the next command, and
the crew sprang for the handspikes.

Now in getting under weigh, the station generally occupied by the pilot
is the forward part of the ship. And here Bildad, who, with Peleg, be
it known, in addition to his other officers, was one of the licensed
pilots of the port—he being suspected to have got himself made a pilot
in order to save the Nantucket pilot-fee to all the ships he was
concerned in, for he never piloted any other craft—Bildad, I say, might
now be seen actively engaged in looking over the bows for the
approaching anchor, and at intervals singing what seemed a dismal stave
of psalmody, to cheer the hands at the windlass, who roared forth some
sort of a chorus about the girls in Booble Alley, with hearty good
will. Nevertheless, not three days previous, Bildad had told them that
no profane songs would be allowed on board the Pequod, particularly in
getting under weigh; and Charity, his sister, had placed a small choice
copy of Watts in each seaman’s berth.

Meantime, overseeing the other part of the ship, Captain Peleg ripped
and swore astern in the most frightful manner. I almost thought he
would sink the ship before the anchor could be got up; involuntarily I
paused on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, thinking of
the perils we both ran, in starting on the voyage with such a devil for
a pilot. I was comforting myself, however, with the thought that in
pious Bildad might be found some salvation, spite of his seven hundred
and seventy-seventh lay; when I felt a sudden sharp poke in my rear,
and turning round, was horrified at the apparition of Captain Peleg in
the act of withdrawing his leg from my immediate vicinity. That was my
first kick.

“Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?” he roared.
“Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don’t ye
spring, I say, all of ye—spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red
whiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I
say, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!” And so saying, he moved
along the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, while
imperturbable Bildad kept leading off with his psalmody. Thinks I,
Captain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day.

At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It
was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into
night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose
freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of
teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white
ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from
the bows.

Lank Bildad, as pilot, headed the first watch, and ever and anon, as
the old craft deep dived into the green seas, and sent the shivering
frost all over her, and the winds howled, and the cordage rang, his
steady notes were heard,—


_“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living
green. So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between.”_



Never did those sweet words sound more sweetly to me than then. They
were full of hope and fruition. Spite of this frigid winter night in
the boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there
was yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and
meads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the
spring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer.

At last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no
longer. The stout sail-boat that had accompanied us began ranging
alongside.

It was curious and not unpleasing, how Peleg and Bildad were affected
at this juncture, especially Captain Bildad. For loath to depart, yet;
very loath to leave, for good, a ship bound on so long and perilous a
voyage—beyond both stormy Capes; a ship in which some thousands of his
hard earned dollars were invested; a ship, in which an old shipmate
sailed as captain; a man almost as old as he, once more starting to
encounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw; loath to say good-bye to
a thing so every way brimful of every interest to him,—poor old Bildad
lingered long; paced the deck with anxious strides; ran down into the
cabin to speak another farewell word there; again came on deck, and
looked to windward; looked towards the wide and endless waters, only
bounded by the far-off unseen Eastern Continents; looked towards the
land; looked aloft; looked right and left; looked everywhere and
nowhere; and at last, mechanically coiling a rope upon its pin,
convulsively grasped stout Peleg by the hand, and holding up a lantern,
for a moment stood gazing heroically in his face, as much as to say,
“Nevertheless, friend Peleg, I can stand it; yes, I can.”

As for Peleg himself, he took it more like a philosopher; but for all
his philosophy, there was a tear twinkling in his eye, when the lantern
came too near. And he, too, did not a little run from cabin to deck—now
a word below, and now a word with Starbuck, the chief mate.

But, at last, he turned to his comrade, with a final sort of look about
him,—“Captain Bildad—come, old shipmate, we must go. Back the main-yard
there! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful,
careful!—come, Bildad, boy—say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck—luck to
ye, Mr. Stubb—luck to ye, Mr. Flask—good-bye and good luck to ye
all—and this day three years I’ll have a hot supper smoking for ye in
old Nantucket. Hurrah and away!”

“God bless ye, and have ye in His holy keeping, men,” murmured old
Bildad, almost incoherently. “I hope ye’ll have fine weather now, so
that Captain Ahab may soon be moving among ye—a pleasant sun is all he
needs, and ye’ll have plenty of them in the tropic voyage ye go. Be
careful in the hunt, ye mates. Don’t stave the boats needlessly, ye
harpooneers; good white cedar plank is raised full three per cent.
within the year. Don’t forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, mind
that cooper don’t waste the spare staves. Oh! the sail-needles are in
the green locker! Don’t whale it too much a’ Lord’s days, men; but
don’t miss a fair chance either, that’s rejecting Heaven’s good gifts.
Have an eye to the molasses tierce, Mr. Stubb; it was a little leaky, I
thought. If ye touch at the islands, Mr. Flask, beware of fornication.
Good-bye, good-bye! Don’t keep that cheese too long down in the hold,
Mr. Starbuck; it’ll spoil. Be careful with the butter—twenty cents the
pound it was, and mind ye, if—”

“Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering,—away!” and with that,
Peleg hurried him over the side, and both dropt into the boat.

Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a
screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave
three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone
Atlantic.


CHAPTER 23. The Lee Shore.

Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded
mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.

When on that shivering winter’s night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive
bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her
helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon
the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years’ dangerous
voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another
tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest
things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs;
this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only
say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that
miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give
succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort,
hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our
mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s
direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land,
though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and
through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing,
fights ’gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks
all the lashed sea’s landlessness again; for refuge’s sake forlornly
rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!

Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally
intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid
effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the
wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the
treacherous, slavish shore?

But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless,
indefinite as God—so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite,
than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For
worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the
terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O
Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy
ocean-perishing—straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!


CHAPTER 24. The Advocate.

As Queequeg and I are now fairly embarked in this business of whaling;
and as this business of whaling has somehow come to be regarded among
landsmen as a rather unpoetical and disreputable pursuit; therefore, I
am all anxiety to convince ye, ye landsmen, of the injustice hereby
done to us hunters of whales.

In the first place, it may be deemed almost superfluous to establish
the fact, that among people at large, the business of whaling is not
accounted on a level with what are called the liberal professions. If a
stranger were introduced into any miscellaneous metropolitan society,
it would but slightly advance the general opinion of his merits, were
he presented to the company as a harpooneer, say; and if in emulation
of the naval officers he should append the initials S.W.F. (Sperm Whale
Fishery) to his visiting card, such a procedure would be deemed
pre-eminently presuming and ridiculous.

Doubtless one leading reason why the world declines honoring us
whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a
butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we
are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is
true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been
all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And
as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye
shall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally
unknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm
whale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But
even granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered
slippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable
carrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to
drink in all ladies’ plaudits? And if the idea of peril so much
enhances the popular conceit of the soldier’s profession; let me assure
ye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would
quickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale’s vast tail,
fanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the
comprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and
wonders of God!

But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it
unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding
adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn
round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!

But look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of
scales; see what we whalemen are, and have been.

Why did the Dutch in De Witt’s time have admirals of their whaling
fleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit
out whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some
score or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did
Britain between the years 1750 and 1788 pay to her whalemen in bounties
upwards of £1,000,000? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of
America now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world;
sail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen
thousand men; yearly consuming 4,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth,
at the time of sailing, $20,000,000! and every year importing into our
harbors a well reaped harvest of $7,000,000. How comes all this, if
there be not something puissant in whaling?

But this is not the half; look again.

I freely assert, that the cosmopolite philosopher cannot, for his life,
point out one single peaceful influence, which within the last sixty
years has operated more potentially upon the whole broad world, taken
in one aggregate, than the high and mighty business of whaling. One way
and another, it has begotten events so remarkable in themselves, and so
continuously momentous in their sequential issues, that whaling may
well be regarded as that Egyptian mother, who bore offspring themselves
pregnant from her womb. It would be a hopeless, endless task to
catalogue all these things. Let a handful suffice. For many years past
the whale-ship has been the pioneer in ferreting out the remotest and
least known parts of the earth. She has explored seas and archipelagoes
which had no chart, where no Cook or Vancouver had ever sailed. If
American and European men-of-war now peacefully ride in once savage
harbors, let them fire salutes to the honor and glory of the
whale-ship, which originally showed them the way, and first interpreted
between them and the savages. They may celebrate as they will the
heroes of Exploring Expeditions, your Cooks, your Krusensterns; but I
say that scores of anonymous Captains have sailed out of Nantucket,
that were as great, and greater than your Cook and your Krusenstern.
For in their succourless empty-handedness, they, in the heathenish
sharked waters, and by the beaches of unrecorded, javelin islands,
battled with virgin wonders and terrors that Cook with all his marines
and muskets would not willingly have dared. All that is made such a
flourish of in the old South Sea Voyages, those things were but the
life-time commonplaces of our heroic Nantucketers. Often, adventures
which Vancouver dedicates three chapters to, these men accounted
unworthy of being set down in the ship’s common log. Ah, the world! Oh,
the world!

Until the whale fishery rounded Cape Horn, no commerce but colonial,
scarcely any intercourse but colonial, was carried on between Europe
and the long line of the opulent Spanish provinces on the Pacific
coast. It was the whaleman who first broke through the jealous policy
of the Spanish crown, touching those colonies; and, if space permitted,
it might be distinctly shown how from those whalemen at last eventuated
the liberation of Peru, Chili, and Bolivia from the yoke of Old Spain,
and the establishment of the eternal democracy in those parts.

That great America on the other side of the sphere, Australia, was
given to the enlightened world by the whaleman. After its first
blunder-born discovery by a Dutchman, all other ships long shunned
those shores as pestiferously barbarous; but the whale-ship touched
there. The whale-ship is the true mother of that now mighty colony.
Moreover, in the infancy of the first Australian settlement, the
emigrants were several times saved from starvation by the benevolent
biscuit of the whale-ship luckily dropping an anchor in their waters.
The uncounted isles of all Polynesia confess the same truth, and do
commercial homage to the whale-ship, that cleared the way for the
missionary and the merchant, and in many cases carried the primitive
missionaries to their first destinations. If that double-bolted land,
Japan, is ever to become hospitable, it is the whale-ship alone to whom
the credit will be due; for already she is on the threshold.

But if, in the face of all this, you still declare that whaling has no
æsthetically noble associations connected with it, then am I ready to
shiver fifty lances with you there, and unhorse you with a split helmet
every time.

The whale has no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler, you
will say.

_The whale no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler?_ Who
wrote the first account of our Leviathan? Who but mighty Job! And who
composed the first narrative of a whaling-voyage? Who, but no less a
prince than Alfred the Great, who, with his own royal pen, took down
the words from Other, the Norwegian whale-hunter of those times! And
who pronounced our glowing eulogy in Parliament? Who, but Edmund Burke!

True enough, but then whalemen themselves are poor devils; they have no
good blood in their veins.

_No good blood in their veins?_ They have something better than royal
blood there. The grandmother of Benjamin Franklin was Mary Morrel;
afterwards, by marriage, Mary Folger, one of the old settlers of
Nantucket, and the ancestress to a long line of Folgers and
harpooneers—all kith and kin to noble Benjamin—this day darting the
barbed iron from one side of the world to the other.

Good again; but then all confess that somehow whaling is not
respectable.

_Whaling not respectable?_ Whaling is imperial! By old English
statutory law, the whale is declared “a royal fish.” *

Oh, that’s only nominal! The whale himself has never figured in any
grand imposing way.

_The whale never figured in any grand imposing way?_ In one of the
mighty triumphs given to a Roman general upon his entering the world’s
capital, the bones of a whale, brought all the way from the Syrian
coast, were the most conspicuous object in the cymballed procession.*

*See subsequent chapters for something more on this head.

Grant it, since you cite it; but, say what you will, there is no real
dignity in whaling.

_No dignity in whaling?_ The dignity of our calling the very heavens
attest. Cetus is a constellation in the South! No more! Drive down your
hat in presence of the Czar, and take it off to Queequeg! No more! I
know a man that, in his lifetime, has taken three hundred and fifty
whales. I account that man more honorable than that great captain of
antiquity who boasted of taking as many walled towns.

And, as for me, if, by any possibility, there be any as yet
undiscovered prime thing in me; if I shall ever deserve any real repute
in that small but high hushed world which I might not be unreasonably
ambitious of; if hereafter I shall do anything that, upon the whole, a
man might rather have done than to have left undone; if, at my death,
my executors, or more properly my creditors, find any precious MSS. in
my desk, then here I prospectively ascribe all the honor and the glory
to whaling; for a whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard.


CHAPTER 25. Postscript.

In behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but
substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who
should wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might tell
eloquently upon his cause—such an advocate, would he not be
blameworthy?

It is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even
modern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their
functions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called,
and there may be a castor of state. How they use the salt,
precisely—who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king’s head is
solemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be,
though, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run
well, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here,
concerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in
common life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints
his hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man
who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a
quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can’t amount to
much in his totality.

But the only thing to be considered here, is this—what kind of oil is
used at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar
oil, nor castor oil, nor bear’s oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil.
What then can it possibly be, but sperm oil in its unmanufactured,
unpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils?

Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and
queens with coronation stuff!


CHAPTER 26. Knights and Squires.

The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a
Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an
icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being
hard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood
would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time
of general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which
his state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those
summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his
thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties
and cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was
merely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking;
quite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and
closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength,
like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for
long ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow
or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was
warranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed
to see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he
had calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life
for the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame
chapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there
were certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some
cases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly
conscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence,
the wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline
him to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some
organizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than
from ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his. And
if at times these things bent the welded iron of his soul, much more
did his far-away domestic memories of his young Cape wife and child,
tend to bend him still more from the original ruggedness of his nature,
and open him still further to those latent influences which, in some
honest-hearted men, restrain the gush of dare-devil daring, so often
evinced by others in the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery. “I
will have no man in my boat,” said Starbuck, “who is not afraid of a
whale.” By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and
useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the
encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more
dangerous comrade than a coward.

“Aye, aye,” said Stubb, the second mate, “Starbuck, there, is as
careful a man as you’ll find anywhere in this fishery.” But we shall
ere long see what that word “careful” precisely means when used by a
man like Stubb, or almost any other whale hunter.

Starbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a
sentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon
all mortally practical occasions. Besides, he thought, perhaps, that in
this business of whaling, courage was one of the great staple outfits
of the ship, like her beef and her bread, and not to be foolishly
wasted. Wherefore he had no fancy for lowering for whales after
sun-down; nor for persisting in fighting a fish that too much persisted
in fighting him. For, thought Starbuck, I am here in this critical
ocean to kill whales for my living, and not to be killed by them for
theirs; and that hundreds of men had been so killed Starbuck well knew.
What doom was his own father’s? Where, in the bottomless deeps, could
he find the torn limbs of his brother?

With memories like these in him, and, moreover, given to a certain
superstitiousness, as has been said; the courage of this Starbuck which
could, nevertheless, still flourish, must indeed have been extreme. But
it was not in reasonable nature that a man so organized, and with such
terrible experiences and remembrances as he had; it was not in nature
that these things should fail in latently engendering an element in
him, which, under suitable circumstances, would break out from its
confinement, and burn all his courage up. And brave as he might be, it
was that sort of bravery chiefly, visible in some intrepid men, which,
while generally abiding firm in the conflict with seas, or winds, or
whales, or any of the ordinary irrational horrors of the world, yet
cannot withstand those more terrific, because more spiritual terrors,
which sometimes menace you from the concentrating brow of an enraged
and mighty man.

But were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete
abasement of poor Starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart
to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose
the fall of valour in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint
stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be;
men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble
and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any
ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their
costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so
far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character
seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a
valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight,
completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But
this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes,
but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt
see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that
democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God;
Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all
democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!

If, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall
hereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic
graces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among
them all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall
touch that workman’s arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a
rainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics
bear me out in it, thou just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one
royal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou
great democratic God! who didst not refuse to the swart convict,
Bunyan, the pale, poetic pearl; Thou who didst clothe with doubly
hammered leaves of finest gold, the stumped and paupered arm of old
Cervantes; Thou who didst pick up Andrew Jackson from the pebbles; who
didst hurl him upon a war-horse; who didst thunder him higher than a
throne! Thou who, in all Thy mighty, earthly marchings, ever cullest
Thy selectest champions from the kingly commons; bear me out in it, O
God!


CHAPTER 27. Knights and Squires.

Stubb was the second mate. He was a native of Cape Cod; and hence,
according to local usage, was called a Cape-Cod-man. A happy-go-lucky;
neither craven nor valiant; taking perils as they came with an
indifferent air; and while engaged in the most imminent crisis of the
chase, toiling away, calm and collected as a journeyman joiner engaged
for the year. Good-humored, easy, and careless, he presided over his
whale-boat as if the most deadly encounter were but a dinner, and his
crew all invited guests. He was as particular about the comfortable
arrangement of his part of the boat, as an old stage-driver is about
the snugness of his box. When close to the whale, in the very
death-lock of the fight, he handled his unpitying lance coolly and
off-handedly, as a whistling tinker his hammer. He would hum over his
old rigadig tunes while flank and flank with the most exasperated
monster. Long usage had, for this Stubb, converted the jaws of death
into an easy chair. What he thought of death itself, there is no
telling. Whether he ever thought of it at all, might be a question;
but, if he ever did chance to cast his mind that way after a
comfortable dinner, no doubt, like a good sailor, he took it to be a
sort of call of the watch to tumble aloft, and bestir themselves there,
about something which he would find out when he obeyed the order, and
not sooner.

What, perhaps, with other things, made Stubb such an easy-going,
unfearing man, so cheerily trudging off with the burden of life in a
world full of grave pedlars, all bowed to the ground with their packs;
what helped to bring about that almost impious good-humor of his; that
thing must have been his pipe. For, like his nose, his short, black
little pipe was one of the regular features of his face. You would
almost as soon have expected him to turn out of his bunk without his
nose as without his pipe. He kept a whole row of pipes there ready
loaded, stuck in a rack, within easy reach of his hand; and, whenever
he turned in, he smoked them all out in succession, lighting one from
the other to the end of the chapter; then loading them again to be in
readiness anew. For, when Stubb dressed, instead of first putting his
legs into his trowsers, he put his pipe into his mouth.

I say this continual smoking must have been one cause, at least, of his
peculiar disposition; for every one knows that this earthly air,
whether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless
miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it; and as in
time of the cholera, some people go about with a camphorated
handkerchief to their mouths; so, likewise, against all mortal
tribulations, Stubb’s tobacco smoke might have operated as a sort of
disinfecting agent.

The third mate was Flask, a native of Tisbury, in Martha’s Vineyard. A
short, stout, ruddy young fellow, very pugnacious concerning whales,
who somehow seemed to think that the great leviathans had personally
and hereditarily affronted him; and therefore it was a sort of point of
honor with him, to destroy them whenever encountered. So utterly lost
was he to all sense of reverence for the many marvels of their majestic
bulk and mystic ways; and so dead to anything like an apprehension of
any possible danger from encountering them; that in his poor opinion,
the wondrous whale was but a species of magnified mouse, or at least
water-rat, requiring only a little circumvention and some small
application of time and trouble in order to kill and boil. This
ignorant, unconscious fearlessness of his made him a little waggish in
the matter of whales; he followed these fish for the fun of it; and a
three years’ voyage round Cape Horn was only a jolly joke that lasted
that length of time. As a carpenter’s nails are divided into wrought
nails and cut nails; so mankind may be similarly divided. Little Flask
was one of the wrought ones; made to clinch tight and last long. They
called him King-Post on board of the Pequod; because, in form, he could
be well likened to the short, square timber known by that name in
Arctic whalers; and which by the means of many radiating side timbers
inserted into it, serves to brace the ship against the icy concussions
of those battering seas.

Now these three mates—Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, were momentous men.
They it was who by universal prescription commanded three of the
Pequod’s boats as headsmen. In that grand order of battle in which
Captain Ahab would probably marshal his forces to descend on the
whales, these three headsmen were as captains of companies. Or, being
armed with their long keen whaling spears, they were as a picked trio
of lancers; even as the harpooneers were flingers of javelins.

And since in this famous fishery, each mate or headsman, like a Gothic
Knight of old, is always accompanied by his boat-steerer or harpooneer,
who in certain conjunctures provides him with a fresh lance, when the
former one has been badly twisted, or elbowed in the assault; and
moreover, as there generally subsists between the two, a close intimacy
and friendliness; it is therefore but meet, that in this place we set
down who the Pequod’s harpooneers were, and to what headsman each of
them belonged.

First of all was Queequeg, whom Starbuck, the chief mate, had selected
for his squire. But Queequeg is already known.

Next was Tashtego, an unmixed Indian from Gay Head, the most westerly
promontory of Martha’s Vineyard, where there still exists the last
remnant of a village of red men, which has long supplied the
neighboring island of Nantucket with many of her most daring
harpooneers. In the fishery, they usually go by the generic name of
Gay-Headers. Tashtego’s long, lean, sable hair, his high cheek bones,
and black rounding eyes—for an Indian, Oriental in their largeness, but
Antarctic in their glittering expression—all this sufficiently
proclaimed him an inheritor of the unvitiated blood of those proud
warrior hunters, who, in quest of the great New England moose, had
scoured, bow in hand, the aboriginal forests of the main. But no longer
snuffing in the trail of the wild beasts of the woodland, Tashtego now
hunted in the wake of the great whales of the sea; the unerring harpoon
of the son fitly replacing the infallible arrow of the sires. To look
at the tawny brawn of his lithe snaky limbs, you would almost have
credited the superstitions of some of the earlier Puritans, and
half-believed this wild Indian to be a son of the Prince of the Powers
of the Air. Tashtego was Stubb the second mate’s squire.

Third among the harpooneers was Daggoo, a gigantic, coal-black
negro-savage, with a lion-like tread—an Ahasuerus to behold. Suspended
from his ears were two golden hoops, so large that the sailors called
them ring-bolts, and would talk of securing the top-sail halyards to
them. In his youth Daggoo had voluntarily shipped on board of a whaler,
lying in a lonely bay on his native coast. And never having been
anywhere in the world but in Africa, Nantucket, and the pagan harbors
most frequented by whalemen; and having now led for many years the bold
life of the fishery in the ships of owners uncommonly heedful of what
manner of men they shipped; Daggoo retained all his barbaric virtues,
and erect as a giraffe, moved about the decks in all the pomp of six
feet five in his socks. There was a corporeal humility in looking up at
him; and a white man standing before him seemed a white flag come to
beg truce of a fortress. Curious to tell, this imperial negro,
Ahasuerus Daggoo, was the Squire of little Flask, who looked like a
chess-man beside him. As for the residue of the Pequod’s company, be it
said, that at the present day not one in two of the many thousand men
before the mast employed in the American whale fishery, are Americans
born, though pretty nearly all the officers are. Herein it is the same
with the American whale fishery as with the American army and military
and merchant navies, and the engineering forces employed in the
construction of the American Canals and Railroads. The same, I say,
because in all these cases the native American liberally provides the
brains, the rest of the world as generously supplying the muscles. No
small number of these whaling seamen belong to the Azores, where the
outward bound Nantucket whalers frequently touch to augment their crews
from the hardy peasants of those rocky shores. In like manner, the
Greenland whalers sailing out of Hull or London, put in at the Shetland
Islands, to receive the full complement of their crew. Upon the passage
homewards, they drop them there again. How it is, there is no telling,
but Islanders seem to make the best whalemen. They were nearly all
Islanders in the Pequod, _Isolatoes_ too, I call such, not
acknowledging the common continent of men, but each _Isolato_ living on
a separate continent of his own. Yet now, federated along one keel,
what a set these Isolatoes were! An Anacharsis Clootz deputation from
all the isles of the sea, and all the ends of the earth, accompanying
Old Ahab in the Pequod to lay the world’s grievances before that bar
from which not very many of them ever come back. Black Little Pip—he
never did—oh, no! he went before. Poor Alabama boy! On the grim
Pequod’s forecastle, ye shall ere long see him, beating his tambourine;
prelusive of the eternal time, when sent for, to the great quarter-deck
on high, he was bid strike in with angels, and beat his tambourine in
glory; called a coward here, hailed a hero there!


CHAPTER 28. Ahab.

For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was
seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the
watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed
to be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from
the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was
plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and
dictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to
penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin.

Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly
gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague
disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the
sea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at
times by the ragged Elijah’s diabolical incoherences uninvitedly
recurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived
of. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was
almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish
prophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or
uneasiness—to call it so—which I felt, yet whenever I came to look
about me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to cherish such
emotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew,
were a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the
tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me
acquainted with, still I ascribed this—and rightly ascribed it—to the
fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation
in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the
aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was
most forcibly calculated to allay these colourless misgivings, and
induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage.
Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own
different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of
them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being
Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had
biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the
southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed,
gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable
weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey
and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the
ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping
and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of
the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the
taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension;
Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck.

There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the
recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when
the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them,
or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His
whole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an
unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus. Threading its way out
from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his
tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you
saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that
perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a
great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and
without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from
top to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still
greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or
whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could
certainly say. By some tacit consent, throughout the voyage little or
no allusion was made to it, especially by the mates. But once
Tashtego’s senior, an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew,
superstitiously asserted that not till he was full forty years old did
Ahab become that way branded, and then it came upon him, not in the
fury of any mortal fray, but in an elemental strife at sea. Yet, this
wild hint seemed inferentially negatived, by what a grey Manxman
insinuated, an old sepulchral man, who, having never before sailed out
of Nantucket, had never ere this laid eye upon wild Ahab. Nevertheless,
the old sea-traditions, the immemorial credulities, popularly invested
this old Manxman with preternatural powers of discernment. So that no
white sailor seriously contradicted him when he said that if ever
Captain Ahab should be tranquilly laid out—which might hardly come to
pass, so he muttered—then, whoever should do that last office for the
dead, would find a birth-mark on him from crown to sole.

So powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the
livid brand which streaked it, that for the first few moments I hardly
noted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the
barbaric white leg upon which he partly stood. It had previously come
to me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished
bone of the sperm whale’s jaw. “Aye, he was dismasted off Japan,” said
the old Gay-Head Indian once; “but like his dismasted craft, he shipped
another mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver of ’em.”

I was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of
the Pequod’s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds,
there was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so, into the
plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and
holding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out
beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow. There was an infinity of firmest
fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and
fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor
did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest
gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not
painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not
only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion
in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some
mighty woe.

Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin.
But after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either
standing in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or
heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to
grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if,
when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry
bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it
came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet,
for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he
seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only
making a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling
preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so
that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite
Ahab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that
layer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose
the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon.

Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the
pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him
from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and
May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest,
ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some
few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did,
in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish
air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look,
which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.


CHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.

Some days elapsed, and ice and icebergs all astern, the Pequod now went
rolling through the bright Quito spring, which, at sea, almost
perpetually reigns on the threshold of the eternal August of the
Tropic. The warmly cool, clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing,
redundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet, heaped
up—flaked up, with rose-water snow. The starred and stately nights
seemed haughty dames in jewelled velvets, nursing at home in lonely
pride, the memory of their absent conquering Earls, the golden helmeted
suns! For sleeping man, ’twas hard to choose between such winsome days
and such seducing nights. But all the witcheries of that unwaning
weather did not merely lend new spells and potencies to the outward
world. Inward they turned upon the soul, especially when the still mild
hours of eve came on; then, memory shot her crystals as the clear ice
most forms of noiseless twilights. And all these subtle agencies, more
and more they wrought on Ahab’s texture.

Old age is always wakeful; as if, the longer linked with life, the less
man has to do with aught that looks like death. Among sea-commanders,
the old greybeards will oftenest leave their berths to visit the
night-cloaked deck. It was so with Ahab; only that now, of late, he
seemed so much to live in the open air, that truly speaking, his visits
were more to the cabin, than from the cabin to the planks. “It feels
like going down into one’s tomb,”—he would mutter to himself—“for an
old captain like me to be descending this narrow scuttle, to go to my
grave-dug berth.”

So, almost every twenty-four hours, when the watches of the night were
set, and the band on deck sentinelled the slumbers of the band below;
and when if a rope was to be hauled upon the forecastle, the sailors
flung it not rudely down, as by day, but with some cautiousness dropt
it to its place for fear of disturbing their slumbering shipmates; when
this sort of steady quietude would begin to prevail, habitually, the
silent steersman would watch the cabin-scuttle; and ere long the old
man would emerge, gripping at the iron banister, to help his crippled
way. Some considering touch of humanity was in him; for at times like
these, he usually abstained from patrolling the quarter-deck; because
to his wearied mates, seeking repose within six inches of his ivory
heel, such would have been the reverberating crack and din of that bony
step, that their dreams would have been on the crunching teeth of
sharks. But once, the mood was on him too deep for common regardings;
and as with heavy, lumber-like pace he was measuring the ship from
taffrail to mainmast, Stubb, the old second mate, came up from below,
with a certain unassured, deprecating humorousness, hinted that if
Captain Ahab was pleased to walk the planks, then, no one could say
nay; but there might be some way of muffling the noise; hinting
something indistinctly and hesitatingly about a globe of tow, and the
insertion into it, of the ivory heel. Ah! Stubb, thou didst not know
Ahab then.

“Am I a cannon-ball, Stubb,” said Ahab, “that thou wouldst wad me that
fashion? But go thy ways; I had forgot. Below to thy nightly grave;
where such as ye sleep between shrouds, to use ye to the filling one at
last.—Down, dog, and kennel!”

Starting at the unforseen concluding exclamation of the so suddenly
scornful old man, Stubb was speechless a moment; then said excitedly,
“I am not used to be spoken to that way, sir; I do but less than half
like it, sir.”

“Avast! gritted Ahab between his set teeth, and violently moving away,
as if to avoid some passionate temptation.

“No, sir; not yet,” said Stubb, emboldened, “I will not tamely be
called a dog, sir.”

“Then be called ten times a donkey, and a mule, and an ass, and begone,
or I’ll clear the world of thee!”

As he said this, Ahab advanced upon him with such overbearing terrors
in his aspect, that Stubb involuntarily retreated.

“I was never served so before without giving a hard blow for it,”
muttered Stubb, as he found himself descending the cabin-scuttle. “It’s
very queer. Stop, Stubb; somehow, now, I don’t well know whether to go
back and strike him, or—what’s that?—down here on my knees and pray for
him? Yes, that was the thought coming up in me; but it would be the
first time I ever _did_ pray. It’s queer; very queer; and he’s queer
too; aye, take him fore and aft, he’s about the queerest old man Stubb
ever sailed with. How he flashed at me!—his eyes like powder-pans! is
he mad? Anyway there’s something on his mind, as sure as there must be
something on a deck when it cracks. He aint in his bed now, either,
more than three hours out of the twenty-four; and he don’t sleep then.
Didn’t that Dough-Boy, the steward, tell me that of a morning he always
finds the old man’s hammock clothes all rumpled and tumbled, and the
sheets down at the foot, and the coverlid almost tied into knots, and
the pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on
it? A hot old man! I guess he’s got what some folks ashore call a
conscience; it’s a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say—worse nor a
toothache. Well, well; I don’t know what it is, but the Lord keep me
from catching it. He’s full of riddles; I wonder what he goes into the
after hold for, every night, as Dough-Boy tells me he suspects; what’s
that for, I should like to know? Who’s made appointments with him in
the hold? Ain’t that queer, now? But there’s no telling, it’s the old
game—Here goes for a snooze. Damn me, it’s worth a fellow’s while to be
born into the world, if only to fall right asleep. And now that I think
of it, that’s about the first thing babies do, and that’s a sort of
queer, too. Damn me, but all things are queer, come to think of ’em.
But that’s against my principles. Think not, is my eleventh
commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth—So here goes again.
But how’s that? didn’t he call me a dog? blazes! he called me ten times
a donkey, and piled a lot of jackasses on top of _that!_ He might as
well have kicked me, and done with it. Maybe he _did_ kick me, and I
didn’t observe it, I was so taken all aback with his brow, somehow. It
flashed like a bleached bone. What the devil’s the matter with me? I
don’t stand right on my legs. Coming afoul of that old man has a sort
of turned me wrong side out. By the Lord, I must have been dreaming,
though—How? how? how?—but the only way’s to stash it; so here goes to
hammock again; and in the morning, I’ll see how this plaguey juggling
thinks over by daylight.”


CHAPTER 30. The Pipe.

When Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the
bulwarks; and then, as had been usual with him of late, calling a
sailor of the watch, he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also
his pipe. Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool
on the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.

In old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were
fabricated, saith tradition, of the tusks of the narwhale. How could
one look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones, without
bethinking him of the royalty it symbolized? For a Khan of the plank,
and a king of the sea, and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.

Some moments passed, during which the thick vapor came from his mouth
in quick and constant puffs, which blew back again into his face. “How
now,” he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube, “this smoking no
longer soothes. Oh, my pipe! hard must it go with me if thy charm be
gone! Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring—aye, and
ignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with
such nervous whiffs, as if, like the dying whale, my final jets were
the strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this
pipe? This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white
vapors among mild white hairs, not among torn iron-grey locks like
mine. I’ll smoke no more—”

He tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the
waves; the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe
made. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.


CHAPTER 31. Queen Mab.

Next morning Stubb accosted Flask.

“Such a queer dream, King-Post, I never had. You know the old man’s
ivory leg, well I dreamed he kicked me with it; and when I tried to
kick back, upon my soul, my little man, I kicked my leg right off! And
then, presto! Ahab seemed a pyramid, and I, like a blazing fool, kept
kicking at it. But what was still more curious, Flask—you know how
curious all dreams are—through all this rage that I was in, I somehow
seemed to be thinking to myself, that after all, it was not much of an
insult, that kick from Ahab. ‘Why,’ thinks I, ‘what’s the row? It’s not
a real leg, only a false leg.’ And there’s a mighty difference between
a living thump and a dead thump. That’s what makes a blow from the
hand, Flask, fifty times more savage to bear than a blow from a cane.
The living member—that makes the living insult, my little man. And
thinks I to myself all the while, mind, while I was stubbing my silly
toes against that cursed pyramid—so confoundedly contradictory was it
all, all the while, I say, I was thinking to myself, ‘what’s his leg
now, but a cane—a whalebone cane. Yes,’ thinks I, ‘it was only a
playful cudgelling—in fact, only a whaleboning that he gave me—not a
base kick. Besides,’ thinks I, ‘look at it once; why, the end of it—the
foot part—what a small sort of end it is; whereas, if a broad footed
farmer kicked me, _there’s_ a devilish broad insult. But this insult is
whittled down to a point only.’ But now comes the greatest joke of the
dream, Flask. While I was battering away at the pyramid, a sort of
badger-haired old merman, with a hump on his back, takes me by the
shoulders, and slews me round. ‘What are you ’bout?’ says he. Slid!
man, but I was frightened. Such a phiz! But, somehow, next moment I was
over the fright. ‘What am I about?’ says I at last. ‘And what business
is that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback? Do _you_ want a
kick?’ By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned
round his stern to me, bent over, and dragging up a lot of seaweed he
had for a clout—what do you think, I saw?—why thunder alive, man, his
stern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I, on
second thoughts, ‘I guess I won’t kick you, old fellow.’ ‘Wise Stubb,’
said he, ‘wise Stubb;’ and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of
eating of his own gums like a chimney hag. Seeing he wasn’t going to
stop saying over his ‘wise Stubb, wise Stubb,’ I thought I might as
well fall to kicking the pyramid again. But I had only just lifted my
foot for it, when he roared out, ‘Stop that kicking!’ ‘Halloa,’ says I,
‘what’s the matter now, old fellow?’ ‘Look ye here,’ says he; ‘let’s
argue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’
says I—‘right _here_ it was.’ ‘Very good,’ says he—‘he used his ivory
leg, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘wise
Stubb, what have you to complain of? Didn’t he kick with right good
will? it wasn’t a common pitch pine leg he kicked with, was it? No, you
were kicked by a great man, and with a beautiful ivory leg, Stubb. It’s
an honor; I consider it an honor. Listen, wise Stubb. In old England
the greatest lords think it great glory to be slapped by a queen, and
made garter-knights of; but, be _your_ boast, Stubb, that ye were
kicked by old Ahab, and made a wise man of. Remember what I say; _be_
kicked by him; account his kicks honors; and on no account kick back;
for you can’t help yourself, wise Stubb. Don’t you see that pyramid?’
With that, he all of a sudden seemed somehow, in some queer fashion, to
swim off into the air. I snored; rolled over; and there I was in my
hammock! Now, what do you think of that dream, Flask?”

“I don’t know; it seems a sort of foolish to me, tho.’”

“May be; may be. But it’s made a wise man of me, Flask. D’ye see Ahab
standing there, sideways looking over the stern? Well, the best thing
you can do, Flask, is to let the old man alone; never speak to him,
whatever he says. Halloa! What’s that he shouts? Hark!”

“Mast-head, there! Look sharp, all of ye! There are whales hereabouts!

“If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!

“What do you think of that now, Flask? ain’t there a small drop of
something queer about that, eh? A white whale—did ye mark that, man?
Look ye—there’s something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask.
Ahab has that that’s bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way.”


CHAPTER 32. Cetology.

Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost
in its unshored, harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass; ere
the Pequod’s weedy hull rolls side by side with the barnacled hulls of
the leviathan; at the outset it is but well to attend to a matter
almost indispensable to a thorough appreciative understanding of the
more special leviathanic revelations and allusions of all sorts which
are to follow.

It is some systematized exhibition of the whale in his broad genera,
that I would now fain put before you. Yet is it no easy task. The
classification of the constituents of a chaos, nothing less is here
essayed. Listen to what the best and latest authorities have laid down.

“No branch of Zoology is so much involved as that which is entitled
Cetology,” says Captain Scoresby, A.D. 1820.

“It is not my intention, were it in my power, to enter into the inquiry
as to the true method of dividing the cetacea into groups and families.
* * * Utter confusion exists among the historians of this animal”
(sperm whale), says Surgeon Beale, A.D. 1839.

“Unfitness to pursue our research in the unfathomable waters.”
“Impenetrable veil covering our knowledge of the cetacea.” “A field
strewn with thorns.” “All these incomplete indications but serve to
torture us naturalists.”

Thus speak of the whale, the great Cuvier, and John Hunter, and Lesson,
those lights of zoology and anatomy. Nevertheless, though of real
knowledge there be little, yet of books there are a plenty; and so in
some small degree, with cetology, or the science of whales. Many are
the men, small and great, old and new, landsmen and seamen, who have at
large or in little, written of the whale. Run over a few:—The Authors
of the Bible; Aristotle; Pliny; Aldrovandi; Sir Thomas Browne; Gesner;
Ray; Linnæus; Rondeletius; Willoughby; Green; Artedi; Sibbald; Brisson;
Marten; Lacépède; Bonneterre; Desmarest; Baron Cuvier; Frederick
Cuvier; John Hunter; Owen; Scoresby; Beale; Bennett; J. Ross Browne;
the Author of Miriam Coffin; Olmstead; and the Rev. T. Cheever. But to
what ultimate generalizing purpose all these have written, the above
cited extracts will show.

Of the names in this list of whale authors, only those following Owen
ever saw living whales; and but one of them was a real professional
harpooneer and whaleman. I mean Captain Scoresby. On the separate
subject of the Greenland or right-whale, he is the best existing
authority. But Scoresby knew nothing and says nothing of the great
sperm whale, compared with which the Greenland whale is almost unworthy
mentioning. And here be it said, that the Greenland whale is an usurper
upon the throne of the seas. He is not even by any means the largest of
the whales. Yet, owing to the long priority of his claims, and the
profound ignorance which, till some seventy years back, invested the
then fabulous or utterly unknown sperm-whale, and which ignorance to
this present day still reigns in all but some few scientific retreats
and whale-ports; this usurpation has been every way complete. Reference
to nearly all the leviathanic allusions in the great poets of past
days, will satisfy you that the Greenland whale, without one rival, was
to them the monarch of the seas. But the time has at last come for a
new proclamation. This is Charing Cross; hear ye! good people all,—the
Greenland whale is deposed,—the great sperm whale now reigneth!

There are only two books in being which at all pretend to put the
living sperm whale before you, and at the same time, in the remotest
degree succeed in the attempt. Those books are Beale’s and Bennett’s;
both in their time surgeons to English South-Sea whale-ships, and both
exact and reliable men. The original matter touching the sperm whale to
be found in their volumes is necessarily small; but so far as it goes,
it is of excellent quality, though mostly confined to scientific
description. As yet, however, the sperm whale, scientific or poetic,
lives not complete in any literature. Far above all other hunted
whales, his is an unwritten life.

Now the various species of whales need some sort of popular
comprehensive classification, if only an easy outline one for the
present, hereafter to be filled in all its departments by subsequent
laborers. As no better man advances to take this matter in hand, I
hereupon offer my own poor endeavors. I promise nothing complete;
because any human thing supposed to be complete, must for that very
reason infallibly be faulty. I shall not pretend to a minute anatomical
description of the various species, or—in this place at least—to much
of any description. My object here is simply to project the draught of
a systematization of cetology. I am the architect, not the builder.

But it is a ponderous task; no ordinary letter-sorter in the
Post-Office is equal to it. To grope down into the bottom of the sea
after them; to have one’s hands among the unspeakable foundations,
ribs, and very pelvis of the world; this is a fearful thing. What am I
that I should essay to hook the nose of this leviathan! The awful
tauntings in Job might well appal me. Will he (the leviathan) make a
covenant with thee? Behold the hope of him is vain! But I have swam
through libraries and sailed through oceans; I have had to do with
whales with these visible hands; I am in earnest; and I will try. There
are some preliminaries to settle.

First: The uncertain, unsettled condition of this science of Cetology
is in the very vestibule attested by the fact, that in some quarters it
still remains a moot point whether a whale be a fish. In his System of
Nature, A.D. 1776, Linnæus declares, “I hereby separate the whales from
the fish.” But of my own knowledge, I know that down to the year 1850,
sharks and shad, alewives and herring, against Linnæus’s express edict,
were still found dividing the possession of the same seas with the
Leviathan.

The grounds upon which Linnæus would fain have banished the whales from
the waters, he states as follows: “On account of their warm bilocular
heart, their lungs, their movable eyelids, their hollow ears, penem
intrantem feminam mammis lactantem,” and finally, “ex lege naturæ jure
meritoque.” I submitted all this to my friends Simeon Macey and Charley
Coffin, of Nantucket, both messmates of mine in a certain voyage, and
they united in the opinion that the reasons set forth were altogether
insufficient. Charley profanely hinted they were humbug.

Be it known that, waiving all argument, I take the good old fashioned
ground that the whale is a fish, and call upon holy Jonah to back me.
This fundamental thing settled, the next point is, in what internal
respect does the whale differ from other fish. Above, Linnæus has given
you those items. But in brief, they are these: lungs and warm blood;
whereas, all other fish are lungless and cold blooded.

Next: how shall we define the whale, by his obvious externals, so as
conspicuously to label him for all time to come? To be short, then, a
whale is _a spouting fish with a horizontal tail_. There you have him.
However contracted, that definition is the result of expanded
meditation. A walrus spouts much like a whale, but the walrus is not a
fish, because he is amphibious. But the last term of the definition is
still more cogent, as coupled with the first. Almost any one must have
noticed that all the fish familiar to landsmen have not a flat, but a
vertical, or up-and-down tail. Whereas, among spouting fish the tail,
though it may be similarly shaped, invariably assumes a horizontal
position.

By the above definition of what a whale is, I do by no means exclude
from the leviathanic brotherhood any sea creature hitherto identified
with the whale by the best informed Nantucketers; nor, on the other
hand, link with it any fish hitherto authoritatively regarded as
alien.* Hence, all the smaller, spouting, and horizontal tailed fish
must be included in this ground-plan of Cetology. Now, then, come the
grand divisions of the entire whale host.

*I am aware that down to the present time, the fish styled Lamatins and
Dugongs (Pig-fish and Sow-fish of the Coffins of Nantucket) are
included by many naturalists among the whales. But as these pig-fish
are a noisy, contemptible set, mostly lurking in the mouths of rivers,
and feeding on wet hay, and especially as they do not spout, I deny
their credentials as whales; and have presented them with their
passports to quit the Kingdom of Cetology.

First: According to magnitude I divide the whales into three primary
BOOKS (subdivisible into CHAPTERS), and these shall comprehend them
all, both small and large.

I. THE FOLIO WHALE; II. the OCTAVO WHALE; III. the DUODECIMO WHALE.

As the type of the FOLIO I present the _Sperm Whale_; of the OCTAVO,
the _Grampus_; of the DUODECIMO, the _Porpoise_.

FOLIOS. Among these I here include the following chapters:—I. The
_Sperm Whale_; II. the _Right Whale_; III. the _Fin-Back Whale_; IV.
the _Hump-backed Whale_; V. the _Razor Back Whale_; VI. the _Sulphur
Bottom Whale_.

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER I. (_Sperm Whale_).—This whale, among the
English of old vaguely known as the Trumpa whale, and the Physeter
whale, and the Anvil Headed whale, is the present Cachalot of the
French, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the
Long Words. He is, without doubt, the largest inhabitant of the globe;
the most formidable of all whales to encounter; the most majestic in
aspect; and lastly, by far the most valuable in commerce; he being the
only creature from which that valuable substance, spermaceti, is
obtained. All his peculiarities will, in many other places, be enlarged
upon. It is chiefly with his name that I now have to do. Philologically
considered, it is absurd. Some centuries ago, when the Sperm whale was
almost wholly unknown in his own proper individuality, and when his oil
was only accidentally obtained from the stranded fish; in those days
spermaceti, it would seem, was popularly supposed to be derived from a
creature identical with the one then known in England as the Greenland
or Right Whale. It was the idea also, that this same spermaceti was
that quickening humor of the Greenland Whale which the first syllable
of the word literally expresses. In those times, also, spermaceti was
exceedingly scarce, not being used for light, but only as an ointment
and medicament. It was only to be had from the druggists as you
nowadays buy an ounce of rhubarb. When, as I opine, in the course of
time, the true nature of spermaceti became known, its original name was
still retained by the dealers; no doubt to enhance its value by a
notion so strangely significant of its scarcity. And so the appellation
must at last have come to be bestowed upon the whale from which this
spermaceti was really derived.

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER II. (_Right Whale_).—In one respect this is
the most venerable of the leviathans, being the one first regularly
hunted by man. It yields the article commonly known as whalebone or
baleen; and the oil specially known as “whale oil,” an inferior article
in commerce. Among the fishermen, he is indiscriminately designated by
all the following titles: The Whale; the Greenland Whale; the Black
Whale; the Great Whale; the True Whale; the Right Whale. There is a
deal of obscurity concerning the identity of the species thus
multitudinously baptised. What then is the whale, which I include in
the second species of my Folios? It is the Great Mysticetus of the
English naturalists; the Greenland Whale of the English whalemen; the
Baleine Ordinaire of the French whalemen; the Growlands Walfish of the
Swedes. It is the whale which for more than two centuries past has been
hunted by the Dutch and English in the Arctic seas; it is the whale
which the American fishermen have long pursued in the Indian ocean, on
the Brazil Banks, on the Nor’ West Coast, and various other parts of
the world, designated by them Right Whale Cruising Grounds.

Some pretend to see a difference between the Greenland whale of the
English and the right whale of the Americans. But they precisely agree
in all their grand features; nor has there yet been presented a single
determinate fact upon which to ground a radical distinction. It is by
endless subdivisions based upon the most inconclusive differences, that
some departments of natural history become so repellingly intricate.
The right whale will be elsewhere treated of at some length, with
reference to elucidating the sperm whale.

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER III. (_Fin-Back_).—Under this head I reckon
a monster which, by the various names of Fin-Back, Tall-Spout, and
Long-John, has been seen almost in every sea and is commonly the whale
whose distant jet is so often descried by passengers crossing the
Atlantic, in the New York packet-tracks. In the length he attains, and
in his baleen, the Fin-back resembles the right whale, but is of a less
portly girth, and a lighter colour, approaching to olive. His great
lips present a cable-like aspect, formed by the intertwisting, slanting
folds of large wrinkles. His grand distinguishing feature, the fin,
from which he derives his name, is often a conspicuous object. This fin
is some three or four feet long, growing vertically from the hinder
part of the back, of an angular shape, and with a very sharp pointed
end. Even if not the slightest other part of the creature be visible,
this isolated fin will, at times, be seen plainly projecting from the
surface. When the sea is moderately calm, and slightly marked with
spherical ripples, and this gnomon-like fin stands up and casts shadows
upon the wrinkled surface, it may well be supposed that the watery
circle surrounding it somewhat resembles a dial, with its style and
wavy hour-lines graved on it. On that Ahaz-dial the shadow often goes
back. The Fin-Back is not gregarious. He seems a whale-hater, as some
men are man-haters. Very shy; always going solitary; unexpectedly
rising to the surface in the remotest and most sullen waters; his
straight and single lofty jet rising like a tall misanthropic spear
upon a barren plain; gifted with such wondrous power and velocity in
swimming, as to defy all present pursuit from man; this leviathan seems
the banished and unconquerable Cain of his race, bearing for his mark
that style upon his back. From having the baleen in his mouth, the
Fin-Back is sometimes included with the right whale, among a theoretic
species denominated _Whalebone whales_, that is, whales with baleen. Of
these so called Whalebone whales, there would seem to be several
varieties, most of which, however, are little known. Broad-nosed whales
and beaked whales; pike-headed whales; bunched whales; under-jawed
whales and rostrated whales, are the fishermen’s names for a few sorts.

In connection with this appellative of “Whalebone whales,” it is of
great importance to mention, that however such a nomenclature may be
convenient in facilitating allusions to some kind of whales, yet it is
in vain to attempt a clear classification of the Leviathan, founded
upon either his baleen, or hump, or fin, or teeth; notwithstanding that
those marked parts or features very obviously seem better adapted to
afford the basis for a regular system of Cetology than any other
detached bodily distinctions, which the whale, in his kinds, presents.
How then? The baleen, hump, back-fin, and teeth; these are things whose
peculiarities are indiscriminately dispersed among all sorts of whales,
without any regard to what may be the nature of their structure in
other and more essential particulars. Thus, the sperm whale and the
humpbacked whale, each has a hump; but there the similitude ceases.
Then, this same humpbacked whale and the Greenland whale, each of these
has baleen; but there again the similitude ceases. And it is just the
same with the other parts above mentioned. In various sorts of whales,
they form such irregular combinations; or, in the case of any one of
them detached, such an irregular isolation; as utterly to defy all
general methodization formed upon such a basis. On this rock every one
of the whale-naturalists has split.

But it may possibly be conceived that, in the internal parts of the
whale, in his anatomy—there, at least, we shall be able to hit the
right classification. Nay; what thing, for example, is there in the
Greenland whale’s anatomy more striking than his baleen? Yet we have
seen that by his baleen it is impossible correctly to classify the
Greenland whale. And if you descend into the bowels of the various
leviathans, why there you will not find distinctions a fiftieth part as
available to the systematizer as those external ones already
enumerated. What then remains? nothing but to take hold of the whales
bodily, in their entire liberal volume, and boldly sort them that way.
And this is the Bibliographical system here adopted; and it is the only
one that can possibly succeed, for it alone is practicable. To proceed.

BOOK I. (_Folio_) CHAPTER IV. (_Hump Back_).—This whale is often seen
on the northern American coast. He has been frequently captured there,
and towed into harbor. He has a great pack on him like a peddler; or
you might call him the Elephant and Castle whale. At any rate, the
popular name for him does not sufficiently distinguish him, since the
sperm whale also has a hump though a smaller one. His oil is not very
valuable. He has baleen. He is the most gamesome and light-hearted of
all the whales, making more gay foam and white water generally than any
other of them.

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER V. (_Razor Back_).—Of this whale little is
known but his name. I have seen him at a distance off Cape Horn. Of a
retiring nature, he eludes both hunters and philosophers. Though no
coward, he has never yet shown any part of him but his back, which
rises in a long sharp ridge. Let him go. I know little more of him, nor
does anybody else.

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER VI. (_Sulphur Bottom_).—Another retiring
gentleman, with a brimstone belly, doubtless got by scraping along the
Tartarian tiles in some of his profounder divings. He is seldom seen;
at least I have never seen him except in the remoter southern seas, and
then always at too great a distance to study his countenance. He is
never chased; he would run away with rope-walks of line. Prodigies are
told of him. Adieu, Sulphur Bottom! I can say nothing more that is true
of ye, nor can the oldest Nantucketer.

Thus ends BOOK I. (_Folio_), and now begins BOOK II. (_Octavo_).

OCTAVOES.*—These embrace the whales of middling magnitude, among which
present may be numbered:—I., the _Grampus_; II., the _Black Fish_;
III., the _Narwhale_; IV., the _Thrasher_; V., the _Killer_.

*Why this book of whales is not denominated the Quarto is very plain.
Because, while the whales of this order, though smaller than those of
the former order, nevertheless retain a proportionate likeness to them
in figure, yet the bookbinder’s Quarto volume in its dimensioned form
does not preserve the shape of the Folio volume, but the Octavo volume
does.

BOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER I. (_Grampus_).—Though this fish, whose
loud sonorous breathing, or rather blowing, has furnished a proverb to
landsmen, is so well known a denizen of the deep, yet is he not
popularly classed among whales. But possessing all the grand
distinctive features of the leviathan, most naturalists have recognised
him for one. He is of moderate octavo size, varying from fifteen to
twenty-five feet in length, and of corresponding dimensions round the
waist. He swims in herds; he is never regularly hunted, though his oil
is considerable in quantity, and pretty good for light. By some
fishermen his approach is regarded as premonitory of the advance of the
great sperm whale.

BOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER II. (_Black Fish_).—I give the popular
fishermen’s names for all these fish, for generally they are the best.
Where any name happens to be vague or inexpressive, I shall say so, and
suggest another. I do so now, touching the Black Fish, so-called,
because blackness is the rule among almost all whales. So, call him the
Hyena Whale, if you please. His voracity is well known, and from the
circumstance that the inner angles of his lips are curved upwards, he
carries an everlasting Mephistophelean grin on his face. This whale
averages some sixteen or eighteen feet in length. He is found in almost
all latitudes. He has a peculiar way of showing his dorsal hooked fin
in swimming, which looks something like a Roman nose. When not more
profitably employed, the sperm whale hunters sometimes capture the
Hyena whale, to keep up the supply of cheap oil for domestic
employment—as some frugal housekeepers, in the absence of company, and
quite alone by themselves, burn unsavory tallow instead of odorous wax.
Though their blubber is very thin, some of these whales will yield you
upwards of thirty gallons of oil.

BOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER III. (_Narwhale_), that is, _Nostril
whale_.—Another instance of a curiously named whale, so named I suppose
from his peculiar horn being originally mistaken for a peaked nose. The
creature is some sixteen feet in length, while its horn averages five
feet, though some exceed ten, and even attain to fifteen feet. Strictly
speaking, this horn is but a lengthened tusk, growing out from the jaw
in a line a little depressed from the horizontal. But it is only found
on the sinister side, which has an ill effect, giving its owner
something analogous to the aspect of a clumsy left-handed man. What
precise purpose this ivory horn or lance answers, it would be hard to
say. It does not seem to be used like the blade of the sword-fish and
bill-fish; though some sailors tell me that the Narwhale employs it for
a rake in turning over the bottom of the sea for food. Charley Coffin
said it was used for an ice-piercer; for the Narwhale, rising to the
surface of the Polar Sea, and finding it sheeted with ice, thrusts his
horn up, and so breaks through. But you cannot prove either of these
surmises to be correct. My own opinion is, that however this one-sided
horn may really be used by the Narwhale—however that may be—it would
certainly be very convenient to him for a folder in reading pamphlets.
The Narwhale I have heard called the Tusked whale, the Horned whale,
and the Unicorn whale. He is certainly a curious example of the
Unicornism to be found in almost every kingdom of animated nature. From
certain cloistered old authors I have gathered that this same
sea-unicorn’s horn was in ancient days regarded as the great antidote
against poison, and as such, preparations of it brought immense prices.
It was also distilled to a volatile salts for fainting ladies, the same
way that the horns of the male deer are manufactured into hartshorn.
Originally it was in itself accounted an object of great curiosity.
Black Letter tells me that Sir Martin Frobisher on his return from that
voyage, when Queen Bess did gallantly wave her jewelled hand to him
from a window of Greenwich Palace, as his bold ship sailed down the
Thames; “when Sir Martin returned from that voyage,” saith Black
Letter, “on bended knees he presented to her highness a prodigious long
horn of the Narwhale, which for a long period after hung in the castle
at Windsor.” An Irish author avers that the Earl of Leicester, on
bended knees, did likewise present to her highness another horn,
pertaining to a land beast of the unicorn nature.

The Narwhale has a very picturesque, leopard-like look, being of a
milk-white ground colour, dotted with round and oblong spots of black.
His oil is very superior, clear and fine; but there is little of it,
and he is seldom hunted. He is mostly found in the circumpolar seas.

BOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER IV. (_Killer_).—Of this whale little is
precisely known to the Nantucketer, and nothing at all to the professed
naturalist. From what I have seen of him at a distance, I should say
that he was about the bigness of a grampus. He is very savage—a sort of
Feegee fish. He sometimes takes the great Folio whales by the lip, and
hangs there like a leech, till the mighty brute is worried to death.
The Killer is never hunted. I never heard what sort of oil he has.
Exception might be taken to the name bestowed upon this whale, on the
ground of its indistinctness. For we are all killers, on land and on
sea; Bonapartes and Sharks included.

BOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER V. (_Thrasher_).—This gentleman is famous
for his tail, which he uses for a ferule in thrashing his foes. He
mounts the Folio whale’s back, and as he swims, he works his passage by
flogging him; as some schoolmasters get along in the world by a similar
process. Still less is known of the Thrasher than of the Killer. Both
are outlaws, even in the lawless seas.

 Thus ends BOOK II. (_Octavo_), and begins BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_).

DUODECIMOES.—These include the smaller whales. I. The Huzza Porpoise.
II. The Algerine Porpoise. III. The Mealy-mouthed Porpoise.

To those who have not chanced specially to study the subject, it may
possibly seem strange, that fishes not commonly exceeding four or five
feet should be marshalled among WHALES—a word, which, in the popular
sense, always conveys an idea of hugeness. But the creatures set down
above as Duodecimoes are infallibly whales, by the terms of my
definition of what a whale is—_i.e._ a spouting fish, with a horizontal
tail.

BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER 1. (_Huzza Porpoise_).—This is the
common porpoise found almost all over the globe. The name is of my own
bestowal; for there are more than one sort of porpoises, and something
must be done to distinguish them. I call him thus, because he always
swims in hilarious shoals, which upon the broad sea keep tossing
themselves to heaven like caps in a Fourth-of-July crowd. Their
appearance is generally hailed with delight by the mariner. Full of
fine spirits, they invariably come from the breezy billows to windward.
They are the lads that always live before the wind. They are accounted
a lucky omen. If you yourself can withstand three cheers at beholding
these vivacious fish, then heaven help ye; the spirit of godly
gamesomeness is not in ye. A well-fed, plump Huzza Porpoise will yield
you one good gallon of good oil. But the fine and delicate fluid
extracted from his jaws is exceedingly valuable. It is in request among
jewellers and watchmakers. Sailors put it on their hones. Porpoise meat
is good eating, you know. It may never have occurred to you that a
porpoise spouts. Indeed, his spout is so small that it is not very
readily discernible. But the next time you have a chance, watch him;
and you will then see the great Sperm whale himself in miniature.

BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER II. (_Algerine Porpoise_).—A pirate.
Very savage. He is only found, I think, in the Pacific. He is somewhat
larger than the Huzza Porpoise, but much of the same general make.
Provoke him, and he will buckle to a shark. I have lowered for him many
times, but never yet saw him captured.

BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER III. (_Mealy-mouthed Porpoise_).—The
largest kind of Porpoise; and only found in the Pacific, so far as it
is known. The only English name, by which he has hitherto been
designated, is that of the fishers—Right-Whale Porpoise, from the
circumstance that he is chiefly found in the vicinity of that Folio. In
shape, he differs in some degree from the Huzza Porpoise, being of a
less rotund and jolly girth; indeed, he is of quite a neat and
gentleman-like figure. He has no fins on his back (most other porpoises
have), he has a lovely tail, and sentimental Indian eyes of a hazel
hue. But his mealy-mouth spoils all. Though his entire back down to his
side fins is of a deep sable, yet a boundary line, distinct as the mark
in a ship’s hull, called the “bright waist,” that line streaks him from
stem to stern, with two separate colours, black above and white below.
The white comprises part of his head, and the whole of his mouth, which
makes him look as if he had just escaped from a felonious visit to a
meal-bag. A most mean and mealy aspect! His oil is much like that of
the common porpoise.

  * * * * * *

Beyond the DUODECIMO, this system does not proceed, inasmuch as the
Porpoise is the smallest of the whales. Above, you have all the
Leviathans of note. But there are a rabble of uncertain, fugitive,
half-fabulous whales, which, as an American whaleman, I know by
reputation, but not personally. I shall enumerate them by their
fore-castle appellations; for possibly such a list may be valuable to
future investigators, who may complete what I have here but begun. If
any of the following whales, shall hereafter be caught and marked, then
he can readily be incorporated into this System, according to his
Folio, Octavo, or Duodecimo magnitude:—The Bottle-Nose Whale; the Junk
Whale; the Pudding-Headed Whale; the Cape Whale; the Leading Whale; the
Cannon Whale; the Scragg Whale; the Coppered Whale; the Elephant Whale;
the Iceberg Whale; the Quog Whale; the Blue Whale; etc. From Icelandic,
Dutch, and old English authorities, there might be quoted other lists
of uncertain whales, blessed with all manner of uncouth names. But I
omit them as altogether obsolete; and can hardly help suspecting them
for mere sounds, full of Leviathanism, but signifying nothing.

Finally: It was stated at the outset, that this system would not be
here, and at once, perfected. You cannot but plainly see that I have
kept my word. But I now leave my cetological System standing thus
unfinished, even as the great Cathedral of Cologne was left, with the
crane still standing upon the top of the uncompleted tower. For small
erections may be finished by their first architects; grand ones, true
ones, ever leave the copestone to posterity. God keep me from ever
completing anything. This whole book is but a draught—nay, but the
draught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience!


CHAPTER 33. The Specksnyder.

Concerning the officers of the whale-craft, this seems as good a place
as any to set down a little domestic peculiarity on ship-board, arising
from the existence of the harpooneer class of officers, a class unknown
of course in any other marine than the whale-fleet.

The large importance attached to the harpooneer’s vocation is evinced
by the fact, that originally in the old Dutch Fishery, two centuries
and more ago, the command of a whale ship was not wholly lodged in the
person now called the captain, but was divided between him and an
officer called the Specksnyder. Literally this word means Fat-Cutter;
usage, however, in time made it equivalent to Chief Harpooneer. In
those days, the captain’s authority was restricted to the navigation
and general management of the vessel; while over the whale-hunting
department and all its concerns, the Specksnyder or Chief Harpooneer
reigned supreme. In the British Greenland Fishery, under the corrupted
title of Specksioneer, this old Dutch official is still retained, but
his former dignity is sadly abridged. At present he ranks simply as
senior Harpooneer; and as such, is but one of the captain’s more
inferior subalterns. Nevertheless, as upon the good conduct of the
harpooneers the success of a whaling voyage largely depends, and since
in the American Fishery he is not only an important officer in the
boat, but under certain circumstances (night watches on a whaling
ground) the command of the ship’s deck is also his; therefore the grand
political maxim of the sea demands, that he should nominally live apart
from the men before the mast, and be in some way distinguished as their
professional superior; though always, by them, familiarly regarded as
their social equal.

Now, the grand distinction drawn between officer and man at sea, is
this—the first lives aft, the last forward. Hence, in whale-ships and
merchantmen alike, the mates have their quarters with the captain; and
so, too, in most of the American whalers the harpooneers are lodged in
the after part of the ship. That is to say, they take their meals in
the captain’s cabin, and sleep in a place indirectly communicating with
it.

Though the long period of a Southern whaling voyage (by far the longest
of all voyages now or ever made by man), the peculiar perils of it, and
the community of interest prevailing among a company, all of whom, high
or low, depend for their profits, not upon fixed wages, but upon their
common luck, together with their common vigilance, intrepidity, and
hard work; though all these things do in some cases tend to beget a
less rigorous discipline than in merchantmen generally; yet, never mind
how much like an old Mesopotamian family these whalemen may, in some
primitive instances, live together; for all that, the punctilious
externals, at least, of the quarter-deck are seldom materially relaxed,
and in no instance done away. Indeed, many are the Nantucket ships in
which you will see the skipper parading his quarter-deck with an elated
grandeur not surpassed in any military navy; nay, extorting almost as
much outward homage as if he wore the imperial purple, and not the
shabbiest of pilot-cloth.

And though of all men the moody captain of the Pequod was the least
given to that sort of shallowest assumption; and though the only homage
he ever exacted, was implicit, instantaneous obedience; though he
required no man to remove the shoes from his feet ere stepping upon the
quarter-deck; and though there were times when, owing to peculiar
circumstances connected with events hereafter to be detailed, he
addressed them in unusual terms, whether of condescension or _in
terrorem_, or otherwise; yet even Captain Ahab was by no means
unobservant of the paramount forms and usages of the sea.

Nor, perhaps, will it fail to be eventually perceived, that behind
those forms and usages, as it were, he sometimes masked himself;
incidentally making use of them for other and more private ends than
they were legitimately intended to subserve. That certain sultanism of
his brain, which had otherwise in a good degree remained unmanifested;
through those forms that same sultanism became incarnate in an
irresistible dictatorship. For be a man’s intellectual superiority what
it will, it can never assume the practical, available supremacy over
other men, without the aid of some sort of external arts and
entrenchments, always, in themselves, more or less paltry and base.
This it is, that for ever keeps God’s true princes of the Empire from
the world’s hustings; and leaves the highest honors that this air can
give, to those men who become famous more through their infinite
inferiority to the choice hidden handful of the Divine Inert, than
through their undoubted superiority over the dead level of the mass.
Such large virtue lurks in these small things when extreme political
superstitions invest them, that in some royal instances even to idiot
imbecility they have imparted potency. But when, as in the case of
Nicholas the Czar, the ringed crown of geographical empire encircles an
imperial brain; then, the plebeian herds crouch abased before the
tremendous centralization. Nor, will the tragic dramatist who would
depict mortal indomitableness in its fullest sweep and direct swing,
ever forget a hint, incidentally so important in his art, as the one
now alluded to.

But Ahab, my Captain, still moves before me in all his Nantucket
grimness and shagginess; and in this episode touching Emperors and
Kings, I must not conceal that I have only to do with a poor old
whale-hunter like him; and, therefore, all outward majestical trappings
and housings are denied me. Oh, Ahab! what shall be grand in thee, it
must needs be plucked at from the skies, and dived for in the deep, and
featured in the unbodied air!


CHAPTER 34. The Cabin-Table.

It is noon; and Dough-Boy, the steward, thrusting his pale
loaf-of-bread face from the cabin-scuttle, announces dinner to his lord
and master; who, sitting in the lee quarter-boat, has just been taking
an observation of the sun; and is now mutely reckoning the latitude on
the smooth, medallion-shaped tablet, reserved for that daily purpose on
the upper part of his ivory leg. From his complete inattention to the
tidings, you would think that moody Ahab had not heard his menial. But
presently, catching hold of the mizen shrouds, he swings himself to the
deck, and in an even, unexhilarated voice, saying, “Dinner, Mr.
Starbuck,” disappears into the cabin.

When the last echo of his sultan’s step has died away, and Starbuck,
the first Emir, has every reason to suppose that he is seated, then
Starbuck rouses from his quietude, takes a few turns along the planks,
and, after a grave peep into the binnacle, says, with some touch of
pleasantness, “Dinner, Mr. Stubb,” and descends the scuttle. The second
Emir lounges about the rigging awhile, and then slightly shaking the
main brace, to see whether it will be all right with that important
rope, he likewise takes up the old burden, and with a rapid “Dinner,
Mr. Flask,” follows after his predecessors.

But the third Emir, now seeing himself all alone on the quarter-deck,
seems to feel relieved from some curious restraint; for, tipping all
sorts of knowing winks in all sorts of directions, and kicking off his
shoes, he strikes into a sharp but noiseless squall of a hornpipe right
over the Grand Turk’s head; and then, by a dexterous sleight, pitching
his cap up into the mizentop for a shelf, he goes down rollicking so
far at least as he remains visible from the deck, reversing all other
processions, by bringing up the rear with music. But ere stepping into
the cabin doorway below, he pauses, ships a new face altogether, and,
then, independent, hilarious little Flask enters King Ahab’s presence,
in the character of Abjectus, or the Slave.

It is not the least among the strange things bred by the intense
artificialness of sea-usages, that while in the open air of the deck
some officers will, upon provocation, bear themselves boldly and
defyingly enough towards their commander; yet, ten to one, let those
very officers the next moment go down to their customary dinner in that
same commander’s cabin, and straightway their inoffensive, not to say
deprecatory and humble air towards him, as he sits at the head of the
table; this is marvellous, sometimes most comical. Wherefore this
difference? A problem? Perhaps not. To have been Belshazzar, King of
Babylon; and to have been Belshazzar, not haughtily but courteously,
therein certainly must have been some touch of mundane grandeur. But he
who in the rightly regal and intelligent spirit presides over his own
private dinner-table of invited guests, that man’s unchallenged power
and dominion of individual influence for the time; that man’s royalty
of state transcends Belshazzar’s, for Belshazzar was not the greatest.
Who has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Cæsar.
It is a witchery of social czarship which there is no withstanding.
Now, if to this consideration you superadd the official supremacy of a
ship-master, then, by inference, you will derive the cause of that
peculiarity of sea-life just mentioned.

Over his ivory-inlaid table, Ahab presided like a mute, maned sea-lion
on the white coral beach, surrounded by his warlike but still
deferential cubs. In his own proper turn, each officer waited to be
served. They were as little children before Ahab; and yet, in Ahab,
there seemed not to lurk the smallest social arrogance. With one mind,
their intent eyes all fastened upon the old man’s knife, as he carved
the chief dish before him. I do not suppose that for the world they
would have profaned that moment with the slightest observation, even
upon so neutral a topic as the weather. No! And when reaching out his
knife and fork, between which the slice of beef was locked, Ahab
thereby motioned Starbuck’s plate towards him, the mate received his
meat as though receiving alms; and cut it tenderly; and a little
started if, perchance, the knife grazed against the plate; and chewed
it noiselessly; and swallowed it, not without circumspection. For, like
the Coronation banquet at Frankfort, where the German Emperor
profoundly dines with the seven Imperial Electors, so these cabin meals
were somehow solemn meals, eaten in awful silence; and yet at table old
Ahab forbade not conversation; only he himself was dumb. What a relief
it was to choking Stubb, when a rat made a sudden racket in the hold
below. And poor little Flask, he was the youngest son, and little boy
of this weary family party. His were the shinbones of the saline beef;
his would have been the drumsticks. For Flask to have presumed to help
himself, this must have seemed to him tantamount to larceny in the
first degree. Had he helped himself at that table, doubtless, never
more would he have been able to hold his head up in this honest world;
nevertheless, strange to say, Ahab never forbade him. And had Flask
helped himself, the chances were Ahab had never so much as noticed it.
Least of all, did Flask presume to help himself to butter. Whether he
thought the owners of the ship denied it to him, on account of its
clotting his clear, sunny complexion; or whether he deemed that, on so
long a voyage in such marketless waters, butter was at a premium, and
therefore was not for him, a subaltern; however it was, Flask, alas!
was a butterless man!

Another thing. Flask was the last person down at the dinner, and Flask
is the first man up. Consider! For hereby Flask’s dinner was badly
jammed in point of time. Starbuck and Stubb both had the start of him;
and yet they also have the privilege of lounging in the rear. If Stubb
even, who is but a peg higher than Flask, happens to have but a small
appetite, and soon shows symptoms of concluding his repast, then Flask
must bestir himself, he will not get more than three mouthfuls that
day; for it is against holy usage for Stubb to precede Flask to the
deck. Therefore it was that Flask once admitted in private, that ever
since he had arisen to the dignity of an officer, from that moment he
had never known what it was to be otherwise than hungry, more or less.
For what he ate did not so much relieve his hunger, as keep it immortal
in him. Peace and satisfaction, thought Flask, have for ever departed
from my stomach. I am an officer; but, how I wish I could fish a bit of
old-fashioned beef in the forecastle, as I used to when I was before
the mast. There’s the fruits of promotion now; there’s the vanity of
glory: there’s the insanity of life! Besides, if it were so that any
mere sailor of the Pequod had a grudge against Flask in Flask’s
official capacity, all that sailor had to do, in order to obtain ample
vengeance, was to go aft at dinner-time, and get a peep at Flask
through the cabin sky-light, sitting silly and dumfoundered before
awful Ahab.

Now, Ahab and his three mates formed what may be called the first table
in the Pequod’s cabin. After their departure, taking place in inverted
order to their arrival, the canvas cloth was cleared, or rather was
restored to some hurried order by the pallid steward. And then the
three harpooneers were bidden to the feast, they being its residuary
legatees. They made a sort of temporary servants’ hall of the high and
mighty cabin.

In strange contrast to the hardly tolerable constraint and nameless
invisible domineerings of the captain’s table, was the entire care-free
license and ease, the almost frantic democracy of those inferior
fellows the harpooneers. While their masters, the mates, seemed afraid
of the sound of the hinges of their own jaws, the harpooneers chewed
their food with such a relish that there was a report to it. They dined
like lords; they filled their bellies like Indian ships all day loading
with spices. Such portentous appetites had Queequeg and Tashtego, that
to fill out the vacancies made by the previous repast, often the pale
Dough-Boy was fain to bring on a great baron of salt-junk, seemingly
quarried out of the solid ox. And if he were not lively about it, if he
did not go with a nimble hop-skip-and-jump, then Tashtego had an
ungentlemanly way of accelerating him by darting a fork at his back,
harpoon-wise. And once Daggoo, seized with a sudden humor, assisted
Dough-Boy’s memory by snatching him up bodily, and thrusting his head
into a great empty wooden trencher, while Tashtego, knife in hand,
began laying out the circle preliminary to scalping him. He was
naturally a very nervous, shuddering sort of little fellow, this
bread-faced steward; the progeny of a bankrupt baker and a hospital
nurse. And what with the standing spectacle of the black terrific Ahab,
and the periodical tumultuous visitations of these three savages,
Dough-Boy’s whole life was one continual lip-quiver. Commonly, after
seeing the harpooneers furnished with all things they demanded, he
would escape from their clutches into his little pantry adjoining, and
fearfully peep out at them through the blinds of its door, till all was
over.

It was a sight to see Queequeg seated over against Tashtego, opposing
his filed teeth to the Indian’s: crosswise to them, Daggoo seated on
the floor, for a bench would have brought his hearse-plumed head to the
low carlines; at every motion of his colossal limbs, making the low
cabin framework to shake, as when an African elephant goes passenger in
a ship. But for all this, the great negro was wonderfully abstemious,
not to say dainty. It seemed hardly possible that by such comparatively
small mouthfuls he could keep up the vitality diffused through so
broad, baronial, and superb a person. But, doubtless, this noble savage
fed strong and drank deep of the abounding element of air; and through
his dilated nostrils snuffed in the sublime life of the worlds. Not by
beef or by bread, are giants made or nourished. But Queequeg, he had a
mortal, barbaric smack of the lip in eating—an ugly sound enough—so
much so, that the trembling Dough-Boy almost looked to see whether any
marks of teeth lurked in his own lean arms. And when he would hear
Tashtego singing out for him to produce himself, that his bones might
be picked, the simple-witted steward all but shattered the crockery
hanging round him in the pantry, by his sudden fits of the palsy. Nor
did the whetstone which the harpooneers carried in their pockets, for
their lances and other weapons; and with which whetstones, at dinner,
they would ostentatiously sharpen their knives; that grating sound did
not at all tend to tranquillize poor Dough-Boy. How could he forget
that in his Island days, Queequeg, for one, must certainly have been
guilty of some murderous, convivial indiscretions. Alas! Dough-Boy!
hard fares the white waiter who waits upon cannibals. Not a napkin
should he carry on his arm, but a buckler. In good time, though, to his
great delight, the three salt-sea warriors would rise and depart; to
his credulous, fable-mongering ears, all their martial bones jingling
in them at every step, like Moorish scimetars in scabbards.

But, though these barbarians dined in the cabin, and nominally lived
there; still, being anything but sedentary in their habits, they were
scarcely ever in it except at mealtimes, and just before sleeping-time,
when they passed through it to their own peculiar quarters.

In this one matter, Ahab seemed no exception to most American whale
captains, who, as a set, rather incline to the opinion that by rights
the ship’s cabin belongs to them; and that it is by courtesy alone that
anybody else is, at any time, permitted there. So that, in real truth,
the mates and harpooneers of the Pequod might more properly be said to
have lived out of the cabin than in it. For when they did enter it, it
was something as a street-door enters a house; turning inwards for a
moment, only to be turned out the next; and, as a permanent thing,
residing in the open air. Nor did they lose much hereby; in the cabin
was no companionship; socially, Ahab was inaccessible. Though nominally
included in the census of Christendom, he was still an alien to it. He
lived in the world, as the last of the Grisly Bears lived in settled
Missouri. And as when Spring and Summer had departed, that wild Logan
of the woods, burying himself in the hollow of a tree, lived out the
winter there, sucking his own paws; so, in his inclement, howling old
age, Ahab’s soul, shut up in the caved trunk of his body, there fed
upon the sullen paws of its gloom!


CHAPTER 35. The Mast-Head.

It was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the
other seamen my first mast-head came round.

In most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost
simultaneously with the vessel’s leaving her port; even though she may
have fifteen thousand miles, and more, to sail ere reaching her proper
cruising ground. And if, after a three, four, or five years’ voyage she
is drawing nigh home with anything empty in her—say, an empty vial
even—then, her mast-heads are kept manned to the last; and not till her
skysail-poles sail in among the spires of the port, does she altogether
relinquish the hope of capturing one whale more.

Now, as the business of standing mast-heads, ashore or afloat, is a
very ancient and interesting one, let us in some measure expatiate
here. I take it, that the earliest standers of mast-heads were the old
Egyptians; because, in all my researches, I find none prior to them.
For though their progenitors, the builders of Babel, must doubtless, by
their tower, have intended to rear the loftiest mast-head in all Asia,
or Africa either; yet (ere the final truck was put to it) as that great
stone mast of theirs may be said to have gone by the board, in the
dread gale of God’s wrath; therefore, we cannot give these Babel
builders priority over the Egyptians. And that the Egyptians were a
nation of mast-head standers, is an assertion based upon the general
belief among archæologists, that the first pyramids were founded for
astronomical purposes: a theory singularly supported by the peculiar
stair-like formation of all four sides of those edifices; whereby, with
prodigious long upliftings of their legs, those old astronomers were
wont to mount to the apex, and sing out for new stars; even as the
look-outs of a modern ship sing out for a sail, or a whale just bearing
in sight. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of old times,
who built him a lofty stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole
latter portion of his life on its summit, hoisting his food from the
ground with a tackle; in him we have a remarkable instance of a
dauntless stander-of-mast-heads; who was not to be driven from his
place by fogs or frosts, rain, hail, or sleet; but valiantly facing
everything out to the last, literally died at his post. Of modern
standers-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron,
and bronze men; who, though well capable of facing out a stiff gale,
are still entirely incompetent to the business of singing out upon
discovering any strange sight. There is Napoleon; who, upon the top of
the column of Vendome, stands with arms folded, some one hundred and
fifty feet in the air; careless, now, who rules the decks below;
whether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great
Washington, too, stands high aloft on his towering main-mast in
Baltimore, and like one of Hercules’ pillars, his column marks that
point of human grandeur beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral
Nelson, also, on a capstan of gun-metal, stands his mast-head in
Trafalgar Square; and ever when most obscured by that London smoke,
token is yet given that a hidden hero is there; for where there is
smoke, must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor
Nelson, will answer a single hail from below, however madly invoked to
befriend by their counsels the distracted decks upon which they gaze;
however it may be surmised, that their spirits penetrate through the
thick haze of the future, and descry what shoals and what rocks must be
shunned.

It may seem unwarrantable to couple in any respect the mast-head
standers of the land with those of the sea; but that in truth it is not
so, is plainly evinced by an item for which Obed Macy, the sole
historian of Nantucket, stands accountable. The worthy Obed tells us,
that in the early times of the whale fishery, ere ships were regularly
launched in pursuit of the game, the people of that island erected
lofty spars along the sea-coast, to which the look-outs ascended by
means of nailed cleats, something as fowls go upstairs in a hen-house.
A few years ago this same plan was adopted by the Bay whalemen of New
Zealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned
boats nigh the beach. But this custom has now become obsolete; turn we
then to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. The
three mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen
taking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other
every two hours. In the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly
pleasant the mast-head; nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is
delightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks,
striding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while
beneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters
of the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous
Colossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the infinite series of
the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship
indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you
into languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime
uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras
with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into
unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt
securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what
you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more
are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

In one of those southern whalesmen, on a long three or four years’
voyage, as often happens, the sum of the various hours you spend at the
mast-head would amount to several entire months. And it is much to be
deplored that the place to which you devote so considerable a portion
of the whole term of your natural life, should be so sadly destitute of
anything approaching to a cosy inhabitiveness, or adapted to breed a
comfortable localness of feeling, such as pertains to a bed, a hammock,
a hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other of those small
and snug contrivances in which men temporarily isolate themselves. Your
most usual point of perch is the head of the t’ gallant-mast, where you
stand upon two thin parallel sticks (almost peculiar to whalemen)
called the t’ gallant cross-trees. Here, tossed about by the sea, the
beginner feels about as cosy as he would standing on a bull’s horns. To
be sure, in cold weather you may carry your house aloft with you, in
the shape of a watch-coat; but properly speaking the thickest
watch-coat is no more of a house than the unclad body; for as the soul
is glued inside of its fleshy tabernacle, and cannot freely move about
in it, nor even move out of it, without running great risk of perishing
(like an ignorant pilgrim crossing the snowy Alps in winter); so a
watch-coat is not so much of a house as it is a mere envelope, or
additional skin encasing you. You cannot put a shelf or chest of
drawers in your body, and no more can you make a convenient closet of
your watch-coat.

Concerning all this, it is much to be deplored that the mast-heads of a
southern whale ship are unprovided with those enviable little tents or
pulpits, called _crow’s-nests_, in which the look-outs of a Greenland
whaler are protected from the inclement weather of the frozen seas. In
the fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled “A Voyage among the
Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the
re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;” in this
admirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a
charmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented
_crow’s-nest_ of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet’s
good craft. He called it the _Sleet’s crow’s-nest_, in honor of
himself; he being the original inventor and patentee, and free from all
ridiculous false delicacy, and holding that if we call our own children
after our own names (we fathers being the original inventors and
patentees), so likewise should we denominate after ourselves any other
apparatus we may beget. In shape, the Sleet’s crow’s-nest is something
like a large tierce or pipe; it is open above, however, where it is
furnished with a movable side-screen to keep to windward of your head
in a hard gale. Being fixed on the summit of the mast, you ascend into
it through a little trap-hatch in the bottom. On the after side, or
side next the stern of the ship, is a comfortable seat, with a locker
underneath for umbrellas, comforters, and coats. In front is a leather
rack, in which to keep your speaking trumpet, pipe, telescope, and
other nautical conveniences. When Captain Sleet in person stood his
mast-head in this crow’s-nest of his, he tells us that he always had a
rifle with him (also fixed in the rack), together with a powder flask
and shot, for the purpose of popping off the stray narwhales, or
vagrant sea unicorns infesting those waters; for you cannot
successfully shoot at them from the deck owing to the resistance of the
water, but to shoot down upon them is a very different thing. Now, it
was plainly a labor of love for Captain Sleet to describe, as he does,
all the little detailed conveniences of his crow’s-nest; but though he
so enlarges upon many of these, and though he treats us to a very
scientific account of his experiments in this crow’s-nest, with a small
compass he kept there for the purpose of counteracting the errors
resulting from what is called the “local attraction” of all binnacle
magnets; an error ascribable to the horizontal vicinity of the iron in
the ship’s planks, and in the Glacier’s case, perhaps, to there having
been so many broken-down blacksmiths among her crew; I say, that though
the Captain is very discreet and scientific here, yet, for all his
learned “binnacle deviations,” “azimuth compass observations,” and
“approximate errors,” he knows very well, Captain Sleet, that he was
not so much immersed in those profound magnetic meditations, as to fail
being attracted occasionally towards that well replenished little
case-bottle, so nicely tucked in on one side of his crow’s nest, within
easy reach of his hand. Though, upon the whole, I greatly admire and
even love the brave, the honest, and learned Captain; yet I take it
very ill of him that he should so utterly ignore that case-bottle,
seeing what a faithful friend and comforter it must have been, while
with mittened fingers and hooded head he was studying the mathematics
aloft there in that bird’s nest within three or four perches of the
pole.

But if we Southern whale-fishers are not so snugly housed aloft as
Captain Sleet and his Greenlandmen were; yet that disadvantage is
greatly counter-balanced by the widely contrasting serenity of those
seductive seas in which we South fishers mostly float. For one, I used
to lounge up the rigging very leisurely, resting in the top to have a
chat with Queequeg, or any one else off duty whom I might find there;
then ascending a little way further, and throwing a lazy leg over the
top-sail yard, take a preliminary view of the watery pastures, and so
at last mount to my ultimate destination.

Let me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept
but sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how
could I—being left completely to myself at such a thought-engendering
altitude—how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all
whale-ships’ standing orders, “Keep your weather eye open, and sing out
every time.”

And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of
Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with
lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who
offers to ship with the Phædon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware
of such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be
killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes
round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor
are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery
furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded
young men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking
sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches
himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship,
and in moody phrase ejaculates:—


“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand
blubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain.”



Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young
philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient
“interest” in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost
to all honorable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would
rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young
Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are
short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have
left their opera-glasses at home.

“Why, thou monkey,” said a harpooneer to one of these lads, “we’ve been
cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale
yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.”
Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in
the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of
vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending
cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity;
takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep,
blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange,
half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every
dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him
the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by
continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit
ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space;
like Cranmer’s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of
every shore the round globe over.

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a
gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from
the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on
ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your
identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And
perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled
shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no
more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!


CHAPTER 36. The Quarter-Deck.

(_Enter Ahab: Then, all._)

It was not a great while after the affair of the pipe, that one morning
shortly after breakfast, Ahab, as was his wont, ascended the
cabin-gangway to the deck. There most sea-captains usually walk at that
hour, as country gentlemen, after the same meal, take a few turns in
the garden.

Soon his steady, ivory stride was heard, as to and fro he paced his old
rounds, upon planks so familiar to his tread, that they were all over
dented, like geological stones, with the peculiar mark of his walk. Did
you fixedly gaze, too, upon that ribbed and dented brow; there also,
you would see still stranger foot-prints—the foot-prints of his one
unsleeping, ever-pacing thought.

But on the occasion in question, those dents looked deeper, even as his
nervous step that morning left a deeper mark. And, so full of his
thought was Ahab, that at every uniform turn that he made, now at the
main-mast and now at the binnacle, you could almost see that thought
turn in him as he turned, and pace in him as he paced; so completely
possessing him, indeed, that it all but seemed the inward mould of
every outer movement.

“D’ye mark him, Flask?” whispered Stubb; “the chick that’s in him pecks
the shell. ’Twill soon be out.”

The hours wore on;—Ahab now shut up within his cabin; anon, pacing the
deck, with the same intense bigotry of purpose in his aspect.

It drew near the close of day. Suddenly he came to a halt by the
bulwarks, and inserting his bone leg into the auger-hole there, and
with one hand grasping a shroud, he ordered Starbuck to send everybody
aft.

“Sir!” said the mate, astonished at an order seldom or never given on
ship-board except in some extraordinary case.

“Send everybody aft,” repeated Ahab. “Mast-heads, there! come down!”

When the entire ship’s company were assembled, and with curious and not
wholly unapprehensive faces, were eyeing him, for he looked not unlike
the weather horizon when a storm is coming up, Ahab, after rapidly
glancing over the bulwarks, and then darting his eyes among the crew,
started from his standpoint; and as though not a soul were nigh him
resumed his heavy turns upon the deck. With bent head and half-slouched
hat he continued to pace, unmindful of the wondering whispering among
the men; till Stubb cautiously whispered to Flask, that Ahab must have
summoned them there for the purpose of witnessing a pedestrian feat.
But this did not last long. Vehemently pausing, he cried:—

“What do ye do when ye see a whale, men?”

“Sing out for him!” was the impulsive rejoinder from a score of clubbed
voices.

“Good!” cried Ahab, with a wild approval in his tones; observing the
hearty animation into which his unexpected question had so magnetically
thrown them.

“And what do ye next, men?”

“Lower away, and after him!”

“And what tune is it ye pull to, men?”

“A dead whale or a stove boat!”

More and more strangely and fiercely glad and approving, grew the
countenance of the old man at every shout; while the mariners began to
gaze curiously at each other, as if marvelling how it was that they
themselves became so excited at such seemingly purposeless questions.

But, they were all eagerness again, as Ahab, now half-revolving in his
pivot-hole, with one hand reaching high up a shroud, and tightly,
almost convulsively grasping it, addressed them thus:—

“All ye mast-headers have before now heard me give orders about a white
whale. Look ye! d’ye see this Spanish ounce of gold?”—holding up a
broad bright coin to the sun—“it is a sixteen dollar piece, men. D’ye
see it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me yon top-maul.”

While the mate was getting the hammer, Ahab, without speaking, was
slowly rubbing the gold piece against the skirts of his jacket, as if
to heighten its lustre, and without using any words was meanwhile lowly
humming to himself, producing a sound so strangely muffled and
inarticulate that it seemed the mechanical humming of the wheels of his
vitality in him.

Receiving the top-maul from Starbuck, he advanced towards the main-mast
with the hammer uplifted in one hand, exhibiting the gold with the
other, and with a high raised voice exclaiming: “Whosoever of ye raises
me a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw;
whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes
punctured in his starboard fluke—look ye, whosoever of ye raises me
that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys!”

“Huzza! huzza!” cried the seamen, as with swinging tarpaulins they
hailed the act of nailing the gold to the mast.

“It’s a white whale, I say,” resumed Ahab, as he threw down the
topmaul: “a white whale. Skin your eyes for him, men; look sharp for
white water; if ye see but a bubble, sing out.”

All this while Tashtego, Daggoo, and Queequeg had looked on with even
more intense interest and surprise than the rest, and at the mention of
the wrinkled brow and crooked jaw they had started as if each was
separately touched by some specific recollection.

“Captain Ahab,” said Tashtego, “that white whale must be the same that
some call Moby Dick.”

“Moby Dick?” shouted Ahab. “Do ye know the white whale then, Tash?”

“Does he fan-tail a little curious, sir, before he goes down?” said the
Gay-Header deliberately.

“And has he a curious spout, too,” said Daggoo, “very bushy, even for a
parmacetty, and mighty quick, Captain Ahab?”

“And he have one, two, three—oh! good many iron in him hide, too,
Captain,” cried Queequeg disjointedly, “all twiske-tee be-twisk, like
him—him—” faltering hard for a word, and screwing his hand round and
round as though uncorking a bottle—“like him—him—”

“Corkscrew!” cried Ahab, “aye, Queequeg, the harpoons lie all twisted
and wrenched in him; aye, Daggoo, his spout is a big one, like a whole
shock of wheat, and white as a pile of our Nantucket wool after the
great annual sheep-shearing; aye, Tashtego, and he fan-tails like a
split jib in a squall. Death and devils! men, it is Moby Dick ye have
seen—Moby Dick—Moby Dick!”

“Captain Ahab,” said Starbuck, who, with Stubb and Flask, had thus far
been eyeing his superior with increasing surprise, but at last seemed
struck with a thought which somewhat explained all the wonder. “Captain
Ahab, I have heard of Moby Dick—but it was not Moby Dick that took off
thy leg?”

“Who told thee that?” cried Ahab; then pausing, “Aye, Starbuck; aye, my
hearties all round; it was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that
brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye,” he shouted
with a terrific, loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose;
“Aye, aye! it was that accursed white whale that razed me; made a poor
pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!” Then tossing both arms, with
measureless imprecations he shouted out: “Aye, aye! and I’ll chase him
round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom,
and round perdition’s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye
have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land,
and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin
out. What say ye, men, will ye splice hands on it, now? I think ye do
look brave.”

“Aye, aye!” shouted the harpooneers and seamen, running closer to the
excited old man: “A sharp eye for the white whale; a sharp lance for
Moby Dick!”

“God bless ye,” he seemed to half sob and half shout. “God bless ye,
men. Steward! go draw the great measure of grog. But what’s this long
face about, Mr. Starbuck; wilt thou not chase the white whale? art not
game for Moby Dick?”

“I am game for his crooked jaw, and for the jaws of Death too, Captain
Ahab, if it fairly comes in the way of the business we follow; but I
came here to hunt whales, not my commander’s vengeance. How many
barrels will thy vengeance yield thee even if thou gettest it, Captain
Ahab? it will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market.”

“Nantucket market! Hoot! But come closer, Starbuck; thou requirest a
little lower layer. If money’s to be the measurer, man, and the
accountants have computed their great counting-house the globe, by
girdling it with guineas, one to every three parts of an inch; then,
let me tell thee, that my vengeance will fetch a great premium _here!_”

“He smites his chest,” whispered Stubb, “what’s that for? methinks it
rings most vast, but hollow.”

“Vengeance on a dumb brute!” cried Starbuck, “that simply smote thee
from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing,
Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.”

“Hark ye yet again—the little lower layer. All visible objects, man,
are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the
undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth
the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man
will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach
outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is
that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond.
But ’tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous
strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable
thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the
white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me
of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the
sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of
fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my
master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no
confines. Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is
a doltish stare! So, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted
thee to anger-glow. But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that
thing unsays itself. There are men from whom warm words are small
indignity. I meant not to incense thee. Let it go. Look! see yonder
Turkish cheeks of spotted tawn—living, breathing pictures painted by
the sun. The Pagan leopards—the unrecking and unworshipping things,
that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel!
The crew, man, the crew! Are they not one and all with Ahab, in this
matter of the whale? See Stubb! he laughs! See yonder Chilian! he
snorts to think of it. Stand up amid the general hurricane, thy one
tost sapling cannot, Starbuck! And what is it? Reckon it. ’Tis but to
help strike a fin; no wondrous feat for Starbuck. What is it more? From
this one poor hunt, then, the best lance out of all Nantucket, surely
he will not hang back, when every foremast-hand has clutched a
whetstone? Ah! constrainings seize thee; I see! the billow lifts thee!
Speak, but speak!—Aye, aye! thy silence, then, _that_ voices thee.
(_Aside_) Something shot from my dilated nostrils, he has inhaled it in
his lungs. Starbuck now is mine; cannot oppose me now, without
rebellion.”

“God keep me!—keep us all!” murmured Starbuck, lowly.

But in his joy at the enchanted, tacit acquiescence of the mate, Ahab
did not hear his foreboding invocation; nor yet the low laugh from the
hold; nor yet the presaging vibrations of the winds in the cordage; nor
yet the hollow flap of the sails against the masts, as for a moment
their hearts sank in. For again Starbuck’s downcast eyes lighted up
with the stubbornness of life; the subterranean laugh died away; the
winds blew on; the sails filled out; the ship heaved and rolled as
before. Ah, ye admonitions and warnings! why stay ye not when ye come?
But rather are ye predictions than warnings, ye shadows! Yet not so
much predictions from without, as verifications of the foregoing things
within. For with little external to constrain us, the innermost
necessities in our being, these still drive us on.

“The measure! the measure!” cried Ahab.

Receiving the brimming pewter, and turning to the harpooneers, he
ordered them to produce their weapons. Then ranging them before him
near the capstan, with their harpoons in their hands, while his three
mates stood at his side with their lances, and the rest of the ship’s
company formed a circle round the group; he stood for an instant
searchingly eyeing every man of his crew. But those wild eyes met his,
as the bloodshot eyes of the prairie wolves meet the eye of their
leader, ere he rushes on at their head in the trail of the bison; but,
alas! only to fall into the hidden snare of the Indian.

“Drink and pass!” he cried, handing the heavy charged flagon to the
nearest seaman. “The crew alone now drink. Round with it, round! Short
draughts—long swallows, men; ’tis hot as Satan’s hoof. So, so; it goes
round excellently. It spiralizes in ye; forks out at the
serpent-snapping eye. Well done; almost drained. That way it went, this
way it comes. Hand it me—here’s a hollow! Men, ye seem the years; so
brimming life is gulped and gone. Steward, refill!

“Attend now, my braves. I have mustered ye all round this capstan; and
ye mates, flank me with your lances; and ye harpooneers, stand there
with your irons; and ye, stout mariners, ring me in, that I may in some
sort revive a noble custom of my fisherman fathers before me. O men,
you will yet see that—Ha! boy, come back? bad pennies come not sooner.
Hand it me. Why, now, this pewter had run brimming again, wer’t not
thou St. Vitus’ imp—away, thou ague!

“Advance, ye mates! Cross your lances full before me. Well done! Let me
touch the axis.” So saying, with extended arm, he grasped the three
level, radiating lances at their crossed centre; while so doing,
suddenly and nervously twitched them; meanwhile, glancing intently from
Starbuck to Stubb; from Stubb to Flask. It seemed as though, by some
nameless, interior volition, he would fain have shocked into them the
same fiery emotion accumulated within the Leyden jar of his own
magnetic life. The three mates quailed before his strong, sustained,
and mystic aspect. Stubb and Flask looked sideways from him; the honest
eye of Starbuck fell downright.

“In vain!” cried Ahab; “but, maybe, ’tis well. For did ye three but
once take the full-forced shock, then mine own electric thing, _that_
had perhaps expired from out me. Perchance, too, it would have dropped
ye dead. Perchance ye need it not. Down lances! And now, ye mates, I do
appoint ye three cupbearers to my three pagan kinsmen there—yon three
most honorable gentlemen and noblemen, my valiant harpooneers. Disdain
the task? What, when the great Pope washes the feet of beggars, using
his tiara for ewer? Oh, my sweet cardinals! your own condescension,
_that_ shall bend ye to it. I do not order ye; ye will it. Cut your
seizings and draw the poles, ye harpooneers!”

Silently obeying the order, the three harpooneers now stood with the
detached iron part of their harpoons, some three feet long, held, barbs
up, before him.

“Stab me not with that keen steel! Cant them; cant them over! know ye
not the goblet end? Turn up the socket! So, so; now, ye cup-bearers,
advance. The irons! take them; hold them while I fill!” Forthwith,
slowly going from one officer to the other, he brimmed the harpoon
sockets with the fiery waters from the pewter.

“Now, three to three, ye stand. Commend the murderous chalices! Bestow
them, ye who are now made parties to this indissoluble league. Ha!
Starbuck! but the deed is done! Yon ratifying sun now waits to sit upon
it. Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the
deathful whaleboat’s bow—Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do
not hunt Moby Dick to his death!” The long, barbed steel goblets were
lifted; and to cries and maledictions against the white whale, the
spirits were simultaneously quaffed down with a hiss. Starbuck paled,
and turned, and shivered. Once more, and finally, the replenished
pewter went the rounds among the frantic crew; when, waving his free
hand to them, they all dispersed; and Ahab retired within his cabin.


CHAPTER 37. Sunset.

_The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out_.

I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I
sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them;
but first I pass.

Yonder, by ever-brimming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine.
The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes
down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then,
the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it
bright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but
darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. ’Tis iron—that
I know—not gold. ’Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me
so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull,
mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!

Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred
me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not
me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gifted
with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most
subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good
night—good night! (_waving his hand, he moves from the window_.)

’Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least;
but my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they
revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all
stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the
match itself must needs be wasting! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and
what I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad—Starbuck does; but I’m
demoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that’s only calm to
comprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered;
and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my
dismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That’s
more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye
cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I
will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own
size; don’t pommel _me!_ No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again;
but _ye_ have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags!
I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come
and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye
swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed
purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.
Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under
torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an
angle to the iron way!


CHAPTER 38. Dusk.

_By the Mainmast; Starbuck leaning against it_.

My soul is more than matched; she’s overmanned; and by a madman!
Insufferable sting, that sanity should ground arms on such a field! But
he drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! I think I
see his impious end; but feel that I must help him to it. Will I, nill
I, the ineffable thing has tied me to him; tows me with a cable I have
no knife to cut. Horrible old man! Who’s over him, he cries;—aye, he
would be a democrat to all above; look, how he lords it over all below!
Oh! I plainly see my miserable office,—to obey, rebelling; and worse
yet, to hate with touch of pity! For in his eyes I read some lurid woe
would shrivel me up, had I it. Yet is there hope. Time and tide flow
wide. The hated whale has the round watery world to swim in, as the
small gold-fish has its glassy globe. His heaven-insulting purpose, God
may wedge aside. I would up heart, were it not like lead. But my whole
clock’s run down; my heart the all-controlling weight, I have no key to
lift again.

[_A burst of revelry from the forecastle_.]

Oh, God! to sail with such a heathen crew that have small touch of
human mothers in them! Whelped somewhere by the sharkish sea. The white
whale is their demigorgon. Hark! the infernal orgies! that revelry is
forward! mark the unfaltering silence aft! Methinks it pictures life.
Foremost through the sparkling sea shoots on the gay, embattled,
bantering bow, but only to drag dark Ahab after it, where he broods
within his sternward cabin, builded over the dead water of the wake,
and further on, hunted by its wolfish gurglings. The long howl thrills
me through! Peace! ye revellers, and set the watch! Oh, life! ’tis in
an hour like this, with soul beat down and held to knowledge,—as wild,
untutored things are forced to feed—Oh, life! ’tis now that I do feel
the latent horror in thee! but ’tis not me! that horror’s out of me!
and with the soft feeling of the human in me, yet will I try to fight
ye, ye grim, phantom futures! Stand by me, hold me, bind me, O ye
blessed influences!


CHAPTER 39. First Night-Watch.

Fore-Top.

(_Stubb solus, and mending a brace_.)

Ha! ha! ha! ha! hem! clear my throat!—I’ve been thinking over it ever
since, and that ha, ha’s the final consequence. Why so? Because a
laugh’s the wisest, easiest answer to all that’s queer; and come what
will, one comfort’s always left—that unfailing comfort is, it’s all
predestinated. I heard not all his talk with Starbuck; but to my poor
eye Starbuck then looked something as I the other evening felt. Be sure
the old Mogul has fixed him, too. I twigged it, knew it; had had the
gift, might readily have prophesied it—for when I clapped my eye upon
his skull I saw it. Well, Stubb, _wise_ Stubb—that’s my title—well,
Stubb, what of it, Stubb? Here’s a carcase. I know not all that may be
coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing. Such a waggish
leering as lurks in all your horribles! I feel funny. Fa, la! lirra,
skirra! What’s my juicy little pear at home doing now? Crying its eyes
out?—Giving a party to the last arrived harpooneers, I dare say, gay as
a frigate’s pennant, and so am I—fa, la! lirra, skirra! Oh—


We’ll drink to-night with hearts as light, To love, as gay and fleeting
As bubbles that swim, on the beaker’s brim, And break on the lips while
meeting.



A brave stave that—who calls? Mr. Starbuck? Aye, aye, sir—(_Aside_)
he’s my superior, he has his too, if I’m not mistaken.—Aye, aye, sir,
just through with this job—coming.


CHAPTER 40. Midnight, Forecastle.

HARPOONEERS AND SAILORS.

(_Foresail rises and discovers the watch standing, lounging, leaning,
and lying in various attitudes, all singing in chorus_.)


  Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies! Farewell and adieu to you,
  ladies of Spain! Our captain’s commanded.—



1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Oh, boys, don’t be sentimental; it’s bad for the
digestion! Take a tonic, follow me!

(_Sings, and all follow._)


 Our captain stood upon the deck, A spy-glass in his hand, A viewing of
 those gallant whales That blew at every strand. Oh, your tubs in your
 boats, my boys, And by your braces stand, And we’ll have one of those
 fine whales, Hand, boys, over hand! So, be cheery, my lads! may your
 hearts never fail! While the bold harpooner is striking the whale!



MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Eight bells there, forward!

2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Avast the chorus! Eight bells there! d’ye hear,
bell-boy? Strike the bell eight, thou Pip! thou blackling! and let me
call the watch. I’ve the sort of mouth for that—the hogshead mouth. So,
so, (_thrusts his head down the scuttle_,) Star-bo-l-e-e-n-s, a-h-o-y!
Eight bells there below! Tumble up!

DUTCH SAILOR. Grand snoozing to-night, maty; fat night for that. I mark
this in our old Mogul’s wine; it’s quite as deadening to some as
filliping to others. We sing; they sleep—aye, lie down there, like
ground-tier butts. At ’em again! There, take this copper-pump, and hail
’em through it. Tell ’em to avast dreaming of their lasses. Tell ’em
it’s the resurrection; they must kiss their last, and come to judgment.
That’s the way—_that’s_ it; thy throat ain’t spoiled with eating
Amsterdam butter.

FRENCH SAILOR. Hist, boys! let’s have a jig or two before we ride to
anchor in Blanket Bay. What say ye? There comes the other watch. Stand
by all legs! Pip! little Pip! hurrah with your tambourine!

PIP. (_Sulky and sleepy._) Don’t know where it is.

FRENCH SAILOR. Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. Jig it, men, I
say; merry’s the word; hurrah! Damn me, won’t you dance? Form, now,
Indian-file, and gallop into the double-shuffle? Throw yourselves!
Legs! legs!

ICELAND SAILOR. I don’t like your floor, maty; it’s too springy to my
taste. I’m used to ice-floors. I’m sorry to throw cold water on the
subject; but excuse me.

MALTESE SAILOR. Me too; where’s your girls? Who but a fool would take
his left hand by his right, and say to himself, how d’ye do? Partners!
I must have partners!

SICILIAN SAILOR. Aye; girls and a green!—then I’ll hop with ye; yea,
turn grasshopper!

LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, ye sulkies, there’s plenty more of us.
Hoe corn when you may, say I. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! here
comes the music; now for it!

AZORE SAILOR. (_Ascending, and pitching the tambourine up the
scuttle_.) Here you are, Pip; and there’s the windlass-bitts; up you
mount! Now, boys! (_The half of them dance to the tambourine; some go
below; some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Oaths a-plenty_.)

AZORE SAILOR. (_Dancing_) Go it, Pip! Bang it, bell-boy! Rig it, dig
it, stig it, quig it, bell-boy! Make fire-flies; break the jinglers!

PIP. Jinglers, you say?—there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.

CHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of
thyself.

FRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through
it! Split jibs! tear yourselves!

TASHTEGO. (_Quietly smoking._) That’s a white man; he calls that fun:
humph! I save my sweat.

OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what
they are dancing over. I’ll dance over your grave, I will—that’s the
bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round
corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled
crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s a ball, as you scholars
have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads,
you’re young; I was once.

3D NANTUCKET SAILOR. Spell oh!—whew! this is worse than pulling after
whales in a calm—give us a whiff, Tash.

(_They cease dancing, and gather in clusters. Meantime the sky
darkens—the wind rises_.)

LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! boys, it’ll be douse sail soon. The sky-born,
high-tide Ganges turned to wind! Thou showest thy black brow, Seeva!

MALTESE SAILOR. (_Reclining and shaking his cap_.) It’s the waves—the
snow’s caps turn to jig it now. They’ll shake their tassels soon. Now
would all the waves were women, then I’d go drown, and chassee with
them evermore! There’s naught so sweet on earth—heaven may not match
it!—as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the
over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.

SICILIAN SAILOR. (_Reclining_.) Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad—fleet
interlacings of the limbs—lithe swayings—coyings—flutterings! lip!
heart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye,
else come satiety. Eh, Pagan? (_Nudging_.)

TAHITAN SAILOR. (_Reclining on a mat_.) Hail, holy nakedness of our
dancing girls!—the Heeva-Heeva! Ah! low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I
still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven
in the wood, my mat! green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn
and wilted quite. Ah me!—not thou nor I can bear the change! How then,
if so be transplanted to yon sky? Hear I the roaring streams from
Pirohitee’s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the
villages?—The blast! the blast! Up, spine, and meet it! (_Leaps to his
feet_.)

PORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea rolls swashing ’gainst the side! Stand
by for reefing, hearties! the winds are just crossing swords, pell-mell
they’ll go lunging presently.

DANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! so long as thou crackest, thou
holdest! Well done! The mate there holds ye to it stiffly. He’s no more
afraid than the isle fort at Cattegat, put there to fight the Baltic
with storm-lashed guns, on which the sea-salt cakes!

4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He has his orders, mind ye that. I heard old Ahab
tell him he must always kill a squall, something as they burst a
waterspout with a pistol—fire your ship right into it!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Blood! but that old man’s a grand old cove! We are the
lads to hunt him up his whale!

ALL. Aye! aye!

OLD MANX SAILOR. How the three pines shake! Pines are the hardest sort
of tree to live when shifted to any other soil, and here there’s none
but the crew’s cursed clay. Steady, helmsman! steady. This is the sort
of weather when brave hearts snap ashore, and keeled hulls split at
sea. Our captain has his birthmark; look yonder, boys, there’s another
in the sky—lurid-like, ye see, all else pitch black.

DAGGOO. What of that? Who’s afraid of black’s afraid of me! I’m
quarried out of it!

SPANISH SAILOR. (_Aside_.) He wants to bully, ah!—the old grudge makes
me touchy (_Advancing_.) Aye, harpooneer, thy race is the undeniable
dark side of mankind—devilish dark at that. No offence.

DAGGOO (_grimly_). None.

ST. JAGO’S SAILOR. That Spaniard’s mad or drunk. But that can’t be, or
else in his one case our old Mogul’s fire-waters are somewhat long in
working.

5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. What’s that I saw—lightning? Yes.

SPANISH SAILOR. No; Daggoo showing his teeth.

DAGGOO (_springing_). Swallow thine, mannikin! White skin, white liver!

SPANISH SAILOR (_meeting him_). Knife thee heartily! big frame, small
spirit!

ALL. A row! a row! a row!

TASHTEGO (_with a whiff_). A row a’low, and a row aloft—Gods and
men—both brawlers! Humph!

BELFAST SAILOR. A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row!
Plunge in with ye!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Fair play! Snatch the Spaniard’s knife! A ring, a ring!

OLD MANX SAILOR. Ready formed. There! the ringed horizon. In that ring
Cain struck Abel. Sweet work, right work! No? Why then, God, mad’st
thou the ring?

MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Hands by the halyards! in
top-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails!

ALL. The squall! the squall! jump, my jollies! (_They scatter_.)

PIP (_shrinking under the windlass_). Jollies? Lord help such jollies!
Crish, crash! there goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower,
Pip, here comes the royal yard! It’s worse than being in the whirled
woods, the last day of the year! Who’d go climbing after chestnuts now?
But there they go, all cursing, and here I don’t. Fine prospects to
’em; they’re on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a
squall! But those chaps there are worse yet—they are your white
squalls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! shirr! Here have I
heard all their chat just now, and the white whale—shirr! shirr!—but
spoken of once! and only this evening—it makes me jingle all over like
my tambourine—that anaconda of an old man swore ’em in to hunt him! Oh,
thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on
this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no
bowels to feel fear!


CHAPTER 41. Moby Dick.

I, Ishmael, was one of that crew; my shouts had gone up with the rest;
my oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more
did I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A
wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab’s quenchless feud
seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous
monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of
violence and revenge.

For some time past, though at intervals only, the unaccompanied,
secluded White Whale had haunted those uncivilized seas mostly
frequented by the Sperm Whale fishermen. But not all of them knew of
his existence; only a few of them, comparatively, had knowingly seen
him; while the number who as yet had actually and knowingly given
battle to him, was small indeed. For, owing to the large number of
whale-cruisers; the disorderly way they were sprinkled over the entire
watery circumference, many of them adventurously pushing their quest
along solitary latitudes, so as seldom or never for a whole twelvemonth
or more on a stretch, to encounter a single news-telling sail of any
sort; the inordinate length of each separate voyage; the irregularity
of the times of sailing from home; all these, with other circumstances,
direct and indirect, long obstructed the spread through the whole
world-wide whaling-fleet of the special individualizing tidings
concerning Moby Dick. It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels
reported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or
such a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity,
which whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had
completely escaped them; to some minds it was not an unfair
presumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other
than Moby Dick. Yet as of late the Sperm Whale fishery had been marked
by various and not unfrequent instances of great ferocity, cunning, and
malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by
accident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps,
for the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred,
more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large,
than to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous
encounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly
regarded.

And as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance
caught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one
of them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any
other whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue
in these assaults—not restricted to sprained wrists and ankles, broken
limbs, or devouring amputations—but fatal to the last degree of
fatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and
piling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake
the fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White
Whale had eventually come.

Nor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more
horrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do
fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising
terrible events,—as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in
maritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors
abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to.
And as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery
surpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and
fearfulness of the rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only
are whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and
superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they
are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is
appallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its
greatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such
remotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a
thousand shores, you would not come to any chiseled hearth-stone, or
aught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and
longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is
wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many
a mighty birth.

No wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over
the widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in
the end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and
half-formed fœtal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which
eventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything
that visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally
strike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White
Whale, few of those hunters were willing to encounter the perils of his
jaw.

But there were still other and more vital practical influences at work.
Not even at the present day has the original prestige of the Sperm
Whale, as fearfully distinguished from all other species of the
leviathan, died out of the minds of the whalemen as a body. There are
those this day among them, who, though intelligent and courageous
enough in offering battle to the Greenland or Right whale, would
perhaps—either from professional inexperience, or incompetency, or
timidity, decline a contest with the Sperm Whale; at any rate, there
are plenty of whalemen, especially among those whaling nations not
sailing under the American flag, who have never hostilely encountered
the Sperm Whale, but whose sole knowledge of the leviathan is
restricted to the ignoble monster primitively pursued in the North;
seated on their hatches, these men will hearken with a childish
fireside interest and awe, to the wild, strange tales of Southern
whaling. Nor is the pre-eminent tremendousness of the great Sperm Whale
anywhere more feelingly comprehended, than on board of those prows
which stem him.

And as if the now tested reality of his might had in former legendary
times thrown its shadow before it; we find some book
naturalists—Olassen and Povelson—declaring the Sperm Whale not only to
be a consternation to every other creature in the sea, but also to be
so incredibly ferocious as continually to be athirst for human blood.
Nor even down to so late a time as Cuvier’s, were these or almost
similar impressions effaced. For in his Natural History, the Baron
himself affirms that at sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (sharks
included) are “struck with the most lively terrors,” and “often in the
precipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with
such violence as to cause instantaneous death.” And however the general
experiences in the fishery may amend such reports as these; yet in
their full terribleness, even to the bloodthirsty item of Povelson, the
superstitious belief in them is, in some vicissitudes of their
vocation, revived in the minds of the hunters.

So that overawed by the rumors and portents concerning him, not a few
of the fishermen recalled, in reference to Moby Dick, the earlier days
of the Sperm Whale fishery, when it was oftentimes hard to induce long
practised Right whalemen to embark in the perils of this new and daring
warfare; such men protesting that although other leviathans might be
hopefully pursued, yet to chase and point lance at such an apparition
as the Sperm Whale was not for mortal man. That to attempt it, would be
inevitably to be torn into a quick eternity. On this head, there are
some remarkable documents that may be consulted.

Nevertheless, some there were, who even in the face of these things
were ready to give chase to Moby Dick; and a still greater number who,
chancing only to hear of him distantly and vaguely, without the
specific details of any certain calamity, and without superstitious
accompaniments, were sufficiently hardy not to flee from the battle if
offered.

One of the wild suggestions referred to, as at last coming to be linked
with the White Whale in the minds of the superstitiously inclined, was
the unearthly conceit that Moby Dick was ubiquitous; that he had
actually been encountered in opposite latitudes at one and the same
instant of time.

Nor, credulous as such minds must have been, was this conceit
altogether without some faint show of superstitious probability. For as
the secrets of the currents in the seas have never yet been divulged,
even to the most erudite research; so the hidden ways of the Sperm
Whale when beneath the surface remain, in great part, unaccountable to
his pursuers; and from time to time have originated the most curious
and contradictory speculations regarding them, especially concerning
the mystic modes whereby, after sounding to a great depth, he
transports himself with such vast swiftness to the most widely distant
points.

It is a thing well known to both American and English whale-ships, and
as well a thing placed upon authoritative record years ago by Scoresby,
that some whales have been captured far north in the Pacific, in whose
bodies have been found the barbs of harpoons darted in the Greenland
seas. Nor is it to be gainsaid, that in some of these instances it has
been declared that the interval of time between the two assaults could
not have exceeded very many days. Hence, by inference, it has been
believed by some whalemen, that the Nor’ West Passage, so long a
problem to man, was never a problem to the whale. So that here, in the
real living experience of living men, the prodigies related in old
times of the inland Strello mountain in Portugal (near whose top there
was said to be a lake in which the wrecks of ships floated up to the
surface); and that still more wonderful story of the Arethusa fountain
near Syracuse (whose waters were believed to have come from the Holy
Land by an underground passage); these fabulous narrations are almost
fully equalled by the realities of the whalemen.

Forced into familiarity, then, with such prodigies as these; and
knowing that after repeated, intrepid assaults, the White Whale had
escaped alive; it cannot be much matter of surprise that some whalemen
should go still further in their superstitions; declaring Moby Dick not
only ubiquitous, but immortal (for immortality is but ubiquity in
time); that though groves of spears should be planted in his flanks, he
would still swim away unharmed; or if indeed he should ever be made to
spout thick blood, such a sight would be but a ghastly deception; for
again in unensanguined billows hundreds of leagues away, his unsullied
jet would once more be seen.

But even stripped of these supernatural surmisings, there was enough in
the earthly make and incontestable character of the monster to strike
the imagination with unwonted power. For, it was not so much his
uncommon bulk that so much distinguished him from other sperm whales,
but, as was elsewhere thrown out—a peculiar snow-white wrinkled
forehead, and a high, pyramidical white hump. These were his prominent
features; the tokens whereby, even in the limitless, uncharted seas, he
revealed his identity, at a long distance, to those who knew him.

The rest of his body was so streaked, and spotted, and marbled with the
same shrouded hue, that, in the end, he had gained his distinctive
appellation of the White Whale; a name, indeed, literally justified by
his vivid aspect, when seen gliding at high noon through a dark blue
sea, leaving a milky-way wake of creamy foam, all spangled with golden
gleamings.

Nor was it his unwonted magnitude, nor his remarkable hue, nor yet his
deformed lower jaw, that so much invested the whale with natural
terror, as that unexampled, intelligent malignity which, according to
specific accounts, he had over and over again evinced in his assaults.
More than all, his treacherous retreats struck more of dismay than
perhaps aught else. For, when swimming before his exulting pursuers,
with every apparent symptom of alarm, he had several times been known
to turn round suddenly, and, bearing down upon them, either stave their
boats to splinters, or drive them back in consternation to their ship.

Already several fatalities had attended his chase. But though similar
disasters, however little bruited ashore, were by no means unusual in
the fishery; yet, in most instances, such seemed the White Whale’s
infernal aforethought of ferocity, that every dismembering or death
that he caused, was not wholly regarded as having been inflicted by an
unintelligent agent.

Judge, then, to what pitches of inflamed, distracted fury the minds of
his more desperate hunters were impelled, when amid the chips of chewed
boats, and the sinking limbs of torn comrades, they swam out of the
white curds of the whale’s direful wrath into the serene, exasperating
sunlight, that smiled on, as if at a birth or a bridal.

His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the
eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had
dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly
seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the
whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping
his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away
Ahab’s leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field. No turbaned Turk,
no hired Venetian or Malay, could have smote him with more seeming
malice. Small reason was there to doubt, then, that ever since that
almost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness
against the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness
he at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but
all his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam
before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious
agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left
living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity
which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern
Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of
the east reverenced in their statue devil;—Ahab did not fall down and
worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the
abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All
that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things;
all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the
brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy
Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby
Dick. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general
rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if
his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.

It is not probable that this monomania in him took its instant rise at
the precise time of his bodily dismemberment. Then, in darting at the
monster, knife in hand, he had but given loose to a sudden, passionate,
corporal animosity; and when he received the stroke that tore him, he
probably but felt the agonizing bodily laceration, but nothing more.
Yet, when by this collision forced to turn towards home, and for long
months of days and weeks, Ahab and anguish lay stretched together in
one hammock, rounding in mid winter that dreary, howling Patagonian
Cape; then it was, that his torn body and gashed soul bled into one
another; and so interfusing, made him mad. That it was only then, on
the homeward voyage, after the encounter, that the final monomania
seized him, seems all but certain from the fact that, at intervals
during the passage, he was a raving lunatic; and, though unlimbed of a
leg, yet such vital strength yet lurked in his Egyptian chest, and was
moreover intensified by his delirium, that his mates were forced to
lace him fast, even there, as he sailed, raving in his hammock. In a
strait-jacket, he swung to the mad rockings of the gales. And, when
running into more sufferable latitudes, the ship, with mild stun’sails
spread, floated across the tranquil tropics, and, to all appearances,
the old man’s delirium seemed left behind him with the Cape Horn
swells, and he came forth from his dark den into the blessed light and
air; even then, when he bore that firm, collected front, however pale,
and issued his calm orders once again; and his mates thanked God the
direful madness was now gone; even then, Ahab, in his hidden self,
raved on. Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing.
When you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some
still subtler form. Ahab’s full lunacy subsided not, but deepeningly
contracted; like the unabated Hudson, when that noble Northman flows
narrowly, but unfathomably through the Highland gorge. But, as in his
narrow-flowing monomania, not one jot of Ahab’s broad madness had been
left behind; so in that broad madness, not one jot of his great natural
intellect had perished. That before living agent, now became the living
instrument. If such a furious trope may stand, his special lunacy
stormed his general sanity, and carried it, and turned all its
concentred cannon upon its own mad mark; so that far from having lost
his strength, Ahab, to that one end, did now possess a thousand fold
more potency than ever he had sanely brought to bear upon any one
reasonable object.

This is much; yet Ahab’s larger, darker, deeper part remains unhinted.
But vain to popularize profundities, and all truth is profound. Winding
far down from within the very heart of this spiked Hotel de Cluny where
we here stand—however grand and wonderful, now quit it;—and take your
way, ye nobler, sadder souls, to those vast Roman halls of Thermes;
where far beneath the fantastic towers of man’s upper earth, his root
of grandeur, his whole awful essence sits in bearded state; an antique
buried beneath antiquities, and throned on torsoes! So with a broken
throne, the great gods mock that captive king; so like a Caryatid, he
patient sits, upholding on his frozen brow the piled entablatures of
ages. Wind ye down there, ye prouder, sadder souls! question that
proud, sad king! A family likeness! aye, he did beget ye, ye young
exiled royalties; and from your grim sire only will the old
State-secret come.

Now, in his heart, Ahab had some glimpse of this, namely: all my means
are sane, my motive and my object mad. Yet without power to kill, or
change, or shun the fact; he likewise knew that to mankind he did long
dissemble; in some sort, did still. But that thing of his dissembling
was only subject to his perceptibility, not to his will determinate.
Nevertheless, so well did he succeed in that dissembling, that when
with ivory leg he stepped ashore at last, no Nantucketer thought him
otherwise than but naturally grieved, and that to the quick, with the
terrible casualty which had overtaken him.

The report of his undeniable delirium at sea was likewise popularly
ascribed to a kindred cause. And so too, all the added moodiness which
always afterwards, to the very day of sailing in the Pequod on the
present voyage, sat brooding on his brow. Nor is it so very unlikely,
that far from distrusting his fitness for another whaling voyage, on
account of such dark symptoms, the calculating people of that prudent
isle were inclined to harbor the conceit, that for those very reasons
he was all the better qualified and set on edge, for a pursuit so full
of rage and wildness as the bloody hunt of whales. Gnawed within and
scorched without, with the infixed, unrelenting fangs of some incurable
idea; such an one, could he be found, would seem the very man to dart
his iron and lift his lance against the most appalling of all brutes.
Or, if for any reason thought to be corporeally incapacitated for that,
yet such an one would seem superlatively competent to cheer and howl on
his underlings to the attack. But be all this as it may, certain it is,
that with the mad secret of his unabated rage bolted up and keyed in
him, Ahab had purposely sailed upon the present voyage with the one
only and all-engrossing object of hunting the White Whale. Had any one
of his old acquaintances on shore but half dreamed of what was lurking
in him then, how soon would their aghast and righteous souls have
wrenched the ship from such a fiendish man! They were bent on
profitable cruises, the profit to be counted down in dollars from the
mint. He was intent on an audacious, immitigable, and supernatural
revenge.

Here, then, was this grey-headed, ungodly old man, chasing with curses
a Job’s whale round the world, at the head of a crew, too, chiefly made
up of mongrel renegades, and castaways, and cannibals—morally enfeebled
also, by the incompetence of mere unaided virtue or right-mindedness in
Starbuck, the invulnerable jollity of indifference and recklessness in
Stubb, and the pervading mediocrity in Flask. Such a crew, so
officered, seemed specially picked and packed by some infernal fatality
to help him to his monomaniac revenge. How it was that they so
aboundingly responded to the old man’s ire—by what evil magic their
souls were possessed, that at times his hate seemed almost theirs; the
White Whale as much their insufferable foe as his; how all this came to
be—what the White Whale was to them, or how to their unconscious
understandings, also, in some dim, unsuspected way, he might have
seemed the gliding great demon of the seas of life,—all this to
explain, would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. The subterranean
miner that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by
the ever shifting, muffled sound of his pick? Who does not feel the
irresistible arm drag? What skiff in tow of a seventy-four can stand
still? For one, I gave myself up to the abandonment of the time and the
place; but while yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, could see
naught in that brute but the deadliest ill.


CHAPTER 42. The Whiteness of the Whale.

What the white whale was to Ahab, has been hinted; what, at times, he
was to me, as yet remains unsaid.

Aside from those more obvious considerations touching Moby Dick, which
could not but occasionally awaken in any man’s soul some alarm, there
was another thought, or rather vague, nameless horror concerning him,
which at times by its intensity completely overpowered all the rest;
and yet so mystical and well nigh ineffable was it, that I almost
despair of putting it in a comprehensible form. It was the whiteness of
the whale that above all things appalled me. But how can I hope to
explain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I
must, else all these chapters might be naught.

Though in many natural objects, whiteness refiningly enhances beauty,
as if imparting some special virtue of its own, as in marbles,
japonicas, and pearls; and though various nations have in some way
recognised a certain royal preeminence in this hue; even the barbaric,
grand old kings of Pegu placing the title “Lord of the White Elephants”
above all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion; and the
modern kings of Siam unfurling the same snow-white quadruped in the
royal standard; and the Hanoverian flag bearing the one figure of a
snow-white charger; and the great Austrian Empire, Cæsarian, heir to
overlording Rome, having for the imperial colour the same imperial hue;
and though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself,
giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe; and
though, besides, all this, whiteness has been even made significant of
gladness, for among the Romans a white stone marked a joyful day; and
though in other mortal sympathies and symbolizings, this same hue is
made the emblem of many touching, noble things—the innocence of brides,
the benignity of age; though among the Red Men of America the giving of
the white belt of wampum was the deepest pledge of honor; though in
many climes, whiteness typifies the majesty of Justice in the ermine of
the Judge, and contributes to the daily state of kings and queens drawn
by milk-white steeds; though even in the higher mysteries of the most
august religions it has been made the symbol of the divine spotlessness
and power; by the Persian fire worshippers, the white forked flame
being held the holiest on the altar; and in the Greek mythologies,
Great Jove himself being made incarnate in a snow-white bull; and
though to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred
White Dog was by far the holiest festival of their theology, that
spotless, faithful creature being held the purest envoy they could send
to the Great Spirit with the annual tidings of their own fidelity; and
though directly from the Latin word for white, all Christian priests
derive the name of one part of their sacred vesture, the alb or tunic,
worn beneath the cassock; and though among the holy pomps of the Romish
faith, white is specially employed in the celebration of the Passion of
our Lord; though in the Vision of St. John, white robes are given to
the redeemed, and the four-and-twenty elders stand clothed in white
before the great white throne, and the Holy One that sitteth there
white like wool; yet for all these accumulated associations, with
whatever is sweet, and honorable, and sublime, there yet lurks an
elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more
of panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood.

This elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when
divorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object
terrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds.
Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the
tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the
transcendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which
imparts such an abhorrent mildness, even more loathsome than terrific,
to the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not the fierce-fanged
tiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded
bear or shark.*

*With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who
would fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the
whiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable
hideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness,
it might be said, only rises from the circumstance, that the
irresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the
fleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together
two such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us
with so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true;
yet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified
terror.

As for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that
creature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the
same quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly
hit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish
mass for the dead begins with “Requiem eternam” (eternal rest), whence
_Requiem_ denominating the mass itself, and any other funeral music.
Now, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark,
and the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him _Requin_.

Bethink thee of the albatross, whence come those clouds of spiritual
wonderment and pale dread, in which that white phantom sails in all
imaginations? Not Coleridge first threw that spell; but God’s great,
unflattering laureate, Nature.*

*I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged
gale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch
below, I ascended to the overclouded deck; and there, dashed upon the
main hatches, I saw a regal, feathery thing of unspotted whiteness, and
with a hooked, Roman bill sublime. At intervals, it arched forth its
vast archangel wings, as if to embrace some holy ark. Wondrous
flutterings and throbbings shook it. Though bodily unharmed, it uttered
cries, as some king’s ghost in supernatural distress. Through its
inexpressible, strange eyes, methought I peeped to secrets which took
hold of God. As Abraham before the angels, I bowed myself; the white
thing was so white, its wings so wide, and in those for ever exiled
waters, I had lost the miserable warping memories of traditions and of
towns. Long I gazed at that prodigy of plumage. I cannot tell, can only
hint, the things that darted through me then. But at last I awoke; and
turning, asked a sailor what bird was this. A goney, he replied. Goney!
never had heard that name before; is it conceivable that this glorious
thing is utterly unknown to men ashore! never! But some time after, I
learned that goney was some seaman’s name for albatross. So that by no
possibility could Coleridge’s wild Rhyme have had aught to do with
those mystical impressions which were mine, when I saw that bird upon
our deck. For neither had I then read the Rhyme, nor knew the bird to
be an albatross. Yet, in saying this, I do but indirectly burnish a
little brighter the noble merit of the poem and the poet.

I assert, then, that in the wondrous bodily whiteness of the bird
chiefly lurks the secret of the spell; a truth the more evinced in
this, that by a solecism of terms there are birds called grey
albatrosses; and these I have frequently seen, but never with such
emotions as when I beheld the Antarctic fowl.

But how had the mystic thing been caught? Whisper it not, and I will
tell; with a treacherous hook and line, as the fowl floated on the sea.
At last the Captain made a postman of it; tying a lettered, leathern
tally round its neck, with the ship’s time and place; and then letting
it escape. But I doubt not, that leathern tally, meant for man, was
taken off in Heaven, when the white fowl flew to join the wing-folding,
the invoking, and adoring cherubim!

Most famous in our Western annals and Indian traditions is that of the
White Steed of the Prairies; a magnificent milk-white charger,
large-eyed, small-headed, bluff-chested, and with the dignity of a
thousand monarchs in his lofty, overscorning carriage. He was the
elected Xerxes of vast herds of wild horses, whose pastures in those
days were only fenced by the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies. At
their flaming head he westward trooped it like that chosen star which
every evening leads on the hosts of light. The flashing cascade of his
mane, the curving comet of his tail, invested him with housings more
resplendent than gold and silver-beaters could have furnished him. A
most imperial and archangelical apparition of that unfallen, western
world, which to the eyes of the old trappers and hunters revived the
glories of those primeval times when Adam walked majestic as a god,
bluff-browed and fearless as this mighty steed. Whether marching amid
his aides and marshals in the van of countless cohorts that endlessly
streamed it over the plains, like an Ohio; or whether with his
circumambient subjects browsing all around at the horizon, the White
Steed gallopingly reviewed them with warm nostrils reddening through
his cool milkiness; in whatever aspect he presented himself, always to
the bravest Indians he was the object of trembling reverence and awe.
Nor can it be questioned from what stands on legendary record of this
noble horse, that it was his spiritual whiteness chiefly, which so
clothed him with divineness; and that this divineness had that in it
which, though commanding worship, at the same time enforced a certain
nameless terror.

But there are other instances where this whiteness loses all that
accessory and strange glory which invests it in the White Steed and
Albatross.

What is it that in the Albino man so peculiarly repels and often shocks
the eye, as that sometimes he is loathed by his own kith and kin! It is
that whiteness which invests him, a thing expressed by the name he
bears. The Albino is as well made as other men—has no substantive
deformity—and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him
more strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion. Why should this be
so?

Nor, in quite other aspects, does Nature in her least palpable but not
the less malicious agencies, fail to enlist among her forces this
crowning attribute of the terrible. From its snowy aspect, the
gauntleted ghost of the Southern Seas has been denominated the White
Squall. Nor, in some historic instances, has the art of human malice
omitted so potent an auxiliary. How wildly it heightens the effect of
that passage in Froissart, when, masked in the snowy symbol of their
faction, the desperate White Hoods of Ghent murder their bailiff in the
market-place!

Nor, in some things, does the common, hereditary experience of all
mankind fail to bear witness to the supernaturalism of this hue. It
cannot well be doubted, that the one visible quality in the aspect of
the dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pallor lingering
there; as if indeed that pallor were as much like the badge of
consternation in the other world, as of mortal trepidation here. And
from that pallor of the dead, we borrow the expressive hue of the
shroud in which we wrap them. Nor even in our superstitions do we fail
to throw the same snowy mantle round our phantoms; all ghosts rising in
a milk-white fog—Yea, while these terrors seize us, let us add, that
even the king of terrors, when personified by the evangelist, rides on
his pallid horse.

Therefore, in his other moods, symbolize whatever grand or gracious
thing he will by whiteness, no man can deny that in its profoundest
idealized significance it calls up a peculiar apparition to the soul.

But though without dissent this point be fixed, how is mortal man to
account for it? To analyse it, would seem impossible. Can we, then, by
the citation of some of those instances wherein this thing of
whiteness—though for the time either wholly or in great part stripped
of all direct associations calculated to impart to it aught fearful,
but nevertheless, is found to exert over us the same sorcery, however
modified;—can we thus hope to light upon some chance clue to conduct us
to the hidden cause we seek?

Let us try. But in a matter like this, subtlety appeals to subtlety,
and without imagination no man can follow another into these halls. And
though, doubtless, some at least of the imaginative impressions about
to be presented may have been shared by most men, yet few perhaps were
entirely conscious of them at the time, and therefore may not be able
to recall them now.

Why to the man of untutored ideality, who happens to be but loosely
acquainted with the peculiar character of the day, does the bare
mention of Whitsuntide marshal in the fancy such long, dreary,
speechless processions of slow-pacing pilgrims, down-cast and hooded
with new-fallen snow? Or, to the unread, unsophisticated Protestant of
the Middle American States, why does the passing mention of a White
Friar or a White Nun, evoke such an eyeless statue in the soul?

Or what is there apart from the traditions of dungeoned warriors and
kings (which will not wholly account for it) that makes the White Tower
of London tell so much more strongly on the imagination of an
untravelled American, than those other storied structures, its
neighbors—the Byward Tower, or even the Bloody? And those sublimer
towers, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whence, in peculiar
moods, comes that gigantic ghostliness over the soul at the bare
mention of that name, while the thought of Virginia’s Blue Ridge is
full of a soft, dewy, distant dreaminess? Or why, irrespective of all
latitudes and longitudes, does the name of the White Sea exert such a
spectralness over the fancy, while that of the Yellow Sea lulls us with
mortal thoughts of long lacquered mild afternoons on the waves,
followed by the gaudiest and yet sleepiest of sunsets? Or, to choose a
wholly unsubstantial instance, purely addressed to the fancy, why, in
reading the old fairy tales of Central Europe, does “the tall pale man”
of the Hartz forests, whose changeless pallor unrustlingly glides
through the green of the groves—why is this phantom more terrible than
all the whooping imps of the Blocksburg?

Nor is it, altogether, the remembrance of her cathedral-toppling
earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the
tearlessness of arid skies that never rain; nor the sight of her wide
field of leaning spires, wrenched cope-stones, and crosses all adroop
(like canted yards of anchored fleets); and her suburban avenues of
house-walls lying over upon each other, as a tossed pack of cards;—it
is not these things alone which make tearless Lima, the strangest,
saddest city thou can’st see. For Lima has taken the white veil; and
there is a higher horror in this whiteness of her woe. Old as Pizarro,
this whiteness keeps her ruins for ever new; admits not the cheerful
greenness of complete decay; spreads over her broken ramparts the rigid
pallor of an apoplexy that fixes its own distortions.

I know that, to the common apprehension, this phenomenon of whiteness
is not confessed to be the prime agent in exaggerating the terror of
objects otherwise terrible; nor to the unimaginative mind is there
aught of terror in those appearances whose awfulness to another mind
almost solely consists in this one phenomenon, especially when
exhibited under any form at all approaching to muteness or
universality. What I mean by these two statements may perhaps be
respectively elucidated by the following examples.

First: The mariner, when drawing nigh the coasts of foreign lands, if
by night he hear the roar of breakers, starts to vigilance, and feels
just enough of trepidation to sharpen all his faculties; but under
precisely similar circumstances, let him be called from his hammock to
view his ship sailing through a midnight sea of milky whiteness—as if
from encircling headlands shoals of combed white bears were swimming
round him, then he feels a silent, superstitious dread; the shrouded
phantom of the whitened waters is horrible to him as a real ghost; in
vain the lead assures him he is still off soundings; heart and helm
they both go down; he never rests till blue water is under him again.
Yet where is the mariner who will tell thee, “Sir, it was not so much
the fear of striking hidden rocks, as the fear of that hideous
whiteness that so stirred me?”

Second: To the native Indian of Peru, the continual sight of the
snow-howdahed Andes conveys naught of dread, except, perhaps, in the
mere fancying of the eternal frosted desolateness reigning at such vast
altitudes, and the natural conceit of what a fearfulness it would be to
lose oneself in such inhuman solitudes. Much the same is it with the
backwoodsman of the West, who with comparative indifference views an
unbounded prairie sheeted with driven snow, no shadow of tree or twig
to break the fixed trance of whiteness. Not so the sailor, beholding
the scenery of the Antarctic seas; where at times, by some infernal
trick of legerdemain in the powers of frost and air, he, shivering and
half shipwrecked, instead of rainbows speaking hope and solace to his
misery, views what seems a boundless churchyard grinning upon him with
its lean ice monuments and splintered crosses.

But thou sayest, methinks that white-lead chapter about whiteness is
but a white flag hung out from a craven soul; thou surrenderest to a
hypo, Ishmael.

Tell me, why this strong young colt, foaled in some peaceful valley of
Vermont, far removed from all beasts of prey—why is it that upon the
sunniest day, if you but shake a fresh buffalo robe behind him, so that
he cannot even see it, but only smells its wild animal muskiness—why
will he start, snort, and with bursting eyes paw the ground in
phrensies of affright? There is no remembrance in him of any gorings of
wild creatures in his green northern home, so that the strange
muskiness he smells cannot recall to him anything associated with the
experience of former perils; for what knows he, this New England colt,
of the black bisons of distant Oregon?

No: but here thou beholdest even in a dumb brute, the instinct of the
knowledge of the demonism in the world. Though thousands of miles from
Oregon, still when he smells that savage musk, the rending, goring
bison herds are as present as to the deserted wild foal of the
prairies, which this instant they may be trampling into dust.

Thus, then, the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of
the festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shiftings of the
windrowed snows of prairies; all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking
of that buffalo robe to the frightened colt!

Though neither knows where lie the nameless things of which the mystic
sign gives forth such hints; yet with me, as with the colt, somewhere
those things must exist. Though in many of its aspects this visible
world seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in
fright.

But not yet have we solved the incantation of this whiteness, and
learned why it appeals with such power to the soul; and more strange
and far more portentous—why, as we have seen, it is at once the most
meaning symbol of spiritual things, nay, the very veil of the
Christian’s Deity; and yet should be as it is, the intensifying agent
in things the most appalling to mankind.

Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids
and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the
thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky
way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as
the visible absence of colour; and at the same time the concrete of all
colours; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness,
full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows—a colourless, all-colour
of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory
of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues—every stately
or lovely emblazoning—the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea,
and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of
young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent
in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified
Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover
nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and
consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her
hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless
in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all
objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge—pondering all
this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful
travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear coloured and colouring
glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at
the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And
of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at
the fiery hunt?


CHAPTER 43. Hark!

“HIST! Did you hear that noise, Cabaco?”

It was the middle-watch: a fair moonlight; the seamen were standing in
a cordon, extending from one of the fresh-water butts in the waist, to
the scuttle-butt near the taffrail. In this manner, they passed the
buckets to fill the scuttle-butt. Standing, for the most part, on the
hallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, they were careful not to speak
or rustle their feet. From hand to hand, the buckets went in the
deepest silence, only broken by the occasional flap of a sail, and the
steady hum of the unceasingly advancing keel.

It was in the midst of this repose, that Archy, one of the cordon,
whose post was near the after-hatches, whispered to his neighbor, a
Cholo, the words above.

“Hist! did you hear that noise, Cabaco?”

“Take the bucket, will ye, Archy? what noise d’ye mean?”

“There it is again—under the hatches—don’t you hear it—a cough—it
sounded like a cough.”

“Cough be damned! Pass along that return bucket.”

“There again—there it is!—it sounds like two or three sleepers turning
over, now!”

“Caramba! have done, shipmate, will ye? It’s the three soaked biscuits
ye eat for supper turning over inside of ye—nothing else. Look to the
bucket!”

“Say what ye will, shipmate; I’ve sharp ears.”

“Aye, you are the chap, ain’t ye, that heard the hum of the old
Quakeress’s knitting-needles fifty miles at sea from Nantucket; you’re
the chap.”

“Grin away; we’ll see what turns up. Hark ye, Cabaco, there is somebody
down in the after-hold that has not yet been seen on deck; and I
suspect our old Mogul knows something of it too. I heard Stubb tell
Flask, one morning watch, that there was something of that sort in the
wind.”

“Tish! the bucket!”


CHAPTER 44. The Chart.

Had you followed Captain Ahab down into his cabin after the squall that
took place on the night succeeding that wild ratification of his
purpose with his crew, you would have seen him go to a locker in the
transom, and bringing out a large wrinkled roll of yellowish sea
charts, spread them before him on his screwed-down table. Then seating
himself before it, you would have seen him intently study the various
lines and shadings which there met his eye; and with slow but steady
pencil trace additional courses over spaces that before were blank. At
intervals, he would refer to piles of old log-books beside him, wherein
were set down the seasons and places in which, on various former
voyages of various ships, sperm whales had been captured or seen.

While thus employed, the heavy pewter lamp suspended in chains over his
head, continually rocked with the motion of the ship, and for ever
threw shifting gleams and shadows of lines upon his wrinkled brow, till
it almost seemed that while he himself was marking out lines and
courses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing
lines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.

But it was not this night in particular that, in the solitude of his
cabin, Ahab thus pondered over his charts. Almost every night they were
brought out; almost every night some pencil marks were effaced, and
others were substituted. For with the charts of all four oceans before
him, Ahab was threading a maze of currents and eddies, with a view to
the more certain accomplishment of that monomaniac thought of his soul.

Now, to any one not fully acquainted with the ways of the leviathans,
it might seem an absurdly hopeless task thus to seek out one solitary
creature in the unhooped oceans of this planet. But not so did it seem
to Ahab, who knew the sets of all tides and currents; and thereby
calculating the driftings of the sperm whale’s food; and, also, calling
to mind the regular, ascertained seasons for hunting him in particular
latitudes; could arrive at reasonable surmises, almost approaching to
certainties, concerning the timeliest day to be upon this or that
ground in search of his prey.

So assured, indeed, is the fact concerning the periodicalness of the
sperm whale’s resorting to given waters, that many hunters believe
that, could he be closely observed and studied throughout the world;
were the logs for one voyage of the entire whale fleet carefully
collated, then the migrations of the sperm whale would be found to
correspond in invariability to those of the herring-shoals or the
flights of swallows. On this hint, attempts have been made to construct
elaborate migratory charts of the sperm whale.*


  *Since the above was written, the statement is happily borne out by
  an official circular, issued by Lieutenant Maury, of the National
  Observatory, Washington, April 16th, 1851. By that circular, it
  appears that precisely such a chart is in course of completion; and
  portions of it are presented in the circular. “This chart divides the
  ocean into districts of five degrees of latitude by five degrees of
  longitude; perpendicularly through each of which districts are twelve
  columns for the twelve months; and horizontally through each of which
  districts are three lines; one to show the number of days that have
  been spent in each month in every district, and the two others to
  show the number of days in which whales, sperm or right, have been
  seen.”




Besides, when making a passage from one feeding-ground to another, the
sperm whales, guided by some infallible instinct—say, rather, secret
intelligence from the Deity—mostly swim in _veins_, as they are called;
continuing their way along a given ocean-line with such undeviating
exactitude, that no ship ever sailed her course, by any chart, with one
tithe of such marvellous precision. Though, in these cases, the
direction taken by any one whale be straight as a surveyor’s parallel,
and though the line of advance be strictly confined to its own
unavoidable, straight wake, yet the arbitrary _vein_ in which at these
times he is said to swim, generally embraces some few miles in width
(more or less, as the vein is presumed to expand or contract); but
never exceeds the visual sweep from the whale-ship’s mast-heads, when
circumspectly gliding along this magic zone. The sum is, that at
particular seasons within that breadth and along that path, migrating
whales may with great confidence be looked for.

And hence not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate
feeding-grounds, could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing
the widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his
art, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be
wholly without prospect of a meeting.

There was a circumstance which at first sight seemed to entangle his
delirious but still methodical scheme. But not so in the reality,
perhaps. Though the gregarious sperm whales have their regular seasons
for particular grounds, yet in general you cannot conclude that the
herds which haunted such and such a latitude or longitude this year,
say, will turn out to be identically the same with those that were
found there the preceding season; though there are peculiar and
unquestionable instances where the contrary of this has proved true. In
general, the same remark, only within a less wide limit, applies to the
solitaries and hermits among the matured, aged sperm whales. So that
though Moby Dick had in a former year been seen, for example, on what
is called the Seychelle ground in the Indian ocean, or Volcano Bay on
the Japanese Coast; yet it did not follow, that were the Pequod to
visit either of those spots at any subsequent corresponding season, she
would infallibly encounter him there. So, too, with some other feeding
grounds, where he had at times revealed himself. But all these seemed
only his casual stopping-places and ocean-inns, so to speak, not his
places of prolonged abode. And where Ahab’s chances of accomplishing
his object have hitherto been spoken of, allusion has only been made to
whatever way-side, antecedent, extra prospects were his, ere a
particular set time or place were attained, when all possibilities
would become probabilities, and, as Ahab fondly thought, every
possibility the next thing to a certainty. That particular set time and
place were conjoined in the one technical phrase—the
Season-on-the-Line. For there and then, for several consecutive years,
Moby Dick had been periodically descried, lingering in those waters for
awhile, as the sun, in its annual round, loiters for a predicted
interval in any one sign of the Zodiac. There it was, too, that most of
the deadly encounters with the white whale had taken place; there the
waves were storied with his deeds; there also was that tragic spot
where the monomaniac old man had found the awful motive to his
vengeance. But in the cautious comprehensiveness and unloitering
vigilance with which Ahab threw his brooding soul into this unfaltering
hunt, he would not permit himself to rest all his hopes upon the one
crowning fact above mentioned, however flattering it might be to those
hopes; nor in the sleeplessness of his vow could he so tranquillize his
unquiet heart as to postpone all intervening quest.

Now, the Pequod had sailed from Nantucket at the very beginning of the
Season-on-the-Line. No possible endeavor then could enable her
commander to make the great passage southwards, double Cape Horn, and
then running down sixty degrees of latitude arrive in the equatorial
Pacific in time to cruise there. Therefore, he must wait for the next
ensuing season. Yet the premature hour of the Pequod’s sailing had,
perhaps, been correctly selected by Ahab, with a view to this very
complexion of things. Because, an interval of three hundred and
sixty-five days and nights was before him; an interval which, instead
of impatiently enduring ashore, he would spend in a miscellaneous hunt;
if by chance the White Whale, spending his vacation in seas far remote
from his periodical feeding-grounds, should turn up his wrinkled brow
off the Persian Gulf, or in the Bengal Bay, or China Seas, or in any
other waters haunted by his race. So that Monsoons, Pampas,
Nor’-Westers, Harmattans, Trades; any wind but the Levanter and Simoon,
might blow Moby Dick into the devious zig-zag world-circle of the
Pequod’s circumnavigating wake.

But granting all this; yet, regarded discreetly and coolly, seems it
not but a mad idea, this; that in the broad boundless ocean, one
solitary whale, even if encountered, should be thought capable of
individual recognition from his hunter, even as a white-bearded Mufti
in the thronged thoroughfares of Constantinople? Yes. For the peculiar
snow-white brow of Moby Dick, and his snow-white hump, could not but be
unmistakable. And have I not tallied the whale, Ahab would mutter to
himself, as after poring over his charts till long after midnight he
would throw himself back in reveries—tallied him, and shall he escape?
His broad fins are bored, and scalloped out like a lost sheep’s ear!
And here, his mad mind would run on in a breathless race; till a
weariness and faintness of pondering came over him; and in the open air
of the deck he would seek to recover his strength. Ah, God! what
trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one
unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes
with his own bloody nails in his palms.

Often, when forced from his hammock by exhausting and intolerably vivid
dreams of the night, which, resuming his own intense thoughts through
the day, carried them on amid a clashing of phrensies, and whirled them
round and round and round in his blazing brain, till the very throbbing
of his life-spot became insufferable anguish; and when, as was
sometimes the case, these spiritual throes in him heaved his being up
from its base, and a chasm seemed opening in him, from which forked
flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap
down among them; when this hell in himself yawned beneath him, a wild
cry would be heard through the ship; and with glaring eyes Ahab would
burst from his state room, as though escaping from a bed that was on
fire. Yet these, perhaps, instead of being the unsuppressable symptoms
of some latent weakness, or fright at his own resolve, were but the
plainest tokens of its intensity. For, at such times, crazy Ahab, the
scheming, unappeasedly steadfast hunter of the white whale; this Ahab
that had gone to his hammock, was not the agent that so caused him to
burst from it in horror again. The latter was the eternal, living
principle or soul in him; and in sleep, being for the time dissociated
from the characterizing mind, which at other times employed it for its
outer vehicle or agent, it spontaneously sought escape from the
scorching contiguity of the frantic thing, of which, for the time, it
was no longer an integral. But as the mind does not exist unless
leagued with the soul, therefore it must have been that, in Ahab’s
case, yielding up all his thoughts and fancies to his one supreme
purpose; that purpose, by its own sheer inveteracy of will, forced
itself against gods and devils into a kind of self-assumed, independent
being of its own. Nay, could grimly live and burn, while the common
vitality to which it was conjoined, fled horror-stricken from the
unbidden and unfathered birth. Therefore, the tormented spirit that
glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from his room,
was for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being,
a ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to colour, and
therefore a blankness in itself. God help thee, old man, thy thoughts
have created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus
makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that
vulture the very creature he creates.


CHAPTER 45. The Affidavit.

So far as what there may be of a narrative in this book; and, indeed,
as indirectly touching one or two very interesting and curious
particulars in the habits of sperm whales, the foregoing chapter, in
its earlier part, is as important a one as will be found in this
volume; but the leading matter of it requires to be still further and
more familiarly enlarged upon, in order to be adequately understood,
and moreover to take away any incredulity which a profound ignorance of
the entire subject may induce in some minds, as to the natural verity
of the main points of this affair.

I care not to perform this part of my task methodically; but shall be
content to produce the desired impression by separate citations of
items, practically or reliably known to me as a whaleman; and from
these citations, I take it—the conclusion aimed at will naturally
follow of itself.

First: I have personally known three instances where a whale, after
receiving a harpoon, has effected a complete escape; and, after an
interval (in one instance of three years), has been again struck by the
same hand, and slain; when the two irons, both marked by the same
private cypher, have been taken from the body. In the instance where
three years intervened between the flinging of the two harpoons; and I
think it may have been something more than that; the man who darted
them happening, in the interval, to go in a trading ship on a voyage to
Africa, went ashore there, joined a discovery party, and penetrated far
into the interior, where he travelled for a period of nearly two years,
often endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with
all the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of
unknown regions. Meanwhile, the whale he had struck must also have been
on its travels; no doubt it had thrice circumnavigated the globe,
brushing with its flanks all the coasts of Africa; but to no purpose.
This man and this whale again came together, and the one vanquished the
other. I say I, myself, have known three instances similar to this;
that is in two of them I saw the whales struck; and, upon the second
attack, saw the two irons with the respective marks cut in them,
afterwards taken from the dead fish. In the three-year instance, it so
fell out that I was in the boat both times, first and last, and the
last time distinctly recognised a peculiar sort of huge mole under the
whale’s eye, which I had observed there three years previous. I say
three years, but I am pretty sure it was more than that. Here are three
instances, then, which I personally know the truth of; but I have heard
of many other instances from persons whose veracity in the matter there
is no good ground to impeach.

Secondly: It is well known in the Sperm Whale Fishery, however ignorant
the world ashore may be of it, that there have been several memorable
historical instances where a particular whale in the ocean has been at
distant times and places popularly cognisable. Why such a whale became
thus marked was not altogether and originally owing to his bodily
peculiarities as distinguished from other whales; for however peculiar
in that respect any chance whale may be, they soon put an end to his
peculiarities by killing him, and boiling him down into a peculiarly
valuable oil. No: the reason was this: that from the fatal experiences
of the fishery there hung a terrible prestige of perilousness about
such a whale as there did about Rinaldo Rinaldini, insomuch that most
fishermen were content to recognise him by merely touching their
tarpaulins when he would be discovered lounging by them on the sea,
without seeking to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance. Like some
poor devils ashore that happen to know an irascible great man, they
make distant unobtrusive salutations to him in the street, lest if they
pursued the acquaintance further, they might receive a summary thump
for their presumption.

But not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual
celebrity—Nay, you may call it an ocean-wide renown; not only was he
famous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death,
but he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions
of a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or Cæsar. Was it not
so, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like an iceberg, who so
long did’st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was
oft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand
Jack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the
vicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan,
whose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow-white
cross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale,
marked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In
plain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of
Cetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar.

But this is not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after at various
times creating great havoc among the boats of different vessels, were
finally gone in quest of, systematically hunted out, chased and killed
by valiant whaling captains, who heaved up their anchors with that
express object as much in view, as in setting out through the
Narragansett Woods, Captain Butler of old had it in his mind to capture
that notorious murderous savage Annawon, the headmost warrior of the
Indian King Philip.

I do not know where I can find a better place than just here, to make
mention of one or two other things, which to me seem important, as in
printed form establishing in all respects the reasonableness of the
whole story of the White Whale, more especially the catastrophe. For
this is one of those disheartening instances where truth requires full
as much bolstering as error. So ignorant are most landsmen of some of
the plainest and most palpable wonders of the world, that without some
hints touching the plain facts, historical and otherwise, of the
fishery, they might scout at Moby Dick as a monstrous fable, or still
worse and more detestable, a hideous and intolerable allegory.

First: Though most men have some vague flitting ideas of the general
perils of the grand fishery, yet they have nothing like a fixed, vivid
conception of those perils, and the frequency with which they recur.
One reason perhaps is, that not one in fifty of the actual disasters
and deaths by casualties in the fishery, ever finds a public record at
home, however transient and immediately forgotten that record. Do you
suppose that that poor fellow there, who this moment perhaps caught by
the whale-line off the coast of New Guinea, is being carried down to
the bottom of the sea by the sounding leviathan—do you suppose that
that poor fellow’s name will appear in the newspaper obituary you will
read to-morrow at your breakfast? No: because the mails are very
irregular between here and New Guinea. In fact, did you ever hear what
might be called regular news direct or indirect from New Guinea? Yet I
tell you that upon one particular voyage which I made to the Pacific,
among many others we spoke thirty different ships, every one of which
had had a death by a whale, some of them more than one, and three that
had each lost a boat’s crew. For God’s sake, be economical with your
lamps and candles! not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of
man’s blood was spilled for it.

Secondly: People ashore have indeed some indefinite idea that a whale
is an enormous creature of enormous power; but I have ever found that
when narrating to them some specific example of this two-fold
enormousness, they have significantly complimented me upon my
facetiousness; when, I declare upon my soul, I had no more idea of
being facetious than Moses, when he wrote the history of the plagues of
Egypt.

But fortunately the special point I here seek can be established upon
testimony entirely independent of my own. That point is this: The Sperm
Whale is in some cases sufficiently powerful, knowing, and judiciously
malicious, as with direct aforethought to stave in, utterly destroy,
and sink a large ship; and what is more, the Sperm Whale _has_ done it.

First: In the year 1820 the ship Essex, Captain Pollard, of Nantucket,
was cruising in the Pacific Ocean. One day she saw spouts, lowered her
boats, and gave chase to a shoal of sperm whales. Ere long, several of
the whales were wounded; when, suddenly, a very large whale escaping
from the boats, issued from the shoal, and bore directly down upon the
ship. Dashing his forehead against her hull, he so stove her in, that
in less than “ten minutes” she settled down and fell over. Not a
surviving plank of her has been seen since. After the severest
exposure, part of the crew reached the land in their boats. Being
returned home at last, Captain Pollard once more sailed for the Pacific
in command of another ship, but the gods shipwrecked him again upon
unknown rocks and breakers; for the second time his ship was utterly
lost, and forthwith forswearing the sea, he has never tempted it since.
At this day Captain Pollard is a resident of Nantucket. I have seen
Owen Chace, who was chief mate of the Essex at the time of the tragedy;
I have read his plain and faithful narrative; I have conversed with his
son; and all this within a few miles of the scene of the catastrophe.*

*The following are extracts from Chace’s narrative: “Every fact seemed
to warrant me in concluding that it was anything but chance which
directed his operations; he made two several attacks upon the ship, at
a short interval between them, both of which, according to their
direction, were calculated to do us the most injury, by being made
ahead, and thereby combining the speed of the two objects for the
shock; to effect which, the exact manœuvres which he made were
necessary. His aspect was most horrible, and such as indicated
resentment and fury. He came directly from the shoal which we had just
before entered, and in which we had struck three of his companions, as
if fired with revenge for their sufferings.” Again: “At all events, the
whole circumstances taken together, all happening before my own eyes,
and producing, at the time, impressions in my mind of decided,
calculating mischief, on the part of the whale (many of which
impressions I cannot now recall), induce me to be satisfied that I am
correct in my opinion.”

Here are his reflections some time after quitting the ship, during a
black night in an open boat, when almost despairing of reaching any
hospitable shore. “The dark ocean and swelling waters were nothing; the
fears of being swallowed up by some dreadful tempest, or dashed upon
hidden rocks, with all the other ordinary subjects of fearful
contemplation, seemed scarcely entitled to a moment’s thought; the
dismal looking wreck, and _the horrid aspect and revenge of the whale_,
wholly engrossed my reflections, until day again made its appearance.”

In another place—p. 45,—he speaks of “_the mysterious and mortal attack
of the animal_.”

Secondly: The ship Union, also of Nantucket, was in the year 1807
totally lost off the Azores by a similar onset, but the authentic
particulars of this catastrophe I have never chanced to encounter,
though from the whale hunters I have now and then heard casual
allusions to it.

Thirdly: Some eighteen or twenty years ago Commodore J——, then
commanding an American sloop-of-war of the first class, happened to be
dining with a party of whaling captains, on board a Nantucket ship in
the harbor of Oahu, Sandwich Islands. Conversation turning upon whales,
the Commodore was pleased to be sceptical touching the amazing strength
ascribed to them by the professional gentlemen present. He peremptorily
denied for example, that any whale could so smite his stout
sloop-of-war as to cause her to leak so much as a thimbleful. Very
good; but there is more coming. Some weeks after, the Commodore set
sail in this impregnable craft for Valparaiso. But he was stopped on
the way by a portly sperm whale, that begged a few moments’
confidential business with him. That business consisted in fetching the
Commodore’s craft such a thwack, that with all his pumps going he made
straight for the nearest port to heave down and repair. I am not
superstitious, but I consider the Commodore’s interview with that whale
as providential. Was not Saul of Tarsus converted from unbelief by a
similar fright? I tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.

I will now refer you to Langsdorff’s Voyages for a little circumstance
in point, peculiarly interesting to the writer hereof. Langsdorff, you
must know by the way, was attached to the Russian Admiral Krusenstern’s
famous Discovery Expedition in the beginning of the present century.
Captain Langsdorff thus begins his seventeenth chapter:

“By the thirteenth of May our ship was ready to sail, and the next day
we were out in the open sea, on our way to Ochotsh. The weather was
very clear and fine, but so intolerably cold that we were obliged to
keep on our fur clothing. For some days we had very little wind; it was
not till the nineteenth that a brisk gale from the northwest sprang up.
An uncommon large whale, the body of which was larger than the ship
itself, lay almost at the surface of the water, but was not perceived
by any one on board till the moment when the ship, which was in full
sail, was almost upon him, so that it was impossible to prevent its
striking against him. We were thus placed in the most imminent danger,
as this gigantic creature, setting up its back, raised the ship three
feet at least out of the water. The masts reeled, and the sails fell
altogether, while we who were below all sprang instantly upon the deck,
concluding that we had struck upon some rock; instead of this we saw
the monster sailing off with the utmost gravity and solemnity. Captain
D’Wolf applied immediately to the pumps to examine whether or not the
vessel had received any damage from the shock, but we found that very
happily it had escaped entirely uninjured.”

Now, the Captain D’Wolf here alluded to as commanding the ship in
question, is a New Englander, who, after a long life of unusual
adventures as a sea-captain, this day resides in the village of
Dorchester near Boston. I have the honor of being a nephew of his. I
have particularly questioned him concerning this passage in Langsdorff.
He substantiates every word. The ship, however, was by no means a large
one: a Russian craft built on the Siberian coast, and purchased by my
uncle after bartering away the vessel in which he sailed from home.

In that up and down manly book of old-fashioned adventure, so full,
too, of honest wonders—the voyage of Lionel Wafer, one of ancient
Dampier’s old chums—I found a little matter set down so like that just
quoted from Langsdorff, that I cannot forbear inserting it here for a
corroborative example, if such be needed.

Lionel, it seems, was on his way to “John Ferdinando,” as he calls the
modern Juan Fernandes. “In our way thither,” he says, “about four
o’clock in the morning, when we were about one hundred and fifty
leagues from the Main of America, our ship felt a terrible shock, which
put our men in such consternation that they could hardly tell where
they were or what to think; but every one began to prepare for death.
And, indeed, the shock was so sudden and violent, that we took it for
granted the ship had struck against a rock; but when the amazement was
a little over, we cast the lead, and sounded, but found no ground. * *
* * * The suddenness of the shock made the guns leap in their
carriages, and several of the men were shaken out of their hammocks.
Captain Davis, who lay with his head on a gun, was thrown out of his
cabin!” Lionel then goes on to impute the shock to an earthquake, and
seems to substantiate the imputation by stating that a great
earthquake, somewhere about that time, did actually do great mischief
along the Spanish land. But I should not much wonder if, in the
darkness of that early hour of the morning, the shock was after all
caused by an unseen whale vertically bumping the hull from beneath.

I might proceed with several more examples, one way or another known to
me, of the great power and malice at times of the sperm whale. In more
than one instance, he has been known, not only to chase the assailing
boats back to their ships, but to pursue the ship itself, and long
withstand all the lances hurled at him from its decks. The English ship
Pusie Hall can tell a story on that head; and, as for his strength, let
me say, that there have been examples where the lines attached to a
running sperm whale have, in a calm, been transferred to the ship, and
secured there; the whale towing her great hull through the water, as a
horse walks off with a cart. Again, it is very often observed that, if
the sperm whale, once struck, is allowed time to rally, he then acts,
not so often with blind rage, as with wilful, deliberate designs of
destruction to his pursuers; nor is it without conveying some eloquent
indication of his character, that upon being attacked he will
frequently open his mouth, and retain it in that dread expansion for
several consecutive minutes. But I must be content with only one more
and a concluding illustration; a remarkable and most significant one,
by which you will not fail to see, that not only is the most marvellous
event in this book corroborated by plain facts of the present day, but
that these marvels (like all marvels) are mere repetitions of the ages;
so that for the millionth time we say amen with Solomon—Verily there is
nothing new under the sun.

In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magistrate
of Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor and
Belisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his own
times, a work every way of uncommon value. By the best authorities, he
has always been considered a most trustworthy and unexaggerating
historian, except in some one or two particulars, not at all affecting
the matter presently to be mentioned.

Now, in this history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term
of his prefecture at Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured
in the neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmora, after having destroyed
vessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty
years. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be
gainsaid. Nor is there any reason it should be. Of what precise species
this sea-monster was, is not mentioned. But as he destroyed ships, as
well as for other reasons, he must have been a whale; and I am strongly
inclined to think a sperm whale. And I will tell you why. For a long
time I fancied that the sperm whale had been always unknown in the
Mediterranean and the deep waters connecting with it. Even now I am
certain that those seas are not, and perhaps never can be, in the
present constitution of things, a place for his habitual gregarious
resort. But further investigations have recently proved to me, that in
modern times there have been isolated instances of the presence of the
sperm whale in the Mediterranean. I am told, on good authority, that on
the Barbary coast, a Commodore Davis of the British navy found the
skeleton of a sperm whale. Now, as a vessel of war readily passes
through the Dardanelles, hence a sperm whale could, by the same route,
pass out of the Mediterranean into the Propontis.

In the Propontis, as far as I can learn, none of that peculiar
substance called _brit_ is to be found, the aliment of the right whale.
But I have every reason to believe that the food of the sperm
whale—squid or cuttle-fish—lurks at the bottom of that sea, because
large creatures, but by no means the largest of that sort, have been
found at its surface. If, then, you properly put these statements
together, and reason upon them a bit, you will clearly perceive that,
according to all human reasoning, Procopius’s sea-monster, that for
half a century stove the ships of a Roman Emperor, must in all
probability have been a sperm whale.


CHAPTER 46. Surmises.

Though, consumed with the hot fire of his purpose, Ahab in all his
thoughts and actions ever had in view the ultimate capture of Moby
Dick; though he seemed ready to sacrifice all mortal interests to that
one passion; nevertheless it may have been that he was by nature and
long habituation far too wedded to a fiery whaleman’s ways, altogether
to abandon the collateral prosecution of the voyage. Or at least if
this were otherwise, there were not wanting other motives much more
influential with him. It would be refining too much, perhaps, even
considering his monomania, to hint that his vindictiveness towards the
White Whale might have possibly extended itself in some degree to all
sperm whales, and that the more monsters he slew by so much the more he
multiplied the chances that each subsequently encountered whale would
prove to be the hated one he hunted. But if such an hypothesis be
indeed exceptionable, there were still additional considerations which,
though not so strictly according with the wildness of his ruling
passion, yet were by no means incapable of swaying him.

To accomplish his object Ahab must use tools; and of all tools used in
the shadow of the moon, men are most apt to get out of order. He knew,
for example, that however magnetic his ascendency in some respects was
over Starbuck, yet that ascendency did not cover the complete spiritual
man any more than mere corporeal superiority involves intellectual
mastership; for to the purely spiritual, the intellectual but stand in
a sort of corporeal relation. Starbuck’s body and Starbuck’s coerced
will were Ahab’s, so long as Ahab kept his magnet at Starbuck’s brain;
still he knew that for all this the chief mate, in his soul, abhorred
his captain’s quest, and could he, would joyfully disintegrate himself
from it, or even frustrate it. It might be that a long interval would
elapse ere the White Whale was seen. During that long interval Starbuck
would ever be apt to fall into open relapses of rebellion against his
captain’s leadership, unless some ordinary, prudential, circumstantial
influences were brought to bear upon him. Not only that, but the subtle
insanity of Ahab respecting Moby Dick was noways more significantly
manifested than in his superlative sense and shrewdness in foreseeing
that, for the present, the hunt should in some way be stripped of that
strange imaginative impiousness which naturally invested it; that the
full terror of the voyage must be kept withdrawn into the obscure
background (for few men’s courage is proof against protracted
meditation unrelieved by action); that when they stood their long night
watches, his officers and men must have some nearer things to think of
than Moby Dick. For however eagerly and impetuously the savage crew had
hailed the announcement of his quest; yet all sailors of all sorts are
more or less capricious and unreliable—they live in the varying outer
weather, and they inhale its fickleness—and when retained for any
object remote and blank in the pursuit, however promissory of life and
passion in the end, it is above all things requisite that temporary
interests and employments should intervene and hold them healthily
suspended for the final dash.

Nor was Ahab unmindful of another thing. In times of strong emotion
mankind disdain all base considerations; but such times are evanescent.
The permanent constitutional condition of the manufactured man, thought
Ahab, is sordidness. Granting that the White Whale fully incites the
hearts of this my savage crew, and playing round their savageness even
breeds a certain generous knight-errantism in them, still, while for
the love of it they give chase to Moby Dick, they must also have food
for their more common, daily appetites. For even the high lifted and
chivalric Crusaders of old times were not content to traverse two
thousand miles of land to fight for their holy sepulchre, without
committing burglaries, picking pockets, and gaining other pious
perquisites by the way. Had they been strictly held to their one final
and romantic object—that final and romantic object, too many would have
turned from in disgust. I will not strip these men, thought Ahab, of
all hopes of cash—aye, cash. They may scorn cash now; but let some
months go by, and no perspective promise of it to them, and then this
same quiescent cash all at once mutinying in them, this same cash would
soon cashier Ahab.

Nor was there wanting still another precautionary motive more related
to Ahab personally. Having impulsively, it is probable, and perhaps
somewhat prematurely revealed the prime but private purpose of the
Pequod’s voyage, Ahab was now entirely conscious that, in so doing, he
had indirectly laid himself open to the unanswerable charge of
usurpation; and with perfect impunity, both moral and legal, his crew
if so disposed, and to that end competent, could refuse all further
obedience to him, and even violently wrest from him the command. From
even the barely hinted imputation of usurpation, and the possible
consequences of such a suppressed impression gaining ground, Ahab must
of course have been most anxious to protect himself. That protection
could only consist in his own predominating brain and heart and hand,
backed by a heedful, closely calculating attention to every minute
atmospheric influence which it was possible for his crew to be
subjected to.

For all these reasons then, and others perhaps too analytic to be
verbally developed here, Ahab plainly saw that he must still in a good
degree continue true to the natural, nominal purpose of the Pequod’s
voyage; observe all customary usages; and not only that, but force
himself to evince all his well known passionate interest in the general
pursuit of his profession.

Be all this as it may, his voice was now often heard hailing the three
mast-heads and admonishing them to keep a bright look-out, and not omit
reporting even a porpoise. This vigilance was not long without reward.


CHAPTER 47. The Mat-Maker.

It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging
about the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-coloured waters.
Queequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat,
for an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet
somehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of reverie
lurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own
invisible self.

I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I
kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the
long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as
Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword
between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly
and unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess
did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only
broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as
if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically
weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of
the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging
vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise
interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed
necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle
and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime,
Queequeg’s impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof
slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be;
and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding
contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage’s
sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and
woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance—aye, chance, free
will, and necessity—nowise incompatible—all interweavingly working
together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its
ultimate course—its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending
to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads;
and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of
necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though
thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the
last featuring blow at events.

Thus we were weaving and weaving away when I started at a sound so
strange, long drawn, and musically wild and unearthly, that the ball of
free will dropped from my hand, and I stood gazing up at the clouds
whence that voice dropped like a wing. High aloft in the cross-trees
was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly
forward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden
intervals he continued his cries. To be sure the same sound was that
very moment perhaps being heard all over the seas, from hundreds of
whalemen’s look-outs perched as high in the air; but from few of those
lungs could that accustomed old cry have derived such a marvellous
cadence as from Tashtego the Indian’s.

As he stood hovering over you half suspended in air, so wildly and
eagerly peering towards the horizon, you would have thought him some
prophet or seer beholding the shadows of Fate, and by those wild cries
announcing their coming.

“There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows!”

“Where-away?”

“On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them!”

Instantly all was commotion.

The Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and
reliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from
other tribes of his genus.

“There go flukes!” was now the cry from Tashtego; and the whales
disappeared.

“Quick, steward!” cried Ahab. “Time! time!”

Dough-Boy hurried below, glanced at the watch, and reported the exact
minute to Ahab.

The ship was now kept away from the wind, and she went gently rolling
before it. Tashtego reporting that the whales had gone down heading to
leeward, we confidently looked to see them again directly in advance of
our bows. For that singular craft at times evinced by the Sperm Whale
when, sounding with his head in one direction, he nevertheless, while
concealed beneath the surface, mills round, and swiftly swims off in
the opposite quarter—this deceitfulness of his could not now be in
action; for there was no reason to suppose that the fish seen by
Tashtego had been in any way alarmed, or indeed knew at all of our
vicinity. One of the men selected for shipkeepers—that is, those not
appointed to the boats, by this time relieved the Indian at the
main-mast head. The sailors at the fore and mizzen had come down; the
line tubs were fixed in their places; the cranes were thrust out; the
mainyard was backed, and the three boats swung over the sea like three
samphire baskets over high cliffs. Outside of the bulwarks their eager
crews with one hand clung to the rail, while one foot was expectantly
poised on the gunwale. So look the long line of man-of-war’s men about
to throw themselves on board an enemy’s ship.

But at this critical instant a sudden exclamation was heard that took
every eye from the whale. With a start all glared at dark Ahab, who was
surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seemed fresh formed out of air.


CHAPTER 48. The First Lowering.

The phantoms, for so they then seemed, were flitting on the other side
of the deck, and, with a noiseless celerity, were casting loose the
tackles and bands of the boat which swung there. This boat had always
been deemed one of the spare boats, though technically called the
captain’s, on account of its hanging from the starboard quarter. The
figure that now stood by its bows was tall and swart, with one white
tooth evilly protruding from its steel-like lips. A rumpled Chinese
jacket of black cotton funereally invested him, with wide black
trowsers of the same dark stuff. But strangely crowning this ebonness
was a glistening white plaited turban, the living hair braided and
coiled round and round upon his head. Less swart in aspect, the
companions of this figure were of that vivid, tiger-yellow complexion
peculiar to some of the aboriginal natives of the Manillas;—a race
notorious for a certain diabolism of subtilty, and by some honest white
mariners supposed to be the paid spies and secret confidential agents
on the water of the devil, their lord, whose counting-room they suppose
to be elsewhere.

While yet the wondering ship’s company were gazing upon these
strangers, Ahab cried out to the white-turbaned old man at their head,
“All ready there, Fedallah?”

“Ready,” was the half-hissed reply.

“Lower away then; d’ye hear?” shouting across the deck. “Lower away
there, I say.”

Such was the thunder of his voice, that spite of their amazement the
men sprang over the rail; the sheaves whirled round in the blocks; with
a wallow, the three boats dropped into the sea; while, with a
dexterous, off-handed daring, unknown in any other vocation, the
sailors, goat-like, leaped down the rolling ship’s side into the tossed
boats below.

Hardly had they pulled out from under the ship’s lee, when a fourth
keel, coming from the windward side, pulled round under the stern, and
showed the five strangers rowing Ahab, who, standing erect in the
stern, loudly hailed Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, to spread themselves
widely, so as to cover a large expanse of water. But with all their
eyes again riveted upon the swart Fedallah and his crew, the inmates of
the other boats obeyed not the command.

“Captain Ahab?—” said Starbuck.

“Spread yourselves,” cried Ahab; “give way, all four boats. Thou,
Flask, pull out more to leeward!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” cheerily cried little King-Post, sweeping round his
great steering oar. “Lay back!” addressing his crew.
“There!—there!—there again! There she blows right ahead, boys!—lay
back!”

“Never heed yonder yellow boys, Archy.”

“Oh, I don’t mind ’em, sir,” said Archy; “I knew it all before now.
Didn’t I hear ’em in the hold? And didn’t I tell Cabaco here of it?
What say ye, Cabaco? They are stowaways, Mr. Flask.”

“Pull, pull, my fine hearts-alive; pull, my children; pull, my little
ones,” drawlingly and soothingly sighed Stubb to his crew, some of whom
still showed signs of uneasiness. “Why don’t you break your backbones,
my boys? What is it you stare at? Those chaps in yonder boat? Tut! They
are only five more hands come to help us—never mind from where—the more
the merrier. Pull, then, do pull; never mind the brimstone—devils are
good fellows enough. So, so; there you are now; that’s the stroke for a
thousand pounds; that’s the stroke to sweep the stakes! Hurrah for the
gold cup of sperm oil, my heroes! Three cheers, men—all hearts alive!
Easy, easy; don’t be in a hurry—don’t be in a hurry. Why don’t you snap
your oars, you rascals? Bite something, you dogs! So, so, so,
then:—softly, softly! That’s it—that’s it! long and strong. Give way
there, give way! The devil fetch ye, ye ragamuffin rapscallions; ye are
all asleep. Stop snoring, ye sleepers, and pull. Pull, will ye? pull,
can’t ye? pull, won’t ye? Why in the name of gudgeons and ginger-cakes
don’t ye pull?—pull and break something! pull, and start your eyes out!
Here!” whipping out the sharp knife from his girdle; “every mother’s
son of ye draw his knife, and pull with the blade between his teeth.
That’s it—that’s it. Now ye do something; that looks like it, my
steel-bits. Start her—start her, my silver-spoons! Start her,
marling-spikes!”

Stubb’s exordium to his crew is given here at large, because he had
rather a peculiar way of talking to them in general, and especially in
inculcating the religion of rowing. But you must not suppose from this
specimen of his sermonizings that he ever flew into downright passions
with his congregation. Not at all; and therein consisted his chief
peculiarity. He would say the most terrific things to his crew, in a
tone so strangely compounded of fun and fury, and the fury seemed so
calculated merely as a spice to the fun, that no oarsman could hear
such queer invocations without pulling for dear life, and yet pulling
for the mere joke of the thing. Besides he all the time looked so easy
and indolent himself, so loungingly managed his steering-oar, and so
broadly gaped—open-mouthed at times—that the mere sight of such a
yawning commander, by sheer force of contrast, acted like a charm upon
the crew. Then again, Stubb was one of those odd sort of humorists,
whose jollity is sometimes so curiously ambiguous, as to put all
inferiors on their guard in the matter of obeying them.

In obedience to a sign from Ahab, Starbuck was now pulling obliquely
across Stubb’s bow; and when for a minute or so the two boats were
pretty near to each other, Stubb hailed the mate.

“Mr. Starbuck! larboard boat there, ahoy! a word with ye, sir, if ye
please!”

“Halloa!” returned Starbuck, turning round not a single inch as he
spoke; still earnestly but whisperingly urging his crew; his face set
like a flint from Stubb’s.

“What think ye of those yellow boys, sir!”

“Smuggled on board, somehow, before the ship sailed. (Strong, strong,
boys!)” in a whisper to his crew, then speaking out loud again: “A sad
business, Mr. Stubb! (seethe her, seethe her, my lads!) but never mind,
Mr. Stubb, all for the best. Let all your crew pull strong, come what
will. (Spring, my men, spring!) There’s hogsheads of sperm ahead, Mr.
Stubb, and that’s what ye came for. (Pull, my boys!) Sperm, sperm’s the
play! This at least is duty; duty and profit hand in hand.”

“Aye, aye, I thought as much,” soliloquized Stubb, when the boats
diverged, “as soon as I clapt eye on ’em, I thought so. Aye, and that’s
what he went into the after hold for, so often, as Dough-Boy long
suspected. They were hidden down there. The White Whale’s at the bottom
of it. Well, well, so be it! Can’t be helped! All right! Give way, men!
It ain’t the White Whale to-day! Give way!”

Now the advent of these outlandish strangers at such a critical instant
as the lowering of the boats from the deck, this had not unreasonably
awakened a sort of superstitious amazement in some of the ship’s
company; but Archy’s fancied discovery having some time previous got
abroad among them, though indeed not credited then, this had in some
small measure prepared them for the event. It took off the extreme edge
of their wonder; and so what with all this and Stubb’s confident way of
accounting for their appearance, they were for the time freed from
superstitious surmisings; though the affair still left abundant room
for all manner of wild conjectures as to dark Ahab’s precise agency in
the matter from the beginning. For me, I silently recalled the
mysterious shadows I had seen creeping on board the Pequod during the
dim Nantucket dawn, as well as the enigmatical hintings of the
unaccountable Elijah.

Meantime, Ahab, out of hearing of his officers, having sided the
furthest to windward, was still ranging ahead of the other boats; a
circumstance bespeaking how potent a crew was pulling him. Those tiger
yellow creatures of his seemed all steel and whalebone; like five
trip-hammers they rose and fell with regular strokes of strength, which
periodically started the boat along the water like a horizontal burst
boiler out of a Mississippi steamer. As for Fedallah, who was seen
pulling the harpooneer oar, he had thrown aside his black jacket, and
displayed his naked chest with the whole part of his body above the
gunwale, clearly cut against the alternating depressions of the watery
horizon; while at the other end of the boat Ahab, with one arm, like a
fencer’s, thrown half backward into the air, as if to counterbalance
any tendency to trip; Ahab was seen steadily managing his steering oar
as in a thousand boat lowerings ere the White Whale had torn him. All
at once the outstretched arm gave a peculiar motion and then remained
fixed, while the boat’s five oars were seen simultaneously peaked. Boat
and crew sat motionless on the sea. Instantly the three spread boats in
the rear paused on their way. The whales had irregularly settled bodily
down into the blue, thus giving no distantly discernible token of the
movement, though from his closer vicinity Ahab had observed it.

“Every man look out along his oars!” cried Starbuck. “Thou, Queequeg,
stand up!”

Nimbly springing up on the triangular raised box in the bow, the savage
stood erect there, and with intensely eager eyes gazed off towards the
spot where the chase had last been descried. Likewise upon the extreme
stern of the boat where it was also triangularly platformed level with
the gunwale, Starbuck himself was seen coolly and adroitly balancing
himself to the jerking tossings of his chip of a craft, and silently
eyeing the vast blue eye of the sea.

Not very far distant Flask’s boat was also lying breathlessly still;
its commander recklessly standing upon the top of the loggerhead, a
stout sort of post rooted in the keel, and rising some two feet above
the level of the stern platform. It is used for catching turns with the
whale line. Its top is not more spacious than the palm of a man’s hand,
and standing upon such a base as that, Flask seemed perched at the
mast-head of some ship which had sunk to all but her trucks. But little
King-Post was small and short, and at the same time little King-Post
was full of a large and tall ambition, so that this loggerhead
stand-point of his did by no means satisfy King-Post.

“I can’t see three seas off; tip us up an oar there, and let me on to
that.”

Upon this, Daggoo, with either hand upon the gunwale to steady his way,
swiftly slid aft, and then erecting himself volunteered his lofty
shoulders for a pedestal.

“Good a mast-head as any, sir. Will you mount?”

“That I will, and thank ye very much, my fine fellow; only I wish you
fifty feet taller.”

Whereupon planting his feet firmly against two opposite planks of the
boat, the gigantic negro, stooping a little, presented his flat palm to
Flask’s foot, and then putting Flask’s hand on his hearse-plumed head
and bidding him spring as he himself should toss, with one dexterous
fling landed the little man high and dry on his shoulders. And here was
Flask now standing, Daggoo with one lifted arm furnishing him with a
breastband to lean against and steady himself by.

At any time it is a strange sight to the tyro to see with what wondrous
habitude of unconscious skill the whaleman will maintain an erect
posture in his boat, even when pitched about by the most riotously
perverse and cross-running seas. Still more strange to see him giddily
perched upon the loggerhead itself, under such circumstances. But the
sight of little Flask mounted upon gigantic Daggoo was yet more
curious; for sustaining himself with a cool, indifferent, easy,
unthought of, barbaric majesty, the noble negro to every roll of the
sea harmoniously rolled his fine form. On his broad back, flaxen-haired
Flask seemed a snow-flake. The bearer looked nobler than the rider.
Though truly vivacious, tumultuous, ostentatious little Flask would now
and then stamp with impatience; but not one added heave did he thereby
give to the negro’s lordly chest. So have I seen Passion and Vanity
stamping the living magnanimous earth, but the earth did not alter her
tides and her seasons for that.

Meanwhile Stubb, the third mate, betrayed no such far-gazing
solicitudes. The whales might have made one of their regular soundings,
not a temporary dive from mere fright; and if that were the case,
Stubb, as his wont in such cases, it seems, was resolved to solace the
languishing interval with his pipe. He withdrew it from his hatband,
where he always wore it aslant like a feather. He loaded it, and rammed
home the loading with his thumb-end; but hardly had he ignited his
match across the rough sandpaper of his hand, when Tashtego, his
harpooneer, whose eyes had been setting to windward like two fixed
stars, suddenly dropped like light from his erect attitude to his seat,
crying out in a quick phrensy of hurry, “Down, down all, and give
way!—there they are!”

To a landsman, no whale, nor any sign of a herring, would have been
visible at that moment; nothing but a troubled bit of greenish white
water, and thin scattered puffs of vapor hovering over it, and
suffusingly blowing off to leeward, like the confused scud from white
rolling billows. The air around suddenly vibrated and tingled, as it
were, like the air over intensely heated plates of iron. Beneath this
atmospheric waving and curling, and partially beneath a thin layer of
water, also, the whales were swimming. Seen in advance of all the other
indications, the puffs of vapor they spouted, seemed their forerunning
couriers and detached flying outriders.

All four boats were now in keen pursuit of that one spot of troubled
water and air. But it bade fair to outstrip them; it flew on and on, as
a mass of interblending bubbles borne down a rapid stream from the
hills.

“Pull, pull, my good boys,” said Starbuck, in the lowest possible but
intensest concentrated whisper to his men; while the sharp fixed glance
from his eyes darted straight ahead of the bow, almost seemed as two
visible needles in two unerring binnacle compasses. He did not say much
to his crew, though, nor did his crew say anything to him. Only the
silence of the boat was at intervals startlingly pierced by one of his
peculiar whispers, now harsh with command, now soft with entreaty.

How different the loud little King-Post. “Sing out and say something,
my hearties. Roar and pull, my thunderbolts! Beach me, beach me on
their black backs, boys; only do that for me, and I’ll sign over to you
my Martha’s Vineyard plantation, boys; including wife and children,
boys. Lay me on—lay me on! O Lord, Lord! but I shall go stark, staring
mad! See! see that white water!” And so shouting, he pulled his hat
from his head, and stamped up and down on it; then picking it up,
flirted it far off upon the sea; and finally fell to rearing and
plunging in the boat’s stern like a crazed colt from the prairie.

“Look at that chap now,” philosophically drawled Stubb, who, with his
unlighted short pipe, mechanically retained between his teeth, at a
short distance, followed after—“He’s got fits, that Flask has. Fits?
yes, give him fits—that’s the very word—pitch fits into ’em. Merrily,
merrily, hearts-alive. Pudding for supper, you know;—merry’s the word.
Pull, babes—pull, sucklings—pull, all. But what the devil are you
hurrying about? Softly, softly, and steadily, my men. Only pull, and
keep pulling; nothing more. Crack all your backbones, and bite your
knives in two—that’s all. Take it easy—why don’t ye take it easy, I
say, and burst all your livers and lungs!”

But what it was that inscrutable Ahab said to that tiger-yellow crew of
his—these were words best omitted here; for you live under the blessed
light of the evangelical land. Only the infidel sharks in the audacious
seas may give ear to such words, when, with tornado brow, and eyes of
red murder, and foam-glued lips, Ahab leaped after his prey.

Meanwhile, all the boats tore on. The repeated specific allusions of
Flask to “that whale,” as he called the fictitious monster which he
declared to be incessantly tantalizing his boat’s bow with its
tail—these allusions of his were at times so vivid and life-like, that
they would cause some one or two of his men to snatch a fearful look
over the shoulder. But this was against all rule; for the oarsmen must
put out their eyes, and ram a skewer through their necks; usage
pronouncing that they must have no organs but ears, and no limbs but
arms, in these critical moments.

It was a sight full of quick wonder and awe! The vast swells of the
omnipotent sea; the surging, hollow roar they made, as they rolled
along the eight gunwales, like gigantic bowls in a boundless
bowling-green; the brief suspended agony of the boat, as it would tip
for an instant on the knife-like edge of the sharper waves, that almost
seemed threatening to cut it in two; the sudden profound dip into the
watery glens and hollows; the keen spurrings and goadings to gain the
top of the opposite hill; the headlong, sled-like slide down its other
side;—all these, with the cries of the headsmen and harpooneers, and
the shuddering gasps of the oarsmen, with the wondrous sight of the
ivory Pequod bearing down upon her boats with outstretched sails, like
a wild hen after her screaming brood;—all this was thrilling.

Not the raw recruit, marching from the bosom of his wife into the fever
heat of his first battle; not the dead man’s ghost encountering the
first unknown phantom in the other world;—neither of these can feel
stranger and stronger emotions than that man does, who for the first
time finds himself pulling into the charmed, churned circle of the
hunted sperm whale.

The dancing white water made by the chase was now becoming more and
more visible, owing to the increasing darkness of the dun cloud-shadows
flung upon the sea. The jets of vapor no longer blended, but tilted
everywhere to right and left; the whales seemed separating their wakes.
The boats were pulled more apart; Starbuck giving chase to three whales
running dead to leeward. Our sail was now set, and, with the still
rising wind, we rushed along; the boat going with such madness through
the water, that the lee oars could scarcely be worked rapidly enough to
escape being torn from the row-locks.

Soon we were running through a suffusing wide veil of mist; neither
ship nor boat to be seen.

“Give way, men,” whispered Starbuck, drawing still further aft the
sheet of his sail; “there is time to kill a fish yet before the squall
comes. There’s white water again!—close to! Spring!”

Soon after, two cries in quick succession on each side of us denoted
that the other boats had got fast; but hardly were they overheard, when
with a lightning-like hurtling whisper Starbuck said: “Stand up!” and
Queequeg, harpoon in hand, sprang to his feet.

Though not one of the oarsmen was then facing the life and death peril
so close to them ahead, yet with their eyes on the intense countenance
of the mate in the stern of the boat, they knew that the imminent
instant had come; they heard, too, an enormous wallowing sound as of
fifty elephants stirring in their litter. Meanwhile the boat was still
booming through the mist, the waves curling and hissing around us like
the erected crests of enraged serpents.

“That’s his hump. _There_, _there_, give it to him!” whispered
Starbuck.

A short rushing sound leaped out of the boat; it was the darted iron of
Queequeg. Then all in one welded commotion came an invisible push from
astern, while forward the boat seemed striking on a ledge; the sail
collapsed and exploded; a gush of scalding vapor shot up near by;
something rolled and tumbled like an earthquake beneath us. The whole
crew were half suffocated as they were tossed helter-skelter into the
white curdling cream of the squall. Squall, whale, and harpoon had all
blended together; and the whale, merely grazed by the iron, escaped.

Though completely swamped, the boat was nearly unharmed. Swimming round
it we picked up the floating oars, and lashing them across the gunwale,
tumbled back to our places. There we sat up to our knees in the sea,
the water covering every rib and plank, so that to our downward gazing
eyes the suspended craft seemed a coral boat grown up to us from the
bottom of the ocean.

The wind increased to a howl; the waves dashed their bucklers together;
the whole squall roared, forked, and crackled around us like a white
fire upon the prairie, in which, unconsumed, we were burning; immortal
in these jaws of death! In vain we hailed the other boats; as well roar
to the live coals down the chimney of a flaming furnace as hail those
boats in that storm. Meanwhile the driving scud, rack, and mist, grew
darker with the shadows of night; no sign of the ship could be seen.
The rising sea forbade all attempts to bale out the boat. The oars were
useless as propellers, performing now the office of life-preservers.
So, cutting the lashing of the waterproof match keg, after many
failures Starbuck contrived to ignite the lamp in the lantern; then
stretching it on a waif pole, handed it to Queequeg as the
standard-bearer of this forlorn hope. There, then, he sat, holding up
that imbecile candle in the heart of that almighty forlornness. There,
then, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly
holding up hope in the midst of despair.

Wet, drenched through, and shivering cold, despairing of ship or boat,
we lifted up our eyes as the dawn came on. The mist still spread over
the sea, the empty lantern lay crushed in the bottom of the boat.
Suddenly Queequeg started to his feet, hollowing his hand to his ear.
We all heard a faint creaking, as of ropes and yards hitherto muffled
by the storm. The sound came nearer and nearer; the thick mists were
dimly parted by a huge, vague form. Affrighted, we all sprang into the
sea as the ship at last loomed into view, bearing right down upon us
within a distance of not much more than its length.

Floating on the waves we saw the abandoned boat, as for one instant it
tossed and gaped beneath the ship’s bows like a chip at the base of a
cataract; and then the vast hull rolled over it, and it was seen no
more till it came up weltering astern. Again we swam for it, were
dashed against it by the seas, and were at last taken up and safely
landed on board. Ere the squall came close to, the other boats had cut
loose from their fish and returned to the ship in good time. The ship
had given us up, but was still cruising, if haply it might light upon
some token of our perishing,—an oar or a lance pole.


CHAPTER 49. The Hyena.

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed
affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast
practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more
than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.
However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He
bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all
hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich
of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for
small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril
of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly,
good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen
and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am
speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation;
it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before
might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part
of the general joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to
breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with
it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White
Whale its object.

“Queequeg,” said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the
deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the
water; “Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often
happen?” Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he
gave me to understand that such things did often happen.

“Mr. Stubb,” said I, turning to that worthy, who, buttoned up in his
oil-jacket, was now calmly smoking his pipe in the rain; “Mr. Stubb, I
think I have heard you say that of all whalemen you ever met, our chief
mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and prudent. I suppose
then, that going plump on a flying whale with your sail set in a foggy
squall is the height of a whaleman’s discretion?”

“Certain. I’ve lowered for whales from a leaking ship in a gale off
Cape Horn.”

“Mr. Flask,” said I, turning to little King-Post, who was standing
close by; “you are experienced in these things, and I am not. Will you
tell me whether it is an unalterable law in this fishery, Mr. Flask,
for an oarsman to break his own back pulling himself back-foremost into
death’s jaws?”

“Can’t you twist that smaller?” said Flask. “Yes, that’s the law. I
should like to see a boat’s crew backing water up to a whale face
foremost. Ha, ha! the whale would give them squint for squint, mind
that!”

Here then, from three impartial witnesses, I had a deliberate statement
of the entire case. Considering, therefore, that squalls and capsizings
in the water and consequent bivouacks on the deep, were matters of
common occurrence in this kind of life; considering that at the
superlatively critical instant of going on to the whale I must resign
my life into the hands of him who steered the boat—oftentimes a fellow
who at that very moment is in his impetuousness upon the point of
scuttling the craft with his own frantic stampings; considering that
the particular disaster to our own particular boat was chiefly to be
imputed to Starbuck’s driving on to his whale almost in the teeth of a
squall, and considering that Starbuck, notwithstanding, was famous for
his great heedfulness in the fishery; considering that I belonged to
this uncommonly prudent Starbuck’s boat; and finally considering in
what a devil’s chase I was implicated, touching the White Whale: taking
all things together, I say, I thought I might as well go below and make
a rough draft of my will. “Queequeg,” said I, “come along, you shall be
my lawyer, executor, and legatee.”

It may seem strange that of all men sailors should be tinkering at
their last wills and testaments, but there are no people in the world
more fond of that diversion. This was the fourth time in my nautical
life that I had done the same thing. After the ceremony was concluded
upon the present occasion, I felt all the easier; a stone was rolled
away from my heart. Besides, all the days I should now live would be as
good as the days that Lazarus lived after his resurrection; a
supplementary clean gain of so many months or weeks as the case might
be. I survived myself; my death and burial were locked up in my chest.
I looked round me tranquilly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a
clean conscience sitting inside the bars of a snug family vault.

Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock,
here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the
devil fetch the hindmost.


CHAPTER 50. Ahab’s Boat and Crew. Fedallah.

“Who would have thought it, Flask!” cried Stubb; “if I had but one leg
you would not catch me in a boat, unless maybe to stop the plug-hole
with my timber toe. Oh! he’s a wonderful old man!”

“I don’t think it so strange, after all, on that account,” said Flask.
“If his leg were off at the hip, now, it would be a different thing.
That would disable him; but he has one knee, and good part of the other
left, you know.”

“I don’t know that, my little man; I never yet saw him kneel.”

Among whale-wise people it has often been argued whether, considering
the paramount importance of his life to the success of the voyage, it
is right for a whaling captain to jeopardize that life in the active
perils of the chase. So Tamerlane’s soldiers often argued with tears in
their eyes, whether that invaluable life of his ought to be carried
into the thickest of the fight.

But with Ahab the question assumed a modified aspect. Considering that
with two legs man is but a hobbling wight in all times of danger;
considering that the pursuit of whales is always under great and
extraordinary difficulties; that every individual moment, indeed, then
comprises a peril; under these circumstances is it wise for any maimed
man to enter a whale-boat in the hunt? As a general thing, the
joint-owners of the Pequod must have plainly thought not.

Ahab well knew that although his friends at home would think little of
his entering a boat in certain comparatively harmless vicissitudes of
the chase, for the sake of being near the scene of action and giving
his orders in person, yet for Captain Ahab to have a boat actually
apportioned to him as a regular headsman in the hunt—above all for
Captain Ahab to be supplied with five extra men, as that same boat’s
crew, he well knew that such generous conceits never entered the heads
of the owners of the Pequod. Therefore he had not solicited a boat’s
crew from them, nor had he in any way hinted his desires on that head.
Nevertheless he had taken private measures of his own touching all that
matter. Until Cabaco’s published discovery, the sailors had little
foreseen it, though to be sure when, after being a little while out of
port, all hands had concluded the customary business of fitting the
whaleboats for service; when some time after this Ahab was now and then
found bestirring himself in the matter of making thole-pins with his
own hands for what was thought to be one of the spare boats, and even
solicitously cutting the small wooden skewers, which when the line is
running out are pinned over the groove in the bow: when all this was
observed in him, and particularly his solicitude in having an extra
coat of sheathing in the bottom of the boat, as if to make it better
withstand the pointed pressure of his ivory limb; and also the anxiety
he evinced in exactly shaping the thigh board, or clumsy cleat, as it
is sometimes called, the horizontal piece in the boat’s bow for bracing
the knee against in darting or stabbing at the whale; when it was
observed how often he stood up in that boat with his solitary knee
fixed in the semi-circular depression in the cleat, and with the
carpenter’s chisel gouged out a little here and straightened it a
little there; all these things, I say, had awakened much interest and
curiosity at the time. But almost everybody supposed that this
particular preparative heedfulness in Ahab must only be with a view to
the ultimate chase of Moby Dick; for he had already revealed his
intention to hunt that mortal monster in person. But such a supposition
did by no means involve the remotest suspicion as to any boat’s crew
being assigned to that boat.

Now, with the subordinate phantoms, what wonder remained soon waned
away; for in a whaler wonders soon wane. Besides, now and then such
unaccountable odds and ends of strange nations come up from the unknown
nooks and ash-holes of the earth to man these floating outlaws of
whalers; and the ships themselves often pick up such queer castaway
creatures found tossing about the open sea on planks, bits of wreck,
oars, whaleboats, canoes, blown-off Japanese junks, and what not; that
Beelzebub himself might climb up the side and step down into the cabin
to chat with the captain, and it would not create any unsubduable
excitement in the forecastle.

But be all this as it may, certain it is that while the subordinate
phantoms soon found their place among the crew, though still as it were
somehow distinct from them, yet that hair-turbaned Fedallah remained a
muffled mystery to the last. Whence he came in a mannerly world like
this, by what sort of unaccountable tie he soon evinced himself to be
linked with Ahab’s peculiar fortunes; nay, so far as to have some sort
of a half-hinted influence; Heaven knows, but it might have been even
authority over him; all this none knew. But one cannot sustain an
indifferent air concerning Fedallah. He was such a creature as
civilized, domestic people in the temperate zone only see in their
dreams, and that but dimly; but the like of whom now and then glide
among the unchanging Asiatic communities, especially the Oriental isles
to the east of the continent—those insulated, immemorial, unalterable
countries, which even in these modern days still preserve much of the
ghostly aboriginalness of earth’s primal generations, when the memory
of the first man was a distinct recollection, and all men his
descendants, unknowing whence he came, eyed each other as real
phantoms, and asked of the sun and the moon why they were created and
to what end; when though, according to Genesis, the angels indeed
consorted with the daughters of men, the devils also, add the
uncanonical Rabbins, indulged in mundane amours.


CHAPTER 51. The Spirit-Spout.

Days, weeks passed, and under easy sail, the ivory Pequod had slowly
swept across four several cruising-grounds; that off the Azores; off
the Cape de Verdes; on the Plate (so called), being off the mouth of
the Rio de la Plata; and the Carrol Ground, an unstaked, watery
locality, southerly from St. Helena.

It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and
moonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver;
and, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery
silence, not a solitude; on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen
far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it
looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from
the sea. Fedallah first descried this jet. For of these moonlight
nights, it was his wont to mount to the main-mast head, and stand a
look-out there, with the same precision as if it had been day. And yet,
though herds of whales were seen by night, not one whaleman in a
hundred would venture a lowering for them. You may think with what
emotions, then, the seamen beheld this old Oriental perched aloft at
such unusual hours; his turban and the moon, companions in one sky. But
when, after spending his uniform interval there for several successive
nights without uttering a single sound; when, after all this silence,
his unearthly voice was heard announcing that silvery, moon-lit jet,
every reclining mariner started to his feet as if some winged spirit
had lighted in the rigging, and hailed the mortal crew. “There she
blows!” Had the trump of judgment blown, they could not have quivered
more; yet still they felt no terror; rather pleasure. For though it was
a most unwonted hour, yet so impressive was the cry, and so deliriously
exciting, that almost every soul on board instinctively desired a
lowering.

Walking the deck with quick, side-lunging strides, Ahab commanded the
t’gallant sails and royals to be set, and every stunsail spread. The
best man in the ship must take the helm. Then, with every mast-head
manned, the piled-up craft rolled down before the wind. The strange,
upheaving, lifting tendency of the taffrail breeze filling the hollows
of so many sails, made the buoyant, hovering deck to feel like air
beneath the feet; while still she rushed along, as if two antagonistic
influences were struggling in her—one to mount direct to heaven, the
other to drive yawingly to some horizontal goal. And had you watched
Ahab’s face that night, you would have thought that in him also two
different things were warring. While his one live leg made lively
echoes along the deck, every stroke of his dead limb sounded like a
coffin-tap. On life and death this old man walked. But though the ship
so swiftly sped, and though from every eye, like arrows, the eager
glances shot, yet the silvery jet was no more seen that night. Every
sailor swore he saw it once, but not a second time.

This midnight-spout had almost grown a forgotten thing, when, some days
after, lo! at the same silent hour, it was again announced: again it
was descried by all; but upon making sail to overtake it, once more it
disappeared as if it had never been. And so it served us night after
night, till no one heeded it but to wonder at it. Mysteriously jetted
into the clear moonlight, or starlight, as the case might be;
disappearing again for one whole day, or two days, or three; and
somehow seeming at every distinct repetition to be advancing still
further and further in our van, this solitary jet seemed for ever
alluring us on.

Nor with the immemorial superstition of their race, and in accordance
with the preternaturalness, as it seemed, which in many things invested
the Pequod, were there wanting some of the seamen who swore that
whenever and wherever descried; at however remote times, or in however
far apart latitudes and longitudes, that unnearable spout was cast by
one self-same whale; and that whale, Moby Dick. For a time, there
reigned, too, a sense of peculiar dread at this flitting apparition, as
if it were treacherously beckoning us on and on, in order that the
monster might turn round upon us, and rend us at last in the remotest
and most savage seas.

These temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived a
wondrous potency from the contrasting serenity of the weather, in
which, beneath all its blue blandness, some thought there lurked a
devilish charm, as for days and days we voyaged along, through seas so
wearily, lonesomely mild, that all space, in repugnance to our vengeful
errand, seemed vacating itself of life before our urn-like prow.

But, at last, when turning to the eastward, the Cape winds began
howling around us, and we rose and fell upon the long, troubled seas
that are there; when the ivory-tusked Pequod sharply bowed to the
blast, and gored the dark waves in her madness, till, like showers of
silver chips, the foam-flakes flew over her bulwarks; then all this
desolate vacuity of life went away, but gave place to sights more
dismal than before.

Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither
before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And
every morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and
spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp,
as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a
thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for
their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved
the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great
mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering
it had bred.

Cape of Good Hope, do they call ye? Rather Cape Tormentoso, as called
of yore; for long allured by the perfidious silences that before had
attended us, we found ourselves launched into this tormented sea, where
guilty beings transformed into those fowls and these fish, seemed
condemned to swim on everlastingly without any haven in store, or beat
that black air without any horizon. But calm, snow-white, and
unvarying; still directing its fountain of feathers to the sky; still
beckoning us on from before, the solitary jet would at times be
descried.

During all this blackness of the elements, Ahab, though assuming for
the time the almost continual command of the drenched and dangerous
deck, manifested the gloomiest reserve; and more seldom than ever
addressed his mates. In tempestuous times like these, after everything
above and aloft has been secured, nothing more can be done but
passively to await the issue of the gale. Then Captain and crew become
practical fatalists. So, with his ivory leg inserted into its
accustomed hole, and with one hand firmly grasping a shroud, Ahab for
hours and hours would stand gazing dead to windward, while an
occasional squall of sleet or snow would all but congeal his very
eyelashes together. Meantime, the crew driven from the forward part of
the ship by the perilous seas that burstingly broke over its bows,
stood in a line along the bulwarks in the waist; and the better to
guard against the leaping waves, each man had slipped himself into a
sort of bowline secured to the rail, in which he swung as in a loosened
belt. Few or no words were spoken; and the silent ship, as if manned by
painted sailors in wax, day after day tore on through all the swift
madness and gladness of the demoniac waves. By night the same muteness
of humanity before the shrieks of the ocean prevailed; still in silence
the men swung in the bowlines; still wordless Ahab stood up to the
blast. Even when wearied nature seemed demanding repose he would not
seek that repose in his hammock. Never could Starbuck forget the old
man’s aspect, when one night going down into the cabin to mark how the
barometer stood, he saw him with closed eyes sitting straight in his
floor-screwed chair; the rain and half-melted sleet of the storm from
which he had some time before emerged, still slowly dripping from the
unremoved hat and coat. On the table beside him lay unrolled one of
those charts of tides and currents which have previously been spoken
of. His lantern swung from his tightly clenched hand. Though the body
was erect, the head was thrown back so that the closed eyes were
pointed towards the needle of the tell-tale that swung from a beam in
the ceiling.*

*The cabin-compass is called the tell-tale, because without going to
the compass at the helm, the Captain, while below, can inform himself
of the course of the ship.

Terrible old man! thought Starbuck with a shudder, sleeping in this
gale, still thou steadfastly eyest thy purpose.


CHAPTER 52. The Albatross.

South-eastward from the Cape, off the distant Crozetts, a good cruising
ground for Right Whalemen, a sail loomed ahead, the Goney (Albatross)
by name. As she slowly drew nigh, from my lofty perch at the
fore-mast-head, I had a good view of that sight so remarkable to a tyro
in the far ocean fisheries—a whaler at sea, and long absent from home.

As if the waves had been fullers, this craft was bleached like the
skeleton of a stranded walrus. All down her sides, this spectral
appearance was traced with long channels of reddened rust, while all
her spars and her rigging were like the thick branches of trees furred
over with hoar-frost. Only her lower sails were set. A wild sight it
was to see her long-bearded look-outs at those three mast-heads. They
seemed clad in the skins of beasts, so torn and bepatched the raiment
that had survived nearly four years of cruising. Standing in iron hoops
nailed to the mast, they swayed and swung over a fathomless sea; and
though, when the ship slowly glided close under our stern, we six men
in the air came so nigh to each other that we might almost have leaped
from the mast-heads of one ship to those of the other; yet, those
forlorn-looking fishermen, mildly eyeing us as they passed, said not
one word to our own look-outs, while the quarter-deck hail was being
heard from below.

“Ship ahoy! Have ye seen the White Whale?”

But as the strange captain, leaning over the pallid bulwarks, was in
the act of putting his trumpet to his mouth, it somehow fell from his
hand into the sea; and the wind now rising amain, he in vain strove to
make himself heard without it. Meantime his ship was still increasing
the distance between. While in various silent ways the seamen of the
Pequod were evincing their observance of this ominous incident at the
first mere mention of the White Whale’s name to another ship, Ahab for
a moment paused; it almost seemed as though he would have lowered a
boat to board the stranger, had not the threatening wind forbade. But
taking advantage of his windward position, he again seized his trumpet,
and knowing by her aspect that the stranger vessel was a Nantucketer
and shortly bound home, he loudly hailed—“Ahoy there! This is the
Pequod, bound round the world! Tell them to address all future letters
to the Pacific ocean! and this time three years, if I am not at home,
tell them to address them to ——”

At that moment the two wakes were fairly crossed, and instantly, then,
in accordance with their singular ways, shoals of small harmless fish,
that for some days before had been placidly swimming by our side,
darted away with what seemed shuddering fins, and ranged themselves
fore and aft with the stranger’s flanks. Though in the course of his
continual voyagings Ahab must often before have noticed a similar
sight, yet, to any monomaniac man, the veriest trifles capriciously
carry meanings.

“Swim away from me, do ye?” murmured Ahab, gazing over into the water.
There seemed but little in the words, but the tone conveyed more of
deep helpless sadness than the insane old man had ever before evinced.
But turning to the steersman, who thus far had been holding the ship in
the wind to diminish her headway, he cried out in his old lion
voice,—“Up helm! Keep her off round the world!”

Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings;
but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through
numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that
we left behind secure, were all the time before us.

Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for
ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange
than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise
in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in
tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims
before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they
either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed.


CHAPTER 53. The Gam.

The ostensible reason why Ahab did not go on board of the whaler we had
spoken was this: the wind and sea betokened storms. But even had this
not been the case, he would not after all, perhaps, have boarded
her—judging by his subsequent conduct on similar occasions—if so it had
been that, by the process of hailing, he had obtained a negative answer
to the question he put. For, as it eventually turned out, he cared not
to consort, even for five minutes, with any stranger captain, except he
could contribute some of that information he so absorbingly sought. But
all this might remain inadequately estimated, were not something said
here of the peculiar usages of whaling-vessels when meeting each other
in foreign seas, and especially on a common cruising-ground.

If two strangers crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the
equally desolate Salisbury Plain in England; if casually encountering
each other in such inhospitable wilds, these twain, for the life of
them, cannot well avoid a mutual salutation; and stopping for a moment
to interchange the news; and, perhaps, sitting down for a while and
resting in concert: then, how much more natural that upon the
illimitable Pine Barrens and Salisbury Plains of the sea, two whaling
vessels descrying each other at the ends of the earth—off lone
Fanning’s Island, or the far away King’s Mills; how much more natural,
I say, that under such circumstances these ships should not only
interchange hails, but come into still closer, more friendly and
sociable contact. And especially would this seem to be a matter of
course, in the case of vessels owned in one seaport, and whose
captains, officers, and not a few of the men are personally known to
each other; and consequently, have all sorts of dear domestic things to
talk about.

For the long absent ship, the outward-bounder, perhaps, has letters on
board; at any rate, she will be sure to let her have some papers of a
date a year or two later than the last one on her blurred and
thumb-worn files. And in return for that courtesy, the outward-bound
ship would receive the latest whaling intelligence from the
cruising-ground to which she may be destined, a thing of the utmost
importance to her. And in degree, all this will hold true concerning
whaling vessels crossing each other’s track on the cruising-ground
itself, even though they are equally long absent from home. For one of
them may have received a transfer of letters from some third, and now
far remote vessel; and some of those letters may be for the people of
the ship she now meets. Besides, they would exchange the whaling news,
and have an agreeable chat. For not only would they meet with all the
sympathies of sailors, but likewise with all the peculiar
congenialities arising from a common pursuit and mutually shared
privations and perils.

Nor would difference of country make any very essential difference;
that is, so long as both parties speak one language, as is the case
with Americans and English. Though, to be sure, from the small number
of English whalers, such meetings do not very often occur, and when
they do occur there is too apt to be a sort of shyness between them;
for your Englishman is rather reserved, and your Yankee, he does not
fancy that sort of thing in anybody but himself. Besides, the English
whalers sometimes affect a kind of metropolitan superiority over the
American whalers; regarding the long, lean Nantucketer, with his
nondescript provincialisms, as a sort of sea-peasant. But where this
superiority in the English whalemen does really consist, it would be
hard to say, seeing that the Yankees in one day, collectively, kill
more whales than all the English, collectively, in ten years. But this
is a harmless little foible in the English whale-hunters, which the
Nantucketer does not take much to heart; probably, because he knows
that he has a few foibles himself.

So, then, we see that of all ships separately sailing the sea, the
whalers have most reason to be sociable—and they are so. Whereas, some
merchant ships crossing each other’s wake in the mid-Atlantic, will
oftentimes pass on without so much as a single word of recognition,
mutually cutting each other on the high seas, like a brace of dandies
in Broadway; and all the time indulging, perhaps, in finical criticism
upon each other’s rig. As for Men-of-War, when they chance to meet at
sea, they first go through such a string of silly bowings and
scrapings, such a ducking of ensigns, that there does not seem to be
much right-down hearty good-will and brotherly love about it at all. As
touching Slave-ships meeting, why, they are in such a prodigious hurry,
they run away from each other as soon as possible. And as for Pirates,
when they chance to cross each other’s cross-bones, the first hail
is—“How many skulls?”—the same way that whalers hail—“How many
barrels?” And that question once answered, pirates straightway steer
apart, for they are infernal villains on both sides, and don’t like to
see overmuch of each other’s villanous likenesses.

But look at the godly, honest, unostentatious, hospitable, sociable,
free-and-easy whaler! What does the whaler do when she meets another
whaler in any sort of decent weather? She has a “_Gam_,” a thing so
utterly unknown to all other ships that they never heard of the name
even; and if by chance they should hear of it, they only grin at it,
and repeat gamesome stuff about “spouters” and “blubber-boilers,” and
such like pretty exclamations. Why it is that all Merchant-seamen, and
also all Pirates and Man-of-War’s men, and Slave-ship sailors, cherish
such a scornful feeling towards Whale-ships; this is a question it
would be hard to answer. Because, in the case of pirates, say, I should
like to know whether that profession of theirs has any peculiar glory
about it. It sometimes ends in uncommon elevation, indeed; but only at
the gallows. And besides, when a man is elevated in that odd fashion,
he has no proper foundation for his superior altitude. Hence, I
conclude, that in boasting himself to be high lifted above a whaleman,
in that assertion the pirate has no solid basis to stand on.

But what is a _Gam?_ You might wear out your index-finger running up
and down the columns of dictionaries, and never find the word. Dr.
Johnson never attained to that erudition; Noah Webster’s ark does not
hold it. Nevertheless, this same expressive word has now for many years
been in constant use among some fifteen thousand true born Yankees.
Certainly, it needs a definition, and should be incorporated into the
Lexicon. With that view, let me learnedly define it.

GAM. NOUN—_A social meeting of two_ (_or more_) _Whaleships, generally
on a cruising-ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange
visits by boats’ crews: the two captains remaining, for the time, on
board of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other._

There is another little item about Gamming which must not be forgotten
here. All professions have their own little peculiarities of detail; so
has the whale fishery. In a pirate, man-of-war, or slave ship, when the
captain is rowed anywhere in his boat, he always sits in the stern
sheets on a comfortable, sometimes cushioned seat there, and often
steers himself with a pretty little milliner’s tiller decorated with
gay cords and ribbons. But the whale-boat has no seat astern, no sofa
of that sort whatever, and no tiller at all. High times indeed, if
whaling captains were wheeled about the water on castors like gouty old
aldermen in patent chairs. And as for a tiller, the whale-boat never
admits of any such effeminacy; and therefore as in gamming a complete
boat’s crew must leave the ship, and hence as the boat steerer or
harpooneer is of the number, that subordinate is the steersman upon the
occasion, and the captain, having no place to sit in, is pulled off to
his visit all standing like a pine tree. And often you will notice that
being conscious of the eyes of the whole visible world resting on him
from the sides of the two ships, this standing captain is all alive to
the importance of sustaining his dignity by maintaining his legs. Nor
is this any very easy matter; for in his rear is the immense projecting
steering oar hitting him now and then in the small of his back, the
after-oar reciprocating by rapping his knees in front. He is thus
completely wedged before and behind, and can only expand himself
sideways by settling down on his stretched legs; but a sudden, violent
pitch of the boat will often go far to topple him, because length of
foundation is nothing without corresponding breadth. Merely make a
spread angle of two poles, and you cannot stand them up. Then, again,
it would never do in plain sight of the world’s riveted eyes, it would
never do, I say, for this straddling captain to be seen steadying
himself the slightest particle by catching hold of anything with his
hands; indeed, as token of his entire, buoyant self-command, he
generally carries his hands in his trowsers’ pockets; but perhaps being
generally very large, heavy hands, he carries them there for ballast.
Nevertheless there have occurred instances, well authenticated ones
too, where the captain has been known for an uncommonly critical moment
or two, in a sudden squall say—to seize hold of the nearest oarsman’s
hair, and hold on there like grim death.


CHAPTER 54. The Town-Ho’s Story.

(_As told at the Golden Inn._)

The Cape of Good Hope, and all the watery region round about there, is
much like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet
more travellers than in any other part.

It was not very long after speaking the Goney that another
homeward-bound whaleman, the Town-Ho,* was encountered. She was manned
almost wholly by Polynesians. In the short gam that ensued she gave us
strong news of Moby Dick. To some the general interest in the White
Whale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the Town-Ho’s
story, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain
wondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of
God which at times are said to overtake some men. This latter
circumstance, with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may
be called the secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never
reached the ears of Captain Ahab or his mates. For that secret part of
the story was unknown to the captain of the Town-Ho himself. It was the
private property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of
whom, it seems, communicated it to Tashtego with Romish injunctions of
secrecy, but the following night Tashtego rambled in his sleep, and
revealed so much of it in that way, that when he was wakened he could
not well withhold the rest. Nevertheless, so potent an influence did
this thing have on those seamen in the Pequod who came to the full
knowledge of it, and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were
they governed in this matter, that they kept the secret among
themselves so that it never transpired abaft the Pequod’s main-mast.
Interweaving in its proper place this darker thread with the story as
publicly narrated on the ship, the whole of this strange affair I now
proceed to put on lasting record.

*The ancient whale-cry upon first sighting a whale from the mast-head,
still used by whalemen in hunting the famous Gallipagos terrapin.

For my humor’s sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once
narrated it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one
saint’s eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden
Inn. Of those fine cavaliers, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were
on the closer terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they
occasionally put, and which are duly answered at the time.

“Some two years prior to my first learning the events which I am about
rehearsing to you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, Sperm Whaler of Nantucket,
was cruising in your Pacific here, not very many days’ sail eastward
from the eaves of this good Golden Inn. She was somewhere to the
northward of the Line. One morning upon handling the pumps, according
to daily usage, it was observed that she made more water in her hold
than common. They supposed a sword-fish had stabbed her, gentlemen. But
the captain, having some unusual reason for believing that rare good
luck awaited him in those latitudes; and therefore being very averse to
quit them, and the leak not being then considered at all dangerous,
though, indeed, they could not find it after searching the hold as low
down as was possible in rather heavy weather, the ship still continued
her cruisings, the mariners working at the pumps at wide and easy
intervals; but no good luck came; more days went by, and not only was
the leak yet undiscovered, but it sensibly increased. So much so, that
now taking some alarm, the captain, making all sail, stood away for the
nearest harbor among the islands, there to have his hull hove out and
repaired.

“Though no small passage was before her, yet, if the commonest chance
favoured, he did not at all fear that his ship would founder by the
way, because his pumps were of the best, and being periodically
relieved at them, those six-and-thirty men of his could easily keep the
ship free; never mind if the leak should double on her. In truth, well
nigh the whole of this passage being attended by very prosperous
breezes, the Town-Ho had all but certainly arrived in perfect safety at
her port without the occurrence of the least fatality, had it not been
for the brutal overbearing of Radney, the mate, a Vineyarder, and the
bitterly provoked vengeance of Steelkilt, a Lakeman and desperado from
Buffalo.

“‘Lakeman!—Buffalo! Pray, what is a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo?’
said Don Sebastian, rising in his swinging mat of grass.

“On the eastern shore of our Lake Erie, Don; but—I crave your
courtesy—may be, you shall soon hear further of all that. Now,
gentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, well-nigh as
large and stout as any that ever sailed out of your old Callao to far
Manilla; this Lakeman, in the land-locked heart of our America, had yet
been nurtured by all those agrarian freebooting impressions popularly
connected with the open ocean. For in their interflowing aggregate,
those grand fresh-water seas of ours,—Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and
Superior, and Michigan,—possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many
of the ocean’s noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of
races and of climes. They contain round archipelagoes of romantic
isles, even as the Polynesian waters do; in large part, are shored by
two great contrasting nations, as the Atlantic is; they furnish long
maritime approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the East,
dotted all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by
batteries, and by the goat-like craggy guns of lofty Mackinaw; they
have heard the fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they
yield their beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash
from out their peltry wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by
ancient and unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried
lines of kings in Gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild
Afric beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs give
robes to Tartar Emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of Buffalo and
Cleveland, as well as Winnebago villages; they float alike the
full-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the State, the steamer,
and the beech canoe; they are swept by Borean and dismasting blasts as
direful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks
are, for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full
many a midnight ship with all its shrieking crew. Thus, gentlemen,
though an inlander, Steelkilt was wild-ocean born, and wild-ocean
nurtured; as much of an audacious mariner as any. And for Radney,
though in his infancy he may have laid him down on the lone Nantucket
beach, to nurse at his maternal sea; though in after life he had long
followed our austere Atlantic and your contemplative Pacific; yet was
he quite as vengeful and full of social quarrel as the backwoods
seaman, fresh from the latitudes of buck-horn handled Bowie-knives. Yet
was this Nantucketer a man with some good-hearted traits; and this
Lakeman, a mariner, who though a sort of devil indeed, might yet by
inflexible firmness, only tempered by that common decency of human
recognition which is the meanest slave’s right; thus treated, this
Steelkilt had long been retained harmless and docile. At all events, he
had proved so thus far; but Radney was doomed and made mad, and
Steelkilt—but, gentlemen, you shall hear.

“It was not more than a day or two at the furthest after pointing her
prow for her island haven, that the Town-Ho’s leak seemed again
increasing, but only so as to require an hour or more at the pumps
every day. You must know that in a settled and civilized ocean like our
Atlantic, for example, some skippers think little of pumping their
whole way across it; though of a still, sleepy night, should the
officer of the deck happen to forget his duty in that respect, the
probability would be that he and his shipmates would never again
remember it, on account of all hands gently subsiding to the bottom.
Nor in the solitary and savage seas far from you to the westward,
gentlemen, is it altogether unusual for ships to keep clanging at their
pump-handles in full chorus even for a voyage of considerable length;
that is, if it lie along a tolerably accessible coast, or if any other
reasonable retreat is afforded them. It is only when a leaky vessel is
in some very out of the way part of those waters, some really landless
latitude, that her captain begins to feel a little anxious.

“Much this way had it been with the Town-Ho; so when her leak was found
gaining once more, there was in truth some small concern manifested by
several of her company; especially by Radney the mate. He commanded the
upper sails to be well hoisted, sheeted home anew, and every way
expanded to the breeze. Now this Radney, I suppose, was as little of a
coward, and as little inclined to any sort of nervous apprehensiveness
touching his own person as any fearless, unthinking creature on land or
on sea that you can conveniently imagine, gentlemen. Therefore when he
betrayed this solicitude about the safety of the ship, some of the
seamen declared that it was only on account of his being a part owner
in her. So when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was
on this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they
stood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear
water; clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen—that bubbling from the
pumps ran across the deck, and poured itself out in steady spouts at
the lee scupper-holes.

“Now, as you well know, it is not seldom the case in this conventional
world of ours—watery or otherwise; that when a person placed in command
over his fellow-men finds one of them to be very significantly his
superior in general pride of manhood, straightway against that man he
conceives an unconquerable dislike and bitterness; and if he have a
chance he will pull down and pulverize that subaltern’s tower, and make
a little heap of dust of it. Be this conceit of mine as it may,
gentlemen, at all events Steelkilt was a tall and noble animal with a
head like a Roman, and a flowing golden beard like the tasseled
housings of your last viceroy’s snorting charger; and a brain, and a
heart, and a soul in him, gentlemen, which had made Steelkilt
Charlemagne, had he been born son to Charlemagne’s father. But Radney,
the mate, was ugly as a mule; yet as hardy, as stubborn, as malicious.
He did not love Steelkilt, and Steelkilt knew it.

“Espying the mate drawing near as he was toiling at the pump with the
rest, the Lakeman affected not to notice him, but unawed, went on with
his gay banterings.

“‘Aye, aye, my merry lads, it’s a lively leak this; hold a cannikin,
one of ye, and let’s have a taste. By the Lord, it’s worth bottling! I
tell ye what, men, old Rad’s investment must go for it! he had best cut
away his part of the hull and tow it home. The fact is, boys, that
sword-fish only began the job; he’s come back again with a gang of
ship-carpenters, saw-fish, and file-fish, and what not; and the whole
posse of ’em are now hard at work cutting and slashing at the bottom;
making improvements, I suppose. If old Rad were here now, I’d tell him
to jump overboard and scatter ’em. They’re playing the devil with his
estate, I can tell him. But he’s a simple old soul,—Rad, and a beauty
too. Boys, they say the rest of his property is invested in
looking-glasses. I wonder if he’d give a poor devil like me the model
of his nose.’

“‘Damn your eyes! what’s that pump stopping for?’ roared Radney,
pretending not to have heard the sailors’ talk. ‘Thunder away at it!’

“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Steelkilt, merry as a cricket. ‘Lively, boys,
lively, now!’ And with that the pump clanged like fifty fire-engines;
the men tossed their hats off to it, and ere long that peculiar gasping
of the lungs was heard which denotes the fullest tension of life’s
utmost energies.

“Quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the Lakeman went
forward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face
fiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his
brow. Now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed Radney
to meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, I know
not; but so it happened. Intolerably striding along the deck, the mate
commanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a
shovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a
pig to run at large.

“Now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship’s deck at sea is a piece of household
work which in all times but raging gales is regularly attended to every
evening; it has been known to be done in the case of ships actually
foundering at the time. Such, gentlemen, is the inflexibility of
sea-usages and the instinctive love of neatness in seamen; some of whom
would not willingly drown without first washing their faces. But in all
vessels this broom business is the prescriptive province of the boys,
if boys there be aboard. Besides, it was the stronger men in the
Town-Ho that had been divided into gangs, taking turns at the pumps;
and being the most athletic seaman of them all, Steelkilt had been
regularly assigned captain of one of the gangs; consequently he should
have been freed from any trivial business not connected with truly
nautical duties, such being the case with his comrades. I mention all
these particulars so that you may understand exactly how this affair
stood between the two men.

“But there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as
plainly meant to sting and insult Steelkilt, as though Radney had spat
in his face. Any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will
understand this; and all this and doubtless much more, the Lakeman
fully comprehended when the mate uttered his command. But as he sat
still for a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate’s
malignant eye and perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him
and the slow-match silently burning along towards them; as he
instinctively saw all this, that strange forbearance and unwillingness
to stir up the deeper passionateness in any already ireful being—a
repugnance most felt, when felt at all, by really valiant men even when
aggrieved—this nameless phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over
Steelkilt.

“Therefore, in his ordinary tone, only a little broken by the bodily
exhaustion he was temporarily in, he answered him saying that sweeping
the deck was not his business, and he would not do it. And then,
without at all alluding to the shovel, he pointed to three lads as the
customary sweepers; who, not being billeted at the pumps, had done
little or nothing all day. To this, Radney replied with an oath, in a
most domineering and outrageous manner unconditionally reiterating his
command; meanwhile advancing upon the still seated Lakeman, with an
uplifted cooper’s club hammer which he had snatched from a cask near
by.

“Heated and irritated as he was by his spasmodic toil at the pumps, for
all his first nameless feeling of forbearance the sweating Steelkilt
could but ill brook this bearing in the mate; but somehow still
smothering the conflagration within him, without speaking he remained
doggedly rooted to his seat, till at last the incensed Radney shook the
hammer within a few inches of his face, furiously commanding him to do
his bidding.

“Steelkilt rose, and slowly retreating round the windlass, steadily
followed by the mate with his menacing hammer, deliberately repeated
his intention not to obey. Seeing, however, that his forbearance had
not the slightest effect, by an awful and unspeakable intimation with
his twisted hand he warned off the foolish and infatuated man; but it
was to no purpose. And in this way the two went once slowly round the
windlass; when, resolved at last no longer to retreat, bethinking him
that he had now forborne as much as comported with his humor, the
Lakeman paused on the hatches and thus spoke to the officer:

“‘Mr. Radney, I will not obey you. Take that hammer away, or look to
yourself.’ But the predestinated mate coming still closer to him, where
the Lakeman stood fixed, now shook the heavy hammer within an inch of
his teeth; meanwhile repeating a string of insufferable maledictions.
Retreating not the thousandth part of an inch; stabbing him in the eye
with the unflinching poniard of his glance, Steelkilt, clenching his
right hand behind him and creepingly drawing it back, told his
persecutor that if the hammer but grazed his cheek he (Steelkilt) would
murder him. But, gentlemen, the fool had been branded for the slaughter
by the gods. Immediately the hammer touched the cheek; the next instant
the lower jaw of the mate was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch
spouting blood like a whale.

“Ere the cry could go aft Steelkilt was shaking one of the backstays
leading far aloft to where two of his comrades were standing their
mastheads. They were both Canallers.

“‘Canallers!’ cried Don Pedro. ‘We have seen many whale-ships in our
harbours, but never heard of your Canallers. Pardon: who and what are
they?’

“‘Canallers, Don, are the boatmen belonging to our grand Erie Canal.
You must have heard of it.’

“‘Nay, Senor; hereabouts in this dull, warm, most lazy, and hereditary
land, we know but little of your vigorous North.’

“‘Aye? Well then, Don, refill my cup. Your chicha’s very fine; and ere
proceeding further I will tell ye what our Canallers are; for such
information may throw side-light upon my story.’

“For three hundred and sixty miles, gentlemen, through the entire
breadth of the state of New York; through numerous populous cities and
most thriving villages; through long, dismal, uninhabited swamps, and
affluent, cultivated fields, unrivalled for fertility; by billiard-room
and bar-room; through the holy-of-holies of great forests; on Roman
arches over Indian rivers; through sun and shade; by happy hearts or
broken; through all the wide contrasting scenery of those noble Mohawk
counties; and especially, by rows of snow-white chapels, whose spires
stand almost like milestones, flows one continual stream of Venetianly
corrupt and often lawless life. There’s your true Ashantee, gentlemen;
there howl your pagans; where you ever find them, next door to you;
under the long-flung shadow, and the snug patronising lee of churches.
For by some curious fatality, as it is often noted of your metropolitan
freebooters that they ever encamp around the halls of justice, so
sinners, gentlemen, most abound in holiest vicinities.

“‘Is that a friar passing?’ said Don Pedro, looking downwards into the
crowded plazza, with humorous concern.

“‘Well for our northern friend, Dame Isabella’s Inquisition wanes in
Lima,’ laughed Don Sebastian. ‘Proceed, Senor.’

“‘A moment! Pardon!’ cried another of the company. ‘In the name of all
us Limeese, I but desire to express to you, sir sailor, that we have by
no means overlooked your delicacy in not substituting present Lima for
distant Venice in your corrupt comparison. Oh! do not bow and look
surprised; you know the proverb all along this coast—“Corrupt as Lima.”
It but bears out your saying, too; churches more plentiful than
billiard-tables, and for ever open—and “Corrupt as Lima.” So, too,
Venice; I have been there; the holy city of the blessed evangelist, St.
Mark!—St. Dominic, purge it! Your cup! Thanks: here I refill; now, you
pour out again.’

“Freely depicted in his own vocation, gentlemen, the Canaller would
make a fine dramatic hero, so abundantly and picturesquely wicked is
he. Like Mark Antony, for days and days along his green-turfed, flowery
Nile, he indolently floats, openly toying with his red-cheeked
Cleopatra, ripening his apricot thigh upon the sunny deck. But ashore,
all this effeminacy is dashed. The brigandish guise which the Canaller
so proudly sports; his slouched and gaily-ribboned hat betoken his
grand features. A terror to the smiling innocence of the villages
through which he floats; his swart visage and bold swagger are not
unshunned in cities. Once a vagabond on his own canal, I have received
good turns from one of these Canallers; I thank him heartily; would
fain be not ungrateful; but it is often one of the prime redeeming
qualities of your man of violence, that at times he has as stiff an arm
to back a poor stranger in a strait, as to plunder a wealthy one. In
sum, gentlemen, what the wildness of this canal life is, is
emphatically evinced by this; that our wild whale-fishery contains so
many of its most finished graduates, and that scarce any race of
mankind, except Sydney men, are so much distrusted by our whaling
captains. Nor does it at all diminish the curiousness of this matter,
that to many thousands of our rural boys and young men born along its
line, the probationary life of the Grand Canal furnishes the sole
transition between quietly reaping in a Christian corn-field, and
recklessly ploughing the waters of the most barbaric seas.

“‘I see! I see!’ impetuously exclaimed Don Pedro, spilling his chicha
upon his silvery ruffles. ‘No need to travel! The world’s one Lima. I
had thought, now, that at your temperate North the generations were
cold and holy as the hills.—But the story.’

“I left off, gentlemen, where the Lakeman shook the backstay. Hardly
had he done so, when he was surrounded by the three junior mates and
the four harpooneers, who all crowded him to the deck. But sliding down
the ropes like baleful comets, the two Canallers rushed into the
uproar, and sought to drag their man out of it towards the forecastle.
Others of the sailors joined with them in this attempt, and a twisted
turmoil ensued; while standing out of harm’s way, the valiant captain
danced up and down with a whale-pike, calling upon his officers to
manhandle that atrocious scoundrel, and smoke him along to the
quarter-deck. At intervals, he ran close up to the revolving border of
the confusion, and prying into the heart of it with his pike, sought to
prick out the object of his resentment. But Steelkilt and his
desperadoes were too much for them all; they succeeded in gaining the
forecastle deck, where, hastily slewing about three or four large casks
in a line with the windlass, these sea-Parisians entrenched themselves
behind the barricade.

“‘Come out of that, ye pirates!’ roared the captain, now menacing them
with a pistol in each hand, just brought to him by the steward. ‘Come
out of that, ye cut-throats!’

“Steelkilt leaped on the barricade, and striding up and down there,
defied the worst the pistols could do; but gave the captain to
understand distinctly, that his (Steelkilt’s) death would be the signal
for a murderous mutiny on the part of all hands. Fearing in his heart
lest this might prove but too true, the captain a little desisted, but
still commanded the insurgents instantly to return to their duty.

“‘Will you promise not to touch us, if we do?’ demanded their
ringleader.

“‘Turn to! turn to!—I make no promise;—to your duty! Do you want to
sink the ship, by knocking off at a time like this? Turn to!’ and he
once more raised a pistol.

“‘Sink the ship?’ cried Steelkilt. ‘Aye, let her sink. Not a man of us
turns to, unless you swear not to raise a rope-yarn against us. What
say ye, men?’ turning to his comrades. A fierce cheer was their
response.

“The Lakeman now patrolled the barricade, all the while keeping his eye
on the Captain, and jerking out such sentences as these:—‘It’s not our
fault; we didn’t want it; I told him to take his hammer away; it was
boy’s business; he might have known me before this; I told him not to
prick the buffalo; I believe I have broken a finger here against his
cursed jaw; ain’t those mincing knives down in the forecastle there,
men? look to those handspikes, my hearties. Captain, by God, look to
yourself; say the word; don’t be a fool; forget it all; we are ready to
turn to; treat us decently, and we’re your men; but we won’t be
flogged.’

“‘Turn to! I make no promises, turn to, I say!’

“‘Look ye, now,’ cried the Lakeman, flinging out his arm towards him,
‘there are a few of us here (and I am one of them) who have shipped for
the cruise, d’ye see; now as you well know, sir, we can claim our
discharge as soon as the anchor is down; so we don’t want a row; it’s
not our interest; we want to be peaceable; we are ready to work, but we
won’t be flogged.’

“‘Turn to!’ roared the Captain.

“Steelkilt glanced round him a moment, and then said:—‘I tell you what
it is now, Captain, rather than kill ye, and be hung for such a shabby
rascal, we won’t lift a hand against ye unless ye attack us; but till
you say the word about not flogging us, we don’t do a hand’s turn.’

“‘Down into the forecastle then, down with ye, I’ll keep ye there till
ye’re sick of it. Down ye go.’

“‘Shall we?’ cried the ringleader to his men. Most of them were against
it; but at length, in obedience to Steelkilt, they preceded him down
into their dark den, growlingly disappearing, like bears into a cave.

“As the Lakeman’s bare head was just level with the planks, the Captain
and his posse leaped the barricade, and rapidly drawing over the slide
of the scuttle, planted their group of hands upon it, and loudly called
for the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock belonging to the
companionway. Then opening the slide a little, the Captain whispered
something down the crack, closed it, and turned the key upon them—ten
in number—leaving on deck some twenty or more, who thus far had
remained neutral.

“All night a wide-awake watch was kept by all the officers, forward and
aft, especially about the forecastle scuttle and fore hatchway; at
which last place it was feared the insurgents might emerge, after
breaking through the bulkhead below. But the hours of darkness passed
in peace; the men who still remained at their duty toiling hard at the
pumps, whose clinking and clanking at intervals through the dreary
night dismally resounded through the ship.

“At sunrise the Captain went forward, and knocking on the deck,
summoned the prisoners to work; but with a yell they refused. Water was
then lowered down to them, and a couple of handfuls of biscuit were
tossed after it; when again turning the key upon them and pocketing it,
the Captain returned to the quarter-deck. Twice every day for three
days this was repeated; but on the fourth morning a confused wrangling,
and then a scuffling was heard, as the customary summons was delivered;
and suddenly four men burst up from the forecastle, saying they were
ready to turn to. The fetid closeness of the air, and a famishing diet,
united perhaps to some fears of ultimate retribution, had constrained
them to surrender at discretion. Emboldened by this, the Captain
reiterated his demand to the rest, but Steelkilt shouted up to him a
terrific hint to stop his babbling and betake himself where he
belonged. On the fifth morning three others of the mutineers bolted up
into the air from the desperate arms below that sought to restrain
them. Only three were left.

“‘Better turn to, now?’ said the Captain with a heartless jeer.

“‘Shut us up again, will ye!’ cried Steelkilt.

“‘Oh certainly,’ said the Captain, and the key clicked.

“It was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of
seven of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had
last hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as
black as the bowels of despair; it was then that Steelkilt proposed to
the two Canallers, thus far apparently of one mind with him, to burst
out of their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with
their keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a
handle at each end) run amuck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if
by any devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. For
himself, he would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not.
That was the last night he should spend in that den. But the scheme met
with no opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were
ready for that, or for any other mad thing, for anything in short but a
surrender. And what was more, they each insisted upon being the first
man on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. But to this
their leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself;
particularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other,
in the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder
would but admit one man at a time. And here, gentlemen, the foul play
of these miscreants must come out.

“Upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own
separate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece
of treachery, namely: to be foremost in breaking out, in order to be
the first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and
thereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might
merit. But when Steelkilt made known his determination still to lead
them to the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of
villany, mixed their before secret treacheries together; and when their
leader fell into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in
three sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with
cords; and shrieked out for the Captain at midnight.

“Thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he
and all his armed mates and harpooneers rushed for the forecastle. In a
few minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still
struggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious
allies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been
fully ripe for murder. But all these were collared, and dragged along
the deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the
mizzen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till
morning. ‘Damn ye,’ cried the Captain, pacing to and fro before them,
‘the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains!’

“At sunrise he summoned all hands; and separating those who had
rebelled from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the
former that he had a good mind to flog them all round—thought, upon the
whole, he would do so—he ought to—justice demanded it; but for the
present, considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with
a reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular.

“‘But as for you, ye carrion rogues,’ turning to the three men in the
rigging—‘for you, I mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;’ and, seizing
a rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two
traitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their heads
sideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn.

“‘My wrist is sprained with ye!’ he cried, at last; ‘but there is still
rope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn’t give up. Take
that gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself.’

“For a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his
cramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said in a
sort of hiss, ‘What I say is this—and mind it well—if you flog me, I
murder you!’

“‘Say ye so? then see how ye frighten me’—and the Captain drew off with
the rope to strike.

“‘Best not,’ hissed the Lakeman.

“‘But I must,’—and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke.

“Steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the Captain;
who, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck
rapidly two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope,
said, ‘I won’t do it—let him go—cut him down: d’ye hear?’

“But as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale
man, with a bandaged head, arrested them—Radney the chief mate. Ever
since the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the
tumult on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the
whole scene. Such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly
speak; but mumbling something about _his_ being willing and able to do
what the captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced
to his pinioned foe.

“‘You are a coward!’ hissed the Lakeman.

“‘So I am, but take that.’ The mate was in the very act of striking,
when another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. He paused: and then pausing
no more, made good his word, spite of Steelkilt’s threat, whatever that
might have been. The three men were then cut down, all hands were
turned to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps
clanged as before.

“Just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor
was heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up,
besieged the cabin door, saying they durst not consort with the crew.
Entreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own
instance they were put down in the ship’s run for salvation. Still, no
sign of mutiny reappeared among the rest. On the contrary, it seemed,
that mainly at Steelkilt’s instigation, they had resolved to maintain
the strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the
ship reached port, desert her in a body. But in order to insure the
speediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing—namely,
not to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. For,
spite of her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the Town-Ho still
maintained her mast-heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower
for a fish that moment, as on the day his craft first struck the
cruising ground; and Radney the mate was quite as ready to change his
berth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the
vital jaw of the whale.

“But though the Lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of
passiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till
all was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the
man who had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. He was in Radney
the chief mate’s watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more
than half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he
insisted, against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the
head of his watch at night. Upon this, and one or two other
circumstances, Steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge.

“During the night, Radney had an unseamanlike way of sitting on the
bulwarks of the quarter-deck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of
the boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship’s side. In
this attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. There was a
considerable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between
this was the sea. Steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his
next trick at the helm would come round at two o’clock, in the morning
of the third day from that in which he had been betrayed. At his
leisure, he employed the interval in braiding something very carefully
in his watches below.

“‘What are you making there?’ said a shipmate.

“‘What do you think? what does it look like?’

“‘Like a lanyard for your bag; but it’s an odd one, seems to me.’

“‘Yes, rather oddish,’ said the Lakeman, holding it at arm’s length
before him; ‘but I think it will answer. Shipmate, I haven’t enough
twine,—have you any?’

“But there was none in the forecastle.

“‘Then I must get some from old Rad;’ and he rose to go aft.

“‘You don’t mean to go a begging to _him!_’ said a sailor.

“‘Why not? Do you think he won’t do me a turn, when it’s to help
himself in the end, shipmate?’ and going to the mate, he looked at him
quietly, and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. It was given
him—neither twine nor lanyard were seen again; but the next night an
iron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the
Lakeman’s monkey jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock
for a pillow. Twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent
helm—nigh to the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready
dug to the seaman’s hand—that fatal hour was then to come; and in the
fore-ordaining soul of Steelkilt, the mate was already stark and
stretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in.

“But, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody
deed he had planned. Yet complete revenge he had, and without being the
avenger. For by a mysterious fatality, Heaven itself seemed to step in
to take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have
done.

“It was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second
day, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid Teneriffe
man, drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out, ‘There
she rolls! there she rolls!’ Jesu, what a whale! It was Moby Dick.

“‘Moby Dick!’ cried Don Sebastian; ‘St. Dominic! Sir sailor, but do
whales have christenings? Whom call you Moby Dick?’

“‘A very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, Don;—but
that would be too long a story.’

“‘How? how?’ cried all the young Spaniards, crowding.

“‘Nay, Dons, Dons—nay, nay! I cannot rehearse that now. Let me get more
into the air, Sirs.’

“‘The chicha! the chicha!’ cried Don Pedro; ‘our vigorous friend looks
faint;—fill up his empty glass!’

“No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed.—Now, gentlemen, so
suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the
ship—forgetful of the compact among the crew—in the excitement of the
moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted
his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been
plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy.
‘The White Whale—the White Whale!’ was the cry from captain, mates, and
harpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumours, were all anxious to
capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed
askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass,
that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a
living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality
pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out
before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of
the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him,
while Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or
slacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats
were lowered, the mate’s got the start; and none howled more fiercely
with delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a
stiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney
sprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat.
And now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale’s topmost back.
Nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding
foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat
struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the
standing mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale’s slippery back,
the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was
tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck
out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that
veil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But
the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer
between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again,
and went down.

“Meantime, at the first tap of the boat’s bottom, the Lakeman had
slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly
looking on, he thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific,
downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He
cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose
again, with some tatters of Radney’s red woollen shirt, caught in the
teeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the
whale eluded them, and finally wholly disappeared.

“In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port—a savage, solitary
place—where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the
Lakeman, all but five or six of the foremastmen deliberately deserted
among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double
war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.

“The ship’s company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called
upon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving
down the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over
their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both
by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent,
that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a
weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so
heavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the
ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon
from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the
Islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with
him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight
before the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a
reinforcement to his crew.

“On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which
seemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from
it; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of
Steelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The
captain presented a pistol. With one foot on each prow of the yoked
war-canoes, the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the
pistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and
foam.

“‘What do you want of me?’ cried the captain.

“‘Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?’ demanded Steelkilt;
‘no lies.’

“‘I am bound to Tahiti for more men.’

“‘Very good. Let me board you a moment—I come in peace.’ With that he
leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale,
stood face to face with the captain.

“‘Cross your arms, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As
soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder
island, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightnings strike
me!’

“‘A pretty scholar,’ laughed the Lakeman. ‘Adios, Senor!’ and leaping
into the sea, he swam back to his comrades.

“Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the
roots of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due
time arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck
befriended him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were
providentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor
headed. They embarked; and so for ever got the start of their former
captain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution.

“Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived,
and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized
Tahitians, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small
native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all
right there, again resumed his cruisings.

“Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of
Nantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to
give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that
destroyed him.  * * * *

“‘Are you through?’ said Don Sebastian, quietly.

“‘I am, Don.’

“‘Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions,
this your story is in substance really true? It is so passing
wonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me
if I seem to press.’

“‘Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don
Sebastian’s suit,’ cried the company, with exceeding interest.

“‘Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn,
gentlemen?’

“‘Nay,’ said Don Sebastian; ‘but I know a worthy priest near by, who
will quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised?
this may grow too serious.’

“‘Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don?’

“‘Though there are no Auto-da-Fés in Lima now,’ said one of the company
to another; ‘I fear our sailor friend runs risk of the archiepiscopacy.
Let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this.’

“‘Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg
that you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists
you can.’

* * * * * *

“‘This is the priest, he brings you the Evangelists,’ said Don
Sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.

“‘Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light,
and hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.

“‘So help me Heaven, and on my honor the story I have told ye,
gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be
true; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I
have seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney.’”


CHAPTER 55. Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.

I shall ere long paint to you as well as one can without canvas,
something like the true form of the whale as he actually appears to the
eye of the whaleman when in his own absolute body the whale is moored
alongside the whale-ship so that he can be fairly stepped upon there.
It may be worth while, therefore, previously to advert to those curious
imaginary portraits of him which even down to the present day
confidently challenge the faith of the landsman. It is time to set the
world right in this matter, by proving such pictures of the whale all
wrong.

It may be that the primal source of all those pictorial delusions will
be found among the oldest Hindoo, Egyptian, and Grecian sculptures. For
ever since those inventive but unscrupulous times when on the marble
panellings of temples, the pedestals of statues, and on shields,
medallions, cups, and coins, the dolphin was drawn in scales of
chain-armor like Saladin’s, and a helmeted head like St. George’s; ever
since then has something of the same sort of license prevailed, not
only in most popular pictures of the whale, but in many scientific
presentations of him.

Now, by all odds, the most ancient extant portrait anyways purporting
to be the whale’s, is to be found in the famous cavern-pagoda of
Elephanta, in India. The Brahmins maintain that in the almost endless
sculptures of that immemorial pagoda, all the trades and pursuits,
every conceivable avocation of man, were prefigured ages before any of
them actually came into being. No wonder then, that in some sort our
noble profession of whaling should have been there shadowed forth. The
Hindoo whale referred to, occurs in a separate department of the wall,
depicting the incarnation of Vishnu in the form of leviathan, learnedly
known as the Matse Avatar. But though this sculpture is half man and
half whale, so as only to give the tail of the latter, yet that small
section of him is all wrong. It looks more like the tapering tail of an
anaconda, than the broad palms of the true whale’s majestic flukes.

But go to the old Galleries, and look now at a great Christian
painter’s portrait of this fish; for he succeeds no better than the
antediluvian Hindoo. It is Guido’s picture of Perseus rescuing
Andromeda from the sea-monster or whale. Where did Guido get the model
of such a strange creature as that? Nor does Hogarth, in painting the
same scene in his own “Perseus Descending,” make out one whit better.
The huge corpulence of that Hogarthian monster undulates on the
surface, scarcely drawing one inch of water. It has a sort of howdah on
its back, and its distended tusked mouth into which the billows are
rolling, might be taken for the Traitors’ Gate leading from the Thames
by water into the Tower. Then, there are the Prodromus whales of old
Scotch Sibbald, and Jonah’s whale, as depicted in the prints of old
Bibles and the cuts of old primers. What shall be said of these? As for
the book-binder’s whale winding like a vine-stalk round the stock of a
descending anchor—as stamped and gilded on the backs and title-pages of
many books both old and new—that is a very picturesque but purely
fabulous creature, imitated, I take it, from the like figures on
antique vases. Though universally denominated a dolphin, I nevertheless
call this book-binder’s fish an attempt at a whale; because it was so
intended when the device was first introduced. It was introduced by an
old Italian publisher somewhere about the 15th century, during the
Revival of Learning; and in those days, and even down to a
comparatively late period, dolphins were popularly supposed to be a
species of the Leviathan.

In the vignettes and other embellishments of some ancient books you
will at times meet with very curious touches at the whale, where all
manner of spouts, jets d’eau, hot springs and cold, Saratoga and
Baden-Baden, come bubbling up from his unexhausted brain. In the
title-page of the original edition of the “Advancement of Learning” you
will find some curious whales.

But quitting all these unprofessional attempts, let us glance at those
pictures of leviathan purporting to be sober, scientific delineations,
by those who know. In old Harris’s collection of voyages there are some
plates of whales extracted from a Dutch book of voyages, A.D. 1671,
entitled “A Whaling Voyage to Spitzbergen in the ship Jonas in the
Whale, Peter Peterson of Friesland, master.” In one of those plates the
whales, like great rafts of logs, are represented lying among
ice-isles, with white bears running over their living backs. In another
plate, the prodigious blunder is made of representing the whale with
perpendicular flukes.

Then again, there is an imposing quarto, written by one Captain
Colnett, a Post Captain in the English navy, entitled “A Voyage round
Cape Horn into the South Seas, for the purpose of extending the
Spermaceti Whale Fisheries.” In this book is an outline purporting to
be a “Picture of a Physeter or Spermaceti whale, drawn by scale from
one killed on the coast of Mexico, August, 1793, and hoisted on deck.”
I doubt not the captain had this veracious picture taken for the
benefit of his marines. To mention but one thing about it, let me say
that it has an eye which applied, according to the accompanying scale,
to a full grown sperm whale, would make the eye of that whale a
bow-window some five feet long. Ah, my gallant captain, why did ye not
give us Jonah looking out of that eye!

Nor are the most conscientious compilations of Natural History for the
benefit of the young and tender, free from the same heinousness of
mistake. Look at that popular work “Goldsmith’s Animated Nature.” In
the abridged London edition of 1807, there are plates of an alleged
“whale” and a “narwhale.” I do not wish to seem inelegant, but this
unsightly whale looks much like an amputated sow; and, as for the
narwhale, one glimpse at it is enough to amaze one, that in this
nineteenth century such a hippogriff could be palmed for genuine upon
any intelligent public of schoolboys.

Then, again, in 1825, Bernard Germain, Count de Lacépède, a great
naturalist, published a scientific systemized whale book, wherein are
several pictures of the different species of the Leviathan. All these
are not only incorrect, but the picture of the Mysticetus or Greenland
whale (that is to say, the Right whale), even Scoresby, a long
experienced man as touching that species, declares not to have its
counterpart in nature.

But the placing of the cap-sheaf to all this blundering business was
reserved for the scientific Frederick Cuvier, brother to the famous
Baron. In 1836, he published a Natural History of Whales, in which he
gives what he calls a picture of the Sperm Whale. Before showing that
picture to any Nantucketer, you had best provide for your summary
retreat from Nantucket. In a word, Frederick Cuvier’s Sperm Whale is
not a Sperm Whale, but a squash. Of course, he never had the benefit of
a whaling voyage (such men seldom have), but whence he derived that
picture, who can tell? Perhaps he got it as his scientific predecessor
in the same field, Desmarest, got one of his authentic abortions; that
is, from a Chinese drawing. And what sort of lively lads with the
pencil those Chinese are, many queer cups and saucers inform us.

As for the sign-painters’ whales seen in the streets hanging over the
shops of oil-dealers, what shall be said of them? They are generally
Richard III. whales, with dromedary humps, and very savage;
breakfasting on three or four sailor tarts, that is whaleboats full of
mariners: their deformities floundering in seas of blood and blue
paint.

But these manifold mistakes in depicting the whale are not so very
surprising after all. Consider! Most of the scientific drawings have
been taken from the stranded fish; and these are about as correct as a
drawing of a wrecked ship, with broken back, would correctly represent
the noble animal itself in all its undashed pride of hull and spars.
Though elephants have stood for their full-lengths, the living
Leviathan has never yet fairly floated himself for his portrait. The
living whale, in his full majesty and significance, is only to be seen
at sea in unfathomable waters; and afloat the vast bulk of him is out
of sight, like a launched line-of-battle ship; and out of that element
it is a thing eternally impossible for mortal man to hoist him bodily
into the air, so as to preserve all his mighty swells and undulations.
And, not to speak of the highly presumable difference of contour
between a young sucking whale and a full-grown Platonian Leviathan;
yet, even in the case of one of those young sucking whales hoisted to a
ship’s deck, such is then the outlandish, eel-like, limbered, varying
shape of him, that his precise expression the devil himself could not
catch.

But it may be fancied, that from the naked skeleton of the stranded
whale, accurate hints may be derived touching his true form. Not at
all. For it is one of the more curious things about this Leviathan,
that his skeleton gives very little idea of his general shape. Though
Jeremy Bentham’s skeleton, which hangs for candelabra in the library of
one of his executors, correctly conveys the idea of a burly-browed
utilitarian old gentleman, with all Jeremy’s other leading personal
characteristics; yet nothing of this kind could be inferred from any
leviathan’s articulated bones. In fact, as the great Hunter says, the
mere skeleton of the whale bears the same relation to the fully
invested and padded animal as the insect does to the chrysalis that so
roundingly envelopes it. This peculiarity is strikingly evinced in the
head, as in some part of this book will be incidentally shown. It is
also very curiously displayed in the side fin, the bones of which
almost exactly answer to the bones of the human hand, minus only the
thumb. This fin has four regular bone-fingers, the index, middle, ring,
and little finger. But all these are permanently lodged in their fleshy
covering, as the human fingers in an artificial covering. “However
recklessly the whale may sometimes serve us,” said humorous Stubb one
day, “he can never be truly said to handle us without mittens.”

For all these reasons, then, any way you may look at it, you must needs
conclude that the great Leviathan is that one creature in the world
which must remain unpainted to the last. True, one portrait may hit the
mark much nearer than another, but none can hit it with any very
considerable degree of exactness. So there is no earthly way of finding
out precisely what the whale really looks like. And the only mode in
which you can derive even a tolerable idea of his living contour, is by
going a whaling yourself; but by so doing, you run no small risk of
being eternally stove and sunk by him. Wherefore, it seems to me you
had best not be too fastidious in your curiosity touching this
Leviathan.


CHAPTER 56. Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True
Pictures of Whaling Scenes.

In connexion with the monstrous pictures of whales, I am strongly
tempted here to enter upon those still more monstrous stories of them
which are to be found in certain books, both ancient and modern,
especially in Pliny, Purchas, Hackluyt, Harris, Cuvier, etc. But I pass
that matter by.

I know of only four published outlines of the great Sperm Whale;
Colnett’s, Huggins’s, Frederick Cuvier’s, and Beale’s. In the previous
chapter Colnett and Cuvier have been referred to. Huggins’s is far
better than theirs; but, by great odds, Beale’s is the best. All
Beale’s drawings of this whale are good, excepting the middle figure in
the picture of three whales in various attitudes, capping his second
chapter. His frontispiece, boats attacking Sperm Whales, though no
doubt calculated to excite the civil scepticism of some parlor men, is
admirably correct and life-like in its general effect. Some of the
Sperm Whale drawings in J. Ross Browne are pretty correct in contour;
but they are wretchedly engraved. That is not his fault though.

Of the Right Whale, the best outline pictures are in Scoresby; but they
are drawn on too small a scale to convey a desirable impression. He has
but one picture of whaling scenes, and this is a sad deficiency,
because it is by such pictures only, when at all well done, that you
can derive anything like a truthful idea of the living whale as seen by
his living hunters.

But, taken for all in all, by far the finest, though in some details
not the most correct, presentations of whales and whaling scenes to be
anywhere found, are two large French engravings, well executed, and
taken from paintings by one Garnery. Respectively, they represent
attacks on the Sperm and Right Whale. In the first engraving a noble
Sperm Whale is depicted in full majesty of might, just risen beneath
the boat from the profundities of the ocean, and bearing high in the
air upon his back the terrific wreck of the stoven planks. The prow of
the boat is partially unbroken, and is drawn just balancing upon the
monster’s spine; and standing in that prow, for that one single
incomputable flash of time, you behold an oarsman, half shrouded by the
incensed boiling spout of the whale, and in the act of leaping, as if
from a precipice. The action of the whole thing is wonderfully good and
true. The half-emptied line-tub floats on the whitened sea; the wooden
poles of the spilled harpoons obliquely bob in it; the heads of the
swimming crew are scattered about the whale in contrasting expressions
of affright; while in the black stormy distance the ship is bearing
down upon the scene. Serious fault might be found with the anatomical
details of this whale, but let that pass; since, for the life of me, I
could not draw so good a one.

In the second engraving, the boat is in the act of drawing alongside
the barnacled flank of a large running Right Whale, that rolls his
black weedy bulk in the sea like some mossy rock-slide from the
Patagonian cliffs. His jets are erect, full, and black like soot; so
that from so abounding a smoke in the chimney, you would think there
must be a brave supper cooking in the great bowels below. Sea fowls are
pecking at the small crabs, shell-fish, and other sea candies and
maccaroni, which the Right Whale sometimes carries on his pestilent
back. And all the while the thick-lipped leviathan is rushing through
the deep, leaving tons of tumultuous white curds in his wake, and
causing the slight boat to rock in the swells like a skiff caught nigh
the paddle-wheels of an ocean steamer. Thus, the foreground is all
raging commotion; but behind, in admirable artistic contrast, is the
glassy level of a sea becalmed, the drooping unstarched sails of the
powerless ship, and the inert mass of a dead whale, a conquered
fortress, with the flag of capture lazily hanging from the whale-pole
inserted into his spout-hole.

Who Garnery the painter is, or was, I know not. But my life for it he
was either practically conversant with his subject, or else
marvellously tutored by some experienced whaleman. The French are the
lads for painting action. Go and gaze upon all the paintings of Europe,
and where will you find such a gallery of living and breathing
commotion on canvas, as in that triumphal hall at Versailles; where the
beholder fights his way, pell-mell, through the consecutive great
battles of France; where every sword seems a flash of the Northern
Lights, and the successive armed kings and Emperors dash by, like a
charge of crowned centaurs? Not wholly unworthy of a place in that
gallery, are these sea battle-pieces of Garnery.

The natural aptitude of the French for seizing the picturesqueness of
things seems to be peculiarly evinced in what paintings and engravings
they have of their whaling scenes. With not one tenth of England’s
experience in the fishery, and not the thousandth part of that of the
Americans, they have nevertheless furnished both nations with the only
finished sketches at all capable of conveying the real spirit of the
whale hunt. For the most part, the English and American whale
draughtsmen seem entirely content with presenting the mechanical
outline of things, such as the vacant profile of the whale; which, so
far as picturesqueness of effect is concerned, is about tantamount to
sketching the profile of a pyramid. Even Scoresby, the justly renowned
Right whaleman, after giving us a stiff full length of the Greenland
whale, and three or four delicate miniatures of narwhales and
porpoises, treats us to a series of classical engravings of boat hooks,
chopping knives, and grapnels; and with the microscopic diligence of a
Leuwenhoeck submits to the inspection of a shivering world ninety-six
fac-similes of magnified Arctic snow crystals. I mean no disparagement
to the excellent voyager (I honor him for a veteran), but in so
important a matter it was certainly an oversight not to have procured
for every crystal a sworn affidavit taken before a Greenland Justice of
the Peace.

In addition to those fine engravings from Garnery, there are two other
French engravings worthy of note, by some one who subscribes himself
“H. Durand.” One of them, though not precisely adapted to our present
purpose, nevertheless deserves mention on other accounts. It is a quiet
noon-scene among the isles of the Pacific; a French whaler anchored,
inshore, in a calm, and lazily taking water on board; the loosened
sails of the ship, and the long leaves of the palms in the background,
both drooping together in the breezeless air. The effect is very fine,
when considered with reference to its presenting the hardy fishermen
under one of their few aspects of oriental repose. The other engraving
is quite a different affair: the ship hove-to upon the open sea, and in
the very heart of the Leviathanic life, with a Right Whale alongside;
the vessel (in the act of cutting-in) hove over to the monster as if to
a quay; and a boat, hurriedly pushing off from this scene of activity,
is about giving chase to whales in the distance. The harpoons and
lances lie levelled for use; three oarsmen are just setting the mast in
its hole; while from a sudden roll of the sea, the little craft stands
half-erect out of the water, like a rearing horse. From the ship, the
smoke of the torments of the boiling whale is going up like the smoke
over a village of smithies; and to windward, a black cloud, rising up
with earnest of squalls and rains, seems to quicken the activity of the
excited seamen.


CHAPTER 57. Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in
Stone; in Mountains; in Stars.

On Tower-hill, as you go down to the London docks, you may have seen a
crippled beggar (or _kedger_, as the sailors say) holding a painted
board before him, representing the tragic scene in which he lost his
leg. There are three whales and three boats; and one of the boats
(presumed to contain the missing leg in all its original integrity) is
being crunched by the jaws of the foremost whale. Any time these ten
years, they tell me, has that man held up that picture, and exhibited
that stump to an incredulous world. But the time of his justification
has now come. His three whales are as good whales as were ever
published in Wapping, at any rate; and his stump as unquestionable a
stump as any you will find in the western clearings. But, though for
ever mounted on that stump, never a stump-speech does the poor whaleman
make; but, with downcast eyes, stands ruefully contemplating his own
amputation.

Throughout the Pacific, and also in Nantucket, and New Bedford, and Sag
Harbor, you will come across lively sketches of whales and
whaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on Sperm
Whale-teeth, or ladies’ busks wrought out of the Right Whale-bone, and
other like skrimshander articles, as the whalemen call the numerous
little ingenious contrivances they elaborately carve out of the rough
material, in their hours of ocean leisure. Some of them have little
boxes of dentistical-looking implements, specially intended for the
skrimshandering business. But, in general, they toil with their
jack-knives alone; and, with that almost omnipotent tool of the sailor,
they will turn you out anything you please, in the way of a mariner’s
fancy.

Long exile from Christendom and civilization inevitably restores a man
to that condition in which God placed him, _i.e._ what is called
savagery. Your true whale-hunter is as much a savage as an Iroquois. I
myself am a savage, owning no allegiance but to the King of the
Cannibals; and ready at any moment to rebel against him.

Now, one of the peculiar characteristics of the savage in his domestic
hours, is his wonderful patience of industry. An ancient Hawaiian
war-club or spear-paddle, in its full multiplicity and elaboration of
carving, is as great a trophy of human perseverance as a Latin lexicon.
For, with but a bit of broken sea-shell or a shark’s tooth, that
miraculous intricacy of wooden net-work has been achieved; and it has
cost steady years of steady application.

As with the Hawaiian savage, so with the white sailor-savage. With the
same marvellous patience, and with the same single shark’s tooth, of
his one poor jack-knife, he will carve you a bit of bone sculpture, not
quite as workmanlike, but as close packed in its maziness of design, as
the Greek savage, Achilles’s shield; and full of barbaric spirit and
suggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old Dutch savage, Albert
Durer.

Wooden whales, or whales cut in profile out of the small dark slabs of
the noble South Sea war-wood, are frequently met with in the
forecastles of American whalers. Some of them are done with much
accuracy.

At some old gable-roofed country houses you will see brass whales hung
by the tail for knockers to the road-side door. When the porter is
sleepy, the anvil-headed whale would be best. But these knocking whales
are seldom remarkable as faithful essays. On the spires of some
old-fashioned churches you will see sheet-iron whales placed there for
weather-cocks; but they are so elevated, and besides that are to all
intents and purposes so labelled with “_Hands off!_” you cannot examine
them closely enough to decide upon their merit.

In bony, ribby regions of the earth, where at the base of high broken
cliffs masses of rock lie strewn in fantastic groupings upon the plain,
you will often discover images as of the petrified forms of the
Leviathan partly merged in grass, which of a windy day breaks against
them in a surf of green surges.

Then, again, in mountainous countries where the traveller is
continually girdled by amphitheatrical heights; here and there from
some lucky point of view you will catch passing glimpses of the
profiles of whales defined along the undulating ridges. But you must be
a thorough whaleman, to see these sights; and not only that, but if you
wish to return to such a sight again, you must be sure and take the
exact intersecting latitude and longitude of your first stand-point,
else so chance-like are such observations of the hills, that your
precise, previous stand-point would require a laborious re-discovery;
like the Soloma Islands, which still remain incognita, though once
high-ruffed Mendanna trod them and old Figuera chronicled them.

Nor when expandingly lifted by your subject, can you fail to trace out
great whales in the starry heavens, and boats in pursuit of them; as
when long filled with thoughts of war the Eastern nations saw armies
locked in battle among the clouds. Thus at the North have I chased
Leviathan round and round the Pole with the revolutions of the bright
points that first defined him to me. And beneath the effulgent
Antarctic skies I have boarded the Argo-Navis, and joined the chase
against the starry Cetus far beyond the utmost stretch of Hydrus and
the Flying Fish.

With a frigate’s anchors for my bridle-bitts and fasces of harpoons for
spurs, would I could mount that whale and leap the topmost skies, to
see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really
lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!


CHAPTER 58. Brit.

Steering north-eastward from the Crozetts, we fell in with vast meadows
of brit, the minute, yellow substance, upon which the Right Whale
largely feeds. For leagues and leagues it undulated round us, so that
we seemed to be sailing through boundless fields of ripe and golden
wheat.

On the second day, numbers of Right Whales were seen, who, secure from
the attack of a Sperm Whaler like the Pequod, with open jaws sluggishly
swam through the brit, which, adhering to the fringing fibres of that
wondrous Venetian blind in their mouths, was in that manner separated
from the water that escaped at the lip.

As morning mowers, who side by side slowly and seethingly advance their
scythes through the long wet grass of marshy meads; even so these
monsters swam, making a strange, grassy, cutting sound; and leaving
behind them endless swaths of blue upon the yellow sea.*

*That part of the sea known among whalemen as the “Brazil Banks” does
not bear that name as the Banks of Newfoundland do, because of there
being shallows and soundings there, but because of this remarkable
meadow-like appearance, caused by the vast drifts of brit continually
floating in those latitudes, where the Right Whale is often chased.

But it was only the sound they made as they parted the brit which at
all reminded one of mowers. Seen from the mast-heads, especially when
they paused and were stationary for a while, their vast black forms
looked more like lifeless masses of rock than anything else. And as in
the great hunting countries of India, the stranger at a distance will
sometimes pass on the plains recumbent elephants without knowing them
to be such, taking them for bare, blackened elevations of the soil;
even so, often, with him, who for the first time beholds this species
of the leviathans of the sea. And even when recognised at last, their
immense magnitude renders it very hard really to believe that such
bulky masses of overgrowth can possibly be instinct, in all parts, with
the same sort of life that lives in a dog or a horse.

Indeed, in other respects, you can hardly regard any creatures of the
deep with the same feelings that you do those of the shore. For though
some old naturalists have maintained that all creatures of the land are
of their kind in the sea; and though taking a broad general view of the
thing, this may very well be; yet coming to specialties, where, for
example, does the ocean furnish any fish that in disposition answers to
the sagacious kindness of the dog? The accursed shark alone can in any
generic respect be said to bear comparative analogy to him.

But though, to landsmen in general, the native inhabitants of the seas
have ever been regarded with emotions unspeakably unsocial and
repelling; though we know the sea to be an everlasting terra incognita,
so that Columbus sailed over numberless unknown worlds to discover his
one superficial western one; though, by vast odds, the most terrific of
all mortal disasters have immemorially and indiscriminately befallen
tens and hundreds of thousands of those who have gone upon the waters;
though but a moment’s consideration will teach, that however baby man
may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering
future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever,
to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize
the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the
continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense
of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.

The first boat we read of, floated on an ocean, that with Portuguese
vengeance had whelmed a whole world without leaving so much as a widow.
That same ocean rolls now; that same ocean destroyed the wrecked ships
of last year. Yea, foolish mortals, Noah’s flood is not yet subsided;
two thirds of the fair world it yet covers.

Wherein differ the sea and the land, that a miracle upon one is not a
miracle upon the other? Preternatural terrors rested upon the Hebrews,
when under the feet of Korah and his company the live ground opened and
swallowed them up for ever; yet not a modern sun ever sets, but in
precisely the same manner the live sea swallows up ships and crews.

But not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it
is also a fiend to its own off-spring; worse than the Persian host who
murdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath
spawned. Like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her
own cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the
rocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of
ships. No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting
like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean
overruns the globe.

Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures
glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously
hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish
brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the
dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once
more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey
upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.

Consider all this; and then turn to this green, gentle, and most docile
earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a
strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean
surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one
insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the
horrors of the half known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that
isle, thou canst never return!


CHAPTER 59. Squid.

Slowly wading through the meadows of brit, the Pequod still held on her
way north-eastward towards the island of Java; a gentle air impelling
her keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering
masts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a
plain. And still, at wide intervals in the silvery night, the lonely,
alluring jet would be seen.

But one transparent blue morning, when a stillness almost preternatural
spread over the sea, however unattended with any stagnant calm; when
the long burnished sun-glade on the waters seemed a golden finger laid
across them, enjoining some secrecy; when the slippered waves whispered
together as they softly ran on; in this profound hush of the visible
sphere a strange spectre was seen by Daggoo from the main-mast-head.

In the distance, a great white mass lazily rose, and rising higher and
higher, and disentangling itself from the azure, at last gleamed before
our prow like a snow-slide, new slid from the hills. Thus glistening
for a moment, as slowly it subsided, and sank. Then once more arose,
and silently gleamed. It seemed not a whale; and yet is this Moby Dick?
thought Daggoo. Again the phantom went down, but on re-appearing once
more, with a stiletto-like cry that startled every man from his nod,
the negro yelled out—“There! there again! there she breaches! right
ahead! The White Whale, the White Whale!”

Upon this, the seamen rushed to the yard-arms, as in swarming-time the
bees rush to the boughs. Bare-headed in the sultry sun, Ahab stood on
the bowsprit, and with one hand pushed far behind in readiness to wave
his orders to the helmsman, cast his eager glance in the direction
indicated aloft by the outstretched motionless arm of Daggoo.

Whether the flitting attendance of the one still and solitary jet had
gradually worked upon Ahab, so that he was now prepared to connect the
ideas of mildness and repose with the first sight of the particular
whale he pursued; however this was, or whether his eagerness betrayed
him; whichever way it might have been, no sooner did he distinctly
perceive the white mass, than with a quick intensity he instantly gave
orders for lowering.

The four boats were soon on the water; Ahab’s in advance, and all
swiftly pulling towards their prey. Soon it went down, and while, with
oars suspended, we were awaiting its reappearance, lo! in the same spot
where it sank, once more it slowly rose. Almost forgetting for the
moment all thoughts of Moby Dick, we now gazed at the most wondrous
phenomenon which the secret seas have hitherto revealed to mankind. A
vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length and breadth, of a glancing
cream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms
radiating from its centre, and curling and twisting like a nest of
anacondas, as if blindly to clutch at any hapless object within reach.
No perceptible face or front did it have; no conceivable token of
either sensation or instinct; but undulated there on the billows, an
unearthly, formless, chance-like apparition of life.

As with a low sucking sound it slowly disappeared again, Starbuck still
gazing at the agitated waters where it had sunk, with a wild voice
exclaimed—“Almost rather had I seen Moby Dick and fought him, than to
have seen thee, thou white ghost!”

“What was it, Sir?” said Flask.

“The great live squid, which, they say, few whale-ships ever beheld,
and returned to their ports to tell of it.”

But Ahab said nothing; turning his boat, he sailed back to the vessel;
the rest as silently following.

Whatever superstitions the sperm whalemen in general have connected
with the sight of this object, certain it is, that a glimpse of it
being so very unusual, that circumstance has gone far to invest it with
portentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them
declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few
of them have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature
and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm
whale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food
above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the
spermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the
surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what,
precisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will
disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some
of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They
fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings
by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other
species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it.

There seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop
Pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in
which the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with
some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But
much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he
assigns it.

By some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious
creature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of
cuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would
seem to belong, but only as the Anak of the tribe.


CHAPTER 60. The Line.

With reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as
for the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented,
I have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line.

The line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly
vapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the case of ordinary
ropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable
to the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to
the sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary
quantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which
it must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in
general by no means adds to the rope’s durability or strength, however
much it may give it compactness and gloss.

Of late years the Manilla rope has in the American fishery almost
entirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not
so durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and
I will add (since there is an æsthetics in all things), is much more
handsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp. Hemp is a dusky, dark
fellow, a sort of Indian; but Manilla is as a golden-haired Circassian
to behold.

The whale-line is only two-thirds of an inch in thickness. At first
sight, you would not think it so strong as it really is. By experiment
its one and fifty yarns will each suspend a weight of one hundred and
twenty pounds; so that the whole rope will bear a strain nearly equal
to three tons. In length, the common sperm whale-line measures
something over two hundred fathoms. Towards the stern of the boat it is
spirally coiled away in the tub, not like the worm-pipe of a still
though, but so as to form one round, cheese-shaped mass of densely
bedded “sheaves,” or layers of concentric spiralizations, without any
hollow but the “heart,” or minute vertical tube formed at the axis of
the cheese. As the least tangle or kink in the coiling would, in
running out, infallibly take somebody’s arm, leg, or entire body off,
the utmost precaution is used in stowing the line in its tub. Some
harpooneers will consume almost an entire morning in this business,
carrying the line high aloft and then reeving it downwards through a
block towards the tub, so as in the act of coiling to free it from all
possible wrinkles and twists.

In the English boats two tubs are used instead of one; the same line
being continuously coiled in both tubs. There is some advantage in
this; because these twin-tubs being so small they fit more readily into
the boat, and do not strain it so much; whereas, the American tub,
nearly three feet in diameter and of proportionate depth, makes a
rather bulky freight for a craft whose planks are but one half-inch in
thickness; for the bottom of the whale-boat is like critical ice, which
will bear up a considerable distributed weight, but not very much of a
concentrated one. When the painted canvas cover is clapped on the
American line-tub, the boat looks as if it were pulling off with a
prodigious great wedding-cake to present to the whales.

Both ends of the line are exposed; the lower end terminating in an
eye-splice or loop coming up from the bottom against the side of the
tub, and hanging over its edge completely disengaged from everything.
This arrangement of the lower end is necessary on two accounts. First:
In order to facilitate the fastening to it of an additional line from a
neighboring boat, in case the stricken whale should sound so deep as to
threaten to carry off the entire line originally attached to the
harpoon. In these instances, the whale of course is shifted like a mug
of ale, as it were, from the one boat to the other; though the first
boat always hovers at hand to assist its consort. Second: This
arrangement is indispensable for common safety’s sake; for were the
lower end of the line in any way attached to the boat, and were the
whale then to run the line out to the end almost in a single, smoking
minute as he sometimes does, he would not stop there, for the doomed
boat would infallibly be dragged down after him into the profundity of
the sea; and in that case no town-crier would ever find her again.

Before lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the line is
taken aft from the tub, and passing round the loggerhead there, is
again carried forward the entire length of the boat, resting crosswise
upon the loom or handle of every man’s oar, so that it jogs against his
wrist in rowing; and also passing between the men, as they alternately
sit at the opposite gunwales, to the leaded chocks or grooves in the
extreme pointed prow of the boat, where a wooden pin or skewer the size
of a common quill, prevents it from slipping out. From the chocks it
hangs in a slight festoon over the bows, and is then passed inside the
boat again; and some ten or twenty fathoms (called box-line) being
coiled upon the box in the bows, it continues its way to the gunwale
still a little further aft, and is then attached to the short-warp—the
rope which is immediately connected with the harpoon; but previous to
that connexion, the short-warp goes through sundry mystifications too
tedious to detail.

Thus the whale-line folds the whole boat in its complicated coils,
twisting and writhing around it in almost every direction. All the
oarsmen are involved in its perilous contortions; so that to the timid
eye of the landsman, they seem as Indian jugglers, with the deadliest
snakes sportively festooning their limbs. Nor can any son of mortal
woman, for the first time, seat himself amid those hempen intricacies,
and while straining his utmost at the oar, bethink him that at any
unknown instant the harpoon may be darted, and all these horrible
contortions be put in play like ringed lightnings; he cannot be thus
circumstanced without a shudder that makes the very marrow in his bones
to quiver in him like a shaken jelly. Yet habit—strange thing! what
cannot habit accomplish?—Gayer sallies, more merry mirth, better jokes,
and brighter repartees, you never heard over your mahogany, than you
will hear over the half-inch white cedar of the whale-boat, when thus
hung in hangman’s nooses; and, like the six burghers of Calais before
King Edward, the six men composing the crew pull into the jaws of
death, with a halter around every neck, as you may say.

Perhaps a very little thought will now enable you to account for those
repeated whaling disasters—some few of which are casually chronicled—of
this man or that man being taken out of the boat by the line, and lost.
For, when the line is darting out, to be seated then in the boat, is
like being seated in the midst of the manifold whizzings of a
steam-engine in full play, when every flying beam, and shaft, and
wheel, is grazing you. It is worse; for you cannot sit motionless in
the heart of these perils, because the boat is rocking like a cradle,
and you are pitched one way and the other, without the slightest
warning; and only by a certain self-adjusting buoyancy and
simultaneousness of volition and action, can you escape being made a
Mazeppa of, and run away with where the all-seeing sun himself could
never pierce you out.

Again: as the profound calm which only apparently precedes and
prophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself;
for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and
contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal
powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the
line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought
into actual play—this is a thing which carries more of true terror than
any other aspect of this dangerous affair. But why say more? All men
live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their
necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death,
that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life.
And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would
not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before
your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.


CHAPTER 61. Stubb Kills a Whale.

If to Starbuck the apparition of the Squid was a thing of portents, to
Queequeg it was quite a different object.

“When you see him ’quid,” said the savage, honing his harpoon in the
bow of his hoisted boat, “then you quick see him ’parm whale.”

The next day was exceedingly still and sultry, and with nothing special
to engage them, the Pequod’s crew could hardly resist the spell of
sleep induced by such a vacant sea. For this part of the Indian Ocean
through which we then were voyaging is not what whalemen call a lively
ground; that is, it affords fewer glimpses of porpoises, dolphins,
flying-fish, and other vivacious denizens of more stirring waters, than
those off the Rio de la Plata, or the in-shore ground off Peru.

It was my turn to stand at the foremast-head; and with my shoulders
leaning against the slackened royal shrouds, to and fro I idly swayed
in what seemed an enchanted air. No resolution could withstand it; in
that dreamy mood losing all consciousness, at last my soul went out of
my body; though my body still continued to sway as a pendulum will,
long after the power which first moved it is withdrawn.

Ere forgetfulness altogether came over me, I had noticed that the
seamen at the main and mizzen-mast-heads were already drowsy. So that
at last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars, and for every
swing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering
helmsman. The waves, too, nodded their indolent crests; and across the
wide trance of the sea, east nodded to west, and the sun over all.

Suddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes; like vices my
hands grasped the shrouds; some invisible, gracious agency preserved
me; with a shock I came back to life. And lo! close under our lee, not
forty fathoms off, a gigantic Sperm Whale lay rolling in the water like
the capsized hull of a frigate, his broad, glossy back, of an Ethiopian
hue, glistening in the sun’s rays like a mirror. But lazily undulating
in the trough of the sea, and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his
vapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of
a warm afternoon. But that pipe, poor whale, was thy last. As if struck
by some enchanter’s wand, the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all
at once started into wakefulness; and more than a score of voices from
all parts of the vessel, simultaneously with the three notes from
aloft, shouted forth the accustomed cry, as the great fish slowly and
regularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air.

“Clear away the boats! Luff!” cried Ahab. And obeying his own order, he
dashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes.

The sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale; and
ere the boats were down, majestically turning, he swam away to the
leeward, but with such a steady tranquillity, and making so few ripples
as he swam, that thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed,
Ahab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak
but in whispers. So seated like Ontario Indians on the gunwales of the
boats, we swiftly but silently paddled along; the calm not admitting of
the noiseless sails being set. Presently, as we thus glided in chase,
the monster perpendicularly flitted his tail forty feet into the air,
and then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up.

“There go flukes!” was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by
Stubb’s producing his match and igniting his pipe, for now a respite
was granted. After the full interval of his sounding had elapsed, the
whale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker’s boat, and
much nearer to it than to any of the others, Stubb counted upon the
honor of the capture. It was obvious, now, that the whale had at length
become aware of his pursuers. All silence of cautiousness was therefore
no longer of use. Paddles were dropped, and oars came loudly into play.
And still puffing at his pipe, Stubb cheered on his crew to the
assault.

Yes, a mighty change had come over the fish. All alive to his jeopardy,
he was going “head out”; that part obliquely projecting from the mad
yeast which he brewed.*

*It will be seen in some other place of what a very light substance the
entire interior of the sperm whale’s enormous head consists. Though
apparently the most massive, it is by far the most buoyant part about
him. So that with ease he elevates it in the air, and invariably does
so when going at his utmost speed. Besides, such is the breadth of the
upper part of the front of his head, and such the tapering cut-water
formation of the lower part, that by obliquely elevating his head, he
thereby may be said to transform himself from a bluff-bowed sluggish
galliot into a sharppointed New York pilot-boat.

“Start her, start her, my men! Don’t hurry yourselves; take plenty of
time—but start her; start her like thunder-claps, that’s all,” cried
Stubb, spluttering out the smoke as he spoke. “Start her, now; give ’em
the long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her, Tash, my boy—start
her, all; but keep cool, keep cool—cucumbers is the word—easy,
easy—only start her like grim death and grinning devils, and raise the
buried dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys—that’s all. Start
her!”

“Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!” screamed the Gay-Header in reply, raising some old
war-whoop to the skies; as every oarsman in the strained boat
involuntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke
which the eager Indian gave.

But his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild. “Kee-hee!
Kee-hee!” yelled Daggoo, straining forwards and backwards on his seat,
like a pacing tiger in his cage.

“Ka-la! Koo-loo!” howled Queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a
mouthful of Grenadier’s steak. And thus with oars and yells the keels
cut the sea. Meanwhile, Stubb retaining his place in the van, still
encouraged his men to the onset, all the while puffing the smoke from
his mouth. Like desperadoes they tugged and they strained, till the
welcome cry was heard—“Stand up, Tashtego!—give it to him!” The harpoon
was hurled. “Stern all!” The oarsmen backed water; the same moment
something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists. It was
the magical line. An instant before, Stubb had swiftly caught two
additional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence, by reason of its
increased rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and
mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe. As the line passed round
and round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point, it
blisteringly passed through and through both of Stubb’s hands, from
which the hand-cloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at
these times, had accidentally dropped. It was like holding an enemy’s
sharp two-edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time
striving to wrest it out of your clutch.

“Wet the line! wet the line!” cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him
seated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat, dashed sea-water into
it.* More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place.
The boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins.
Stubb and Tashtego here changed places—stem for stern—a staggering
business truly in that rocking commotion.

*Partly to show the indispensableness of this act, it may here be
stated, that, in the old Dutch fishery, a mop was used to dash the
running line with water; in many other ships, a wooden piggin, or
bailer, is set apart for that purpose. Your hat, however, is the most
convenient.

From the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part
of the boat, and from its now being more tight than a harpstring, you
would have thought the craft had two keels—one cleaving the water, the
other the air—as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at
once. A continual cascade played at the bows; a ceaseless whirling eddy
in her wake; and, at the slightest motion from within, even but of a
little finger, the vibrating, cracking craft canted over her spasmodic
gunwale into the sea. Thus they rushed; each man with might and main
clinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam; and the tall
form of Tashtego at the steering oar crouching almost double, in order
to bring down his centre of gravity. Whole Atlantics and Pacifics
seemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale
somewhat slackened his flight.

“Haul in—haul in!” cried Stubb to the bowsman! and, facing round
towards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him, while
yet the boat was being towed on. Soon ranging up by his flank, Stubb,
firmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart
into the flying fish; at the word of command, the boat alternately
sterning out of the way of the whale’s horrible wallow, and then
ranging up for another fling.

The red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down
a hill. His tormented body rolled not in brine but in blood, which
bubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake. The slanting sun
playing upon this crimson pond in the sea, sent back its reflection
into every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men.
And all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot
from the spiracle of the whale, and vehement puff after puff from the
mouth of the excited headsman; as at every dart, hauling in upon his
crooked lance (by the line attached to it), Stubb straightened it again
and again, by a few rapid blows against the gunwale, then again and
again sent it into the whale.

“Pull up—pull up!” he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale
relaxed in his wrath. “Pull up!—close to!” and the boat ranged along
the fish’s flank. When reaching far over the bow, Stubb slowly churned
his long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there, carefully
churning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold
watch that the whale might have swallowed, and which he was fearful of
breaking ere he could hook it out. But that gold watch he sought was
the innermost life of the fish. And now it is struck; for, starting
from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his “flurry,” the
monster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in
impenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft,
instantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from
that phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.

And now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into
view; surging from side to side; spasmodically dilating and contracting
his spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations. At last,
gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees
of red wine, shot into the frighted air; and falling back again, ran
dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst!

“He’s dead, Mr. Stubb,” said Daggoo.

“Yes; both pipes smoked out!” and withdrawing his own from his mouth,
Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and, for a moment, stood
thoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.


CHAPTER 62. The Dart.

A word concerning an incident in the last chapter.

According to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes
off from the ship, with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary
steersman, and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost
oar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar. Now it needs a strong,
nervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often, in what
is called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the
distance of twenty or thirty feet. But however prolonged and exhausting
the chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the
uttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman
activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated
loud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the
top of one’s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half
started—what that is none know but those who have tried it. For one, I
cannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same
time. In this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the
fish, all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting
cry—“Stand up, and give it to him!” He now has to drop and secure his
oar, turn round on his centre half way, seize his harpoon from the
crotch, and with what little strength may remain, he essays to pitch it
somehow into the whale. No wonder, taking the whole fleet of whalemen
in a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart, not five are
successful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed
and disrated; no wonder that some of them actually burst their
blood-vessels in the boat; no wonder that some sperm whalemen are
absent four years with four barrels; no wonder that to many ship
owners, whaling is but a losing concern; for it is the harpooneer that
makes the voyage, and if you take the breath out of his body how can
you expect to find it there when most wanted!

Again, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant,
that is, when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer
likewise start to running fore and aft, to the imminent jeopardy of
themselves and every one else. It is then they change places; and the
headsman, the chief officer of the little craft, takes his proper
station in the bows of the boat.

Now, I care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both
foolish and unnecessary. The headsman should stay in the bows from
first to last; he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no
rowing whatever should be expected of him, except under circumstances
obvious to any fisherman. I know that this would sometimes involve a
slight loss of speed in the chase; but long experience in various
whalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast
majority of failures in the fishery, it has not by any means been so
much the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the
harpooneer that has caused them.

To insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this
world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out
of toil.


CHAPTER 63. The Crotch.

Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in
productive subjects, grow the chapters.

The crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention.
It is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length,
which is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the
bow, for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of
the harpoon, whose other naked, barbed end slopingly projects from the
prow. Thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler, who
snatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his
rifle from the wall. It is customary to have two harpoons reposing in
the crotch, respectively called the first and second irons.

But these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with
the line; the object being this: to dart them both, if possible, one
instantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the
coming drag, one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold. It
is a doubling of the chances. But it very often happens that owing to
the instantaneous, violent, convulsive running of the whale upon
receiving the first iron, it becomes impossible for the harpooneer,
however lightning-like in his movements, to pitch the second iron into
him. Nevertheless, as the second iron is already connected with the
line, and the line is running, hence that weapon must, at all events,
be anticipatingly tossed out of the boat, somehow and somewhere; else
the most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands. Tumbled into the
water, it accordingly is in such cases; the spare coils of box line
(mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances,
prudently practicable. But this critical act is not always unattended
with the saddest and most fatal casualties.

Furthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown
overboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror,
skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines,
or cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions.
Nor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is
fairly captured and a corpse.

Consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging
one unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these
qualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of
such an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be
simultaneously dangling about him. For, of course, each boat is
supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first
one be ineffectually darted without recovery. All these particulars are
faithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several
most important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be
painted.


CHAPTER 64. Stubb’s Supper.

Stubb’s whale had been killed some distance from the ship. It was a
calm; so, forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow
business of towing the trophy to the Pequod. And now, as we eighteen
men with our thirty-six arms, and one hundred and eighty thumbs and
fingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert, sluggish corpse
in the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long
intervals; good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of
the mass we moved. For, upon the great canal of Hang-Ho, or whatever
they call it, in China, four or five laborers on the foot-path will
draw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour; but this
grand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead
in bulk.

Darkness came on; but three lights up and down in the Pequod’s
main-rigging dimly guided our way; till drawing nearer we saw Ahab
dropping one of several more lanterns over the bulwarks. Vacantly
eyeing the heaving whale for a moment, he issued the usual orders for
securing it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman,
went his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until
morning.

Though, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, Captain Ahab had
evinced his customary activity, to call it so; yet now that the
creature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience, or
despair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body
reminded him that Moby Dick was yet to be slain; and though a thousand
other whales were brought to his ship, all that would not one jot
advance his grand, monomaniac object. Very soon you would have thought
from the sound on the Pequod’s decks, that all hands were preparing to
cast anchor in the deep; for heavy chains are being dragged along the
deck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes. But by those clanking
links, the vast corpse itself, not the ship, is to be moored. Tied by
the head to the stern, and by the tail to the bows, the whale now lies
with its black hull close to the vessel’s and seen through the darkness
of the night, which obscured the spars and rigging aloft, the two—ship
and whale, seemed yoked together like colossal bullocks, whereof one
reclines while the other remains standing.*

*A little item may as well be related here. The strongest and most
reliable hold which the ship has upon the whale when moored alongside,
is by the flukes or tail; and as from its greater density that part is
relatively heavier than any other (excepting the side-fins), its
flexibility even in death, causes it to sink low beneath the surface;
so that with the hand you cannot get at it from the boat, in order to
put the chain round it. But this difficulty is ingeniously overcome: a
small, strong line is prepared with a wooden float at its outer end,
and a weight in its middle, while the other end is secured to the ship.
By adroit management the wooden float is made to rise on the other side
of the mass, so that now having girdled the whale, the chain is readily
made to follow suit; and being slipped along the body, is at last
locked fast round the smallest part of the tail, at the point of
junction with its broad flukes or lobes.

If moody Ahab was now all quiescence, at least so far as could be known
on deck, Stubb, his second mate, flushed with conquest, betrayed an
unusual but still good-natured excitement. Such an unwonted bustle was
he in that the staid Starbuck, his official superior, quietly resigned
to him for the time the sole management of affairs. One small, helping
cause of all this liveliness in Stubb, was soon made strangely
manifest. Stubb was a high liver; he was somewhat intemperately fond of
the whale as a flavorish thing to his palate.

“A steak, a steak, ere I sleep! You, Daggoo! overboard you go, and cut
me one from his small!”

Here be it known, that though these wild fishermen do not, as a general
thing, and according to the great military maxim, make the enemy defray
the current expenses of the war (at least before realizing the proceeds
of the voyage), yet now and then you find some of these Nantucketers
who have a genuine relish for that particular part of the Sperm Whale
designated by Stubb; comprising the tapering extremity of the body.

About midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by two
lanterns of sperm oil, Stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper
at the capstan-head, as if that capstan were a sideboard. Nor was Stubb
the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night. Mingling their
mumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks,
swarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness.
The few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp
slapping of their tails against the hull, within a few inches of the
sleepers’ hearts. Peering over the side you could just see them (as
before you heard them) wallowing in the sullen, black waters, and
turning over on their backs as they scooped out huge globular pieces of
the whale of the bigness of a human head. This particular feat of the
shark seems all but miraculous. How at such an apparently unassailable
surface, they contrive to gouge out such symmetrical mouthfuls, remains
a part of the universal problem of all things. The mark they thus leave
on the whale, may best be likened to the hollow made by a carpenter in
countersinking for a screw.

Though amid all the smoking horror and diabolism of a sea-fight, sharks
will be seen longingly gazing up to the ship’s decks, like hungry dogs
round a table where red meat is being carved, ready to bolt down every
killed man that is tossed to them; and though, while the valiant
butchers over the deck-table are thus cannibally carving each other’s
live meat with carving-knives all gilded and tasselled, the sharks,
also, with their jewel-hilted mouths, are quarrelsomely carving away
under the table at the dead meat; and though, were you to turn the
whole affair upside down, it would still be pretty much the same thing,
that is to say, a shocking sharkish business enough for all parties;
and though sharks also are the invariable outriders of all slave ships
crossing the Atlantic, systematically trotting alongside, to be handy
in case a parcel is to be carried anywhere, or a dead slave to be
decently buried; and though one or two other like instances might be
set down, touching the set terms, places, and occasions, when sharks do
most socially congregate, and most hilariously feast; yet is there no
conceivable time or occasion when you will find them in such countless
numbers, and in gayer or more jovial spirits, than around a dead sperm
whale, moored by night to a whaleship at sea. If you have never seen
that sight, then suspend your decision about the propriety of
devil-worship, and the expediency of conciliating the devil.

But, as yet, Stubb heeded not the mumblings of the banquet that was
going on so nigh him, no more than the sharks heeded the smacking of
his own epicurean lips.

“Cook, cook!—where’s that old Fleece?” he cried at length, widening his
legs still further, as if to form a more secure base for his supper;
and, at the same time darting his fork into the dish, as if stabbing
with his lance; “cook, you cook!—sail this way, cook!”

The old black, not in any very high glee at having been previously
roused from his warm hammock at a most unseasonable hour, came
shambling along from his galley, for, like many old blacks, there was
something the matter with his knee-pans, which he did not keep well
scoured like his other pans; this old Fleece, as they called him, came
shuffling and limping along, assisting his step with his tongs, which,
after a clumsy fashion, were made of straightened iron hoops; this old
Ebony floundered along, and in obedience to the word of command, came
to a dead stop on the opposite side of Stubb’s sideboard; when, with
both hands folded before him, and resting on his two-legged cane, he
bowed his arched back still further over, at the same time sideways
inclining his head, so as to bring his best ear into play.

“Cook,” said Stubb, rapidly lifting a rather reddish morsel to his
mouth, “don’t you think this steak is rather overdone? You’ve been
beating this steak too much, cook; it’s too tender. Don’t I always say
that to be good, a whale-steak must be tough? There are those sharks
now over the side, don’t you see they prefer it tough and rare? What a
shindy they are kicking up! Cook, go and talk to ’em; tell ’em they are
welcome to help themselves civilly, and in moderation, but they must
keep quiet. Blast me, if I can hear my own voice. Away, cook, and
deliver my message. Here, take this lantern,” snatching one from his
sideboard; “now then, go and preach to ’em!”

Sullenly taking the offered lantern, old Fleece limped across the deck
to the bulwarks; and then, with one hand dropping his light low over
the sea, so as to get a good view of his congregation, with the other
hand he solemnly flourished his tongs, and leaning far over the side in
a mumbling voice began addressing the sharks, while Stubb, softly
crawling behind, overheard all that was said.

“Fellow-critters: I’se ordered here to say dat you must stop dat dam
noise dare. You hear? Stop dat dam smackin’ ob de lip! Massa Stubb say
dat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by Gor! you
must stop dat dam racket!”

“Cook,” here interposed Stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap
on the shoulder,—“Cook! why, damn your eyes, you mustn’t swear that way
when you’re preaching. That’s no way to convert sinners, cook!”

“Who dat? Den preach to him yourself,” sullenly turning to go.

“No, cook; go on, go on.”

“Well, den, Belubed fellow-critters:”—

“Right!” exclaimed Stubb, approvingly, “coax ’em to it; try that,” and
Fleece continued.

“Do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet I zay to you,
fellow-critters, dat dat woraciousness—’top dat dam slappin’ ob de
tail! How you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin’ and
bitin’ dare?”

“Cook,” cried Stubb, collaring him, “I won’t have that swearing. Talk
to ’em gentlemanly.”

Once more the sermon proceeded.

“Your woraciousness, fellow-critters, I don’t blame ye so much for; dat
is natur, and can’t be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is
de pint. You is sharks, sartin; but if you gobern de shark in you, why
den you be angel; for all angel is not’ing more dan de shark well
goberned. Now, look here, bred’ren, just try wonst to be cibil, a
helping yourselbs from dat whale. Don’t be tearin’ de blubber out your
neighbour’s mout, I say. Is not one shark dood right as toder to dat
whale? And, by Gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale
belong to some one else. I know some o’ you has berry brig mout,
brigger dan oders; but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small
bellies; so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid, but to
bit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks, dat can’t get into de
scrouge to help demselves.”

“Well done, old Fleece!” cried Stubb, “that’s Christianity; go on.”

“No use goin’ on; de dam willains will keep a scougin’ and slappin’
each oder, Massa Stubb; dey don’t hear one word; no use a-preachin’ to
such dam g’uttons as you call ’em, till dare bellies is full, and dare
bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get ’em full, dey wont hear you
den; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and
can’t hear not’ing at all, no more, for eber and eber.”

“Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction,
Fleece, and I’ll away to my supper.”

Upon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his
shrill voice, and cried—

“Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill
your dam’ bellies ’till dey bust—and den die.”

“Now, cook,” said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; “stand
just where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular
attention.”

“All dention,” said Fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in the
desired position.

“Well,” said Stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile; “I shall now go
back to the subject of this steak. In the first place, how old are you,
cook?”

“What dat do wid de ’teak,” said the old black, testily.

“Silence! How old are you, cook?”

“’Bout ninety, dey say,” he gloomily muttered.

“And you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, cook,
and don’t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?” rapidly bolting another
mouthful at the last word, so that morsel seemed a continuation of the
question. “Where were you born, cook?”

“’Hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin’ ober de Roanoke.”

“Born in a ferry-boat! That’s queer, too. But I want to know what
country you were born in, cook!”

“Didn’t I say de Roanoke country?” he cried sharply.

“No, you didn’t, cook; but I’ll tell you what I’m coming to, cook. You
must go home and be born over again; you don’t know how to cook a
whale-steak yet.”

“Bress my soul, if I cook noder one,” he growled, angrily, turning
round to depart.

“Come back, cook;—here, hand me those tongs;—now take that bit of steak
there, and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should be? Take
it, I say”—holding the tongs towards him—“take it, and taste it.”

Faintly smacking his withered lips over it for a moment, the old negro
muttered, “Best cooked ’teak I eber taste; joosy, berry joosy.”

“Cook,” said Stubb, squaring himself once more; “do you belong to the
church?”

“Passed one once in Cape-Down,” said the old man sullenly.

“And you have once in your life passed a holy church in Cape-Town,
where you doubtless overheard a holy parson addressing his hearers as
his beloved fellow-creatures, have you, cook! And yet you come here,
and tell me such a dreadful lie as you did just now, eh?” said Stubb.
“Where do you expect to go to, cook?”

“Go to bed berry soon,” he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.

“Avast! heave to! I mean when you die, cook. It’s an awful question.
Now what’s your answer?”

“When dis old brack man dies,” said the negro slowly, changing his
whole air and demeanor, “he hisself won’t go nowhere; but some bressed
angel will come and fetch him.”

“Fetch him? How? In a coach and four, as they fetched Elijah? And fetch
him where?”

“Up dere,” said Fleece, holding his tongs straight over his head, and
keeping it there very solemnly.

“So, then, you expect to go up into our main-top, do you, cook, when
you are dead? But don’t you know the higher you climb, the colder it
gets? Main-top, eh?”

“Didn’t say dat t’all,” said Fleece, again in the sulks.

“You said up there, didn’t you? and now look yourself, and see where
your tongs are pointing. But, perhaps you expect to get into heaven by
crawling through the lubber’s hole, cook; but, no, no, cook, you don’t
get there, except you go the regular way, round by the rigging. It’s a
ticklish business, but must be done, or else it’s no go. But none of us
are in heaven yet. Drop your tongs, cook, and hear my orders. Do ye
hear? Hold your hat in one hand, and clap t’other a’top of your heart,
when I’m giving my orders, cook. What! that your heart, there?—that’s
your gizzard! Aloft! aloft!—that’s it—now you have it. Hold it there
now, and pay attention.”

“All ’dention,” said the old black, with both hands placed as desired,
vainly wriggling his grizzled head, as if to get both ears in front at
one and the same time.

“Well then, cook, you see this whale-steak of yours was so very bad,
that I have put it out of sight as soon as possible; you see that,
don’t you? Well, for the future, when you cook another whale-steak for
my private table here, the capstan, I’ll tell you what to do so as not
to spoil it by overdoing. Hold the steak in one hand, and show a live
coal to it with the other; that done, dish it; d’ye hear? And now
to-morrow, cook, when we are cutting in the fish, be sure you stand by
to get the tips of his fins; have them put in pickle. As for the ends
of the flukes, have them soused, cook. There, now ye may go.”

But Fleece had hardly got three paces off, when he was recalled.

“Cook, give me cutlets for supper to-morrow night in the mid-watch.
D’ye hear? away you sail, then.—Halloa! stop! make a bow before you
go.—Avast heaving again! Whale-balls for breakfast—don’t forget.”

“Wish, by gor! whale eat him, ’stead of him eat whale. I’m bressed if
he ain’t more of shark dan Massa Shark hisself,” muttered the old man,
limping away; with which sage ejaculation he went to his hammock.


CHAPTER 65. The Whale as a Dish.

That mortal man should feed upon the creature that feeds his lamp, and,
like Stubb, eat him by his own light, as you may say; this seems so
outlandish a thing that one must needs go a little into the history and
philosophy of it.

It is upon record, that three centuries ago the tongue of the Right
Whale was esteemed a great delicacy in France, and commanded large
prices there. Also, that in Henry VIIIth’s time, a certain cook of the
court obtained a handsome reward for inventing an admirable sauce to be
eaten with barbacued porpoises, which, you remember, are a species of
whale. Porpoises, indeed, are to this day considered fine eating. The
meat is made into balls about the size of billiard balls, and being
well seasoned and spiced might be taken for turtle-balls or veal balls.
The old monks of Dunfermline were very fond of them. They had a great
porpoise grant from the crown.

The fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all
hands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but
when you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet
long, it takes away your appetite. Only the most unprejudiced of men
like Stubb, nowadays partake of cooked whales; but the Esquimaux are
not so fastidious. We all know how they live upon whales, and have rare
old vintages of prime old train oil. Zogranda, one of their most famous
doctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, as being exceedingly
juicy and nourishing. And this reminds me that certain Englishmen, who
long ago were accidentally left in Greenland by a whaling vessel—that
these men actually lived for several months on the mouldy scraps of
whales which had been left ashore after trying out the blubber. Among
the Dutch whalemen these scraps are called “fritters”; which, indeed,
they greatly resemble, being brown and crisp, and smelling something
like old Amsterdam housewives’ dough-nuts or oly-cooks, when fresh.
They have such an eatable look that the most self-denying stranger can
hardly keep his hands off.

But what further depreciates the whale as a civilized dish, is his
exceeding richness. He is the great prize ox of the sea, too fat to be
delicately good. Look at his hump, which would be as fine eating as the
buffalo’s (which is esteemed a rare dish), were it not such a solid
pyramid of fat. But the spermaceti itself, how bland and creamy that
is; like the transparent, half-jellied, white meat of a cocoanut in the
third month of its growth, yet far too rich to supply a substitute for
butter. Nevertheless, many whalemen have a method of absorbing it into
some other substance, and then partaking of it. In the long try watches
of the night it is a common thing for the seamen to dip their
ship-biscuit into the huge oil-pots and let them fry there awhile. Many
a good supper have I thus made.

In the case of a small Sperm Whale the brains are accounted a fine
dish. The casket of the skull is broken into with an axe, and the two
plump, whitish lobes being withdrawn (precisely resembling two large
puddings), they are then mixed with flour, and cooked into a most
delectable mess, in flavor somewhat resembling calves’ head, which is
quite a dish among some epicures; and every one knows that some young
bucks among the epicures, by continually dining upon calves’ brains, by
and by get to have a little brains of their own, so as to be able to
tell a calf’s head from their own heads; which, indeed, requires
uncommon discrimination. And that is the reason why a young buck with
an intelligent looking calf’s head before him, is somehow one of the
saddest sights you can see. The head looks a sort of reproachfully at
him, with an “Et tu Brute!” expression.

It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively
unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with
abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration
before mentioned: _i.e._ that a man should eat a newly murdered thing
of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man
that ever murdered an ox was regarded as a murderer; perhaps he was
hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would
have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the
meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds
staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight
take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a
cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that
salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it
will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of
judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who
nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy
paté-de-foie-gras.

But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is
adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my
civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is
that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox
you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring
that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill
did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to
Ganders formally indite his circulars? It is only within the last month
or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but
steel pens.


CHAPTER 66. The Shark Massacre.

When in the Southern Fishery, a captured Sperm Whale, after long and
weary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general
thing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting
him in. For that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very
soon completed; and requires all hands to set about it. Therefore, the
common usage is to take in all sail; lash the helm a’lee; and then send
every one below to his hammock till daylight, with the reservation
that, until that time, anchor-watches shall be kept; that is, two and
two for an hour, each couple, the crew in rotation shall mount the deck
to see that all goes well.

But sometimes, especially upon the Line in the Pacific, this plan will
not answer at all; because such incalculable hosts of sharks gather
round the moored carcase, that were he left so for six hours, say, on a
stretch, little more than the skeleton would be visible by morning. In
most other parts of the ocean, however, where these fish do not so
largely abound, their wondrous voracity can be at times considerably
diminished, by vigorously stirring them up with sharp whaling-spades, a
procedure notwithstanding, which, in some instances, only seems to
tickle them into still greater activity. But it was not thus in the
present case with the Pequod’s sharks; though, to be sure, any man
unaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night,
would have almost thought the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and
those sharks the maggots in it.

Nevertheless, upon Stubb setting the anchor-watch after his supper was
concluded; and when, accordingly, Queequeg and a forecastle seaman came
on deck, no small excitement was created among the sharks; for
immediately suspending the cutting stages over the side, and lowering
three lanterns, so that they cast long gleams of light over the turbid
sea, these two mariners, darting their long whaling-spades, kept up an
incessant murdering of the sharks,* by striking the keen steel deep
into their skulls, seemingly their only vital part. But in the foamy
confusion of their mixed and struggling hosts, the marksmen could not
always hit their mark; and this brought about new revelations of the
incredible ferocity of the foe. They viciously snapped, not only at
each other’s disembowelments, but like flexible bows, bent round, and
bit their own; till those entrails seemed swallowed over and over again
by the same mouth, to be oppositely voided by the gaping wound. Nor was
this all. It was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these
creatures. A sort of generic or Pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in
their very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual
life had departed. Killed and hoisted on deck for the sake of his skin,
one of these sharks almost took poor Queequeg’s hand off, when he tried
to shut down the dead lid of his murderous jaw.

*The whaling-spade used for cutting-in is made of the very best steel;
is about the bigness of a man’s spread hand; and in general shape,
corresponds to the garden implement after which it is named; only its
sides are perfectly flat, and its upper end considerably narrower than
the lower. This weapon is always kept as sharp as possible; and when
being used is occasionally honed, just like a razor. In its socket, a
stiff pole, from twenty to thirty feet long, is inserted for a handle.

“Queequeg no care what god made him shark,” said the savage,
agonizingly lifting his hand up and down; “wedder Fejee god or
Nantucket god; but de god wat made shark must be one dam Ingin.”


CHAPTER 67. Cutting In.

It was a Saturday night, and such a Sabbath as followed! Ex officio
professors of Sabbath breaking are all whalemen. The ivory Pequod was
turned into what seemed a shamble; every sailor a butcher. You would
have thought we were offering up ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods.

In the first place, the enormous cutting tackles, among other ponderous
things comprising a cluster of blocks generally painted green, and
which no single man can possibly lift—this vast bunch of grapes was
swayed up to the main-top and firmly lashed to the lower mast-head, the
strongest point anywhere above a ship’s deck. The end of the
hawser-like rope winding through these intricacies, was then conducted
to the windlass, and the huge lower block of the tackles was swung over
the whale; to this block the great blubber hook, weighing some one
hundred pounds, was attached. And now suspended in stages over the
side, Starbuck and Stubb, the mates, armed with their long spades,
began cutting a hole in the body for the insertion of the hook just
above the nearest of the two side-fins. This done, a broad,
semicircular line is cut round the hole, the hook is inserted, and the
main body of the crew striking up a wild chorus, now commence heaving
in one dense crowd at the windlass. When instantly, the entire ship
careens over on her side; every bolt in her starts like the nail-heads
of an old house in frosty weather; she trembles, quivers, and nods her
frighted mast-heads to the sky. More and more she leans over to the
whale, while every gasping heave of the windlass is answered by a
helping heave from the billows; till at last, a swift, startling snap
is heard; with a great swash the ship rolls upwards and backwards from
the whale, and the triumphant tackle rises into sight dragging after it
the disengaged semicircular end of the first strip of blubber. Now as
the blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange,
so is it stripped off from the body precisely as an orange is sometimes
stripped by spiralizing it. For the strain constantly kept up by the
windlass continually keeps the whale rolling over and over in the
water, and as the blubber in one strip uniformly peels off along the
line called the “scarf,” simultaneously cut by the spades of Starbuck
and Stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus peeled off, and
indeed by that very act itself, it is all the time being hoisted higher
and higher aloft till its upper end grazes the main-top; the men at the
windlass then cease heaving, and for a moment or two the prodigious
blood-dripping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and
every one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else
it may box his ears and pitch him headlong overboard.

One of the attending harpooneers now advances with a long, keen weapon
called a boarding-sword, and watching his chance he dexterously slices
out a considerable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass. Into
this hole, the end of the second alternating great tackle is then
hooked so as to retain a hold upon the blubber, in order to prepare for
what follows. Whereupon, this accomplished swordsman, warning all hands
to stand off, once more makes a scientific dash at the mass, and with a
few sidelong, desperate, lunging slicings, severs it completely in
twain; so that while the short lower part is still fast, the long upper
strip, called a blanket-piece, swings clear, and is all ready for
lowering. The heavers forward now resume their song, and while the one
tackle is peeling and hoisting a second strip from the whale, the other
is slowly slackened away, and down goes the first strip through the
main hatchway right beneath, into an unfurnished parlor called the
blubber-room. Into this twilight apartment sundry nimble hands keep
coiling away the long blanket-piece as if it were a great live mass of
plaited serpents. And thus the work proceeds; the two tackles hoisting
and lowering simultaneously; both whale and windlass heaving, the
heavers singing, the blubber-room gentlemen coiling, the mates
scarfing, the ship straining, and all hands swearing occasionally, by
way of assuaging the general friction.


CHAPTER 68. The Blanket.

I have given no small attention to that not unvexed subject, the skin
of the whale. I have had controversies about it with experienced
whalemen afloat, and learned naturalists ashore. My original opinion
remains unchanged; but it is only an opinion.

The question is, what and where is the skin of the whale? Already you
know what his blubber is. That blubber is something of the consistence
of firm, close-grained beef, but tougher, more elastic and compact, and
ranges from eight or ten to twelve and fifteen inches in thickness.

Now, however preposterous it may at first seem to talk of any
creature’s skin as being of that sort of consistence and thickness, yet
in point of fact these are no arguments against such a presumption;
because you cannot raise any other dense enveloping layer from the
whale’s body but that same blubber; and the outermost enveloping layer
of any animal, if reasonably dense, what can that be but the skin?
True, from the unmarred dead body of the whale, you may scrape off with
your hand an infinitely thin, transparent substance, somewhat
resembling the thinnest shreds of isinglass, only it is almost as
flexible and soft as satin; that is, previous to being dried, when it
not only contracts and thickens, but becomes rather hard and brittle. I
have several such dried bits, which I use for marks in my whale-books.
It is transparent, as I said before; and being laid upon the printed
page, I have sometimes pleased myself with fancying it exerted a
magnifying influence. At any rate, it is pleasant to read about whales
through their own spectacles, as you may say. But what I am driving at
here is this. That same infinitely thin, isinglass substance, which, I
admit, invests the entire body of the whale, is not so much to be
regarded as the skin of the creature, as the skin of the skin, so to
speak; for it were simply ridiculous to say, that the proper skin of
the tremendous whale is thinner and more tender than the skin of a
new-born child. But no more of this.

Assuming the blubber to be the skin of the whale; then, when this skin,
as in the case of a very large Sperm Whale, will yield the bulk of one
hundred barrels of oil; and, when it is considered that, in quantity,
or rather weight, that oil, in its expressed state, is only three
fourths, and not the entire substance of the coat; some idea may hence
be had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose
mere integument yields such a lake of liquid as that. Reckoning ten
barrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three
quarters of the stuff of the whale’s skin.

In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among
the many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over
obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in
thick array, something like those in the finest Italian line
engravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the
isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as
if they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some
instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a
veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations.
These are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers
on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to
use in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the
hieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck
with a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the
famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi.
Like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains
undecipherable. This allusion to the Indian rocks reminds me of another
thing. Besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the Sperm
Whale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially
his flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by
reason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random
aspect. I should say that those New England rocks on the sea-coast,
which Agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact
with vast floating icebergs—I should say, that those rocks must not a
little resemble the Sperm Whale in this particular. It also seems to me
that such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact
with other whales; for I have most remarked them in the large,
full-grown bulls of the species.

A word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the
whale. It has already been said, that it is stript from him in long
pieces, called blanket-pieces. Like most sea-terms, this one is very
happy and significant. For the whale is indeed wrapt up in his blubber
as in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an Indian poncho
slipt over his head, and skirting his extremity. It is by reason of
this cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep
himself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides.
What would become of a Greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy
seas of the North, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout? True, other
fish are found exceedingly brisk in those Hyperborean waters; but
these, be it observed, are your cold-blooded, lungless fish, whose very
bellies are refrigerators; creatures, that warm themselves under the
lee of an iceberg, as a traveller in winter would bask before an inn
fire; whereas, like man, the whale has lungs and warm blood. Freeze his
blood, and he dies. How wonderful is it then—except after
explanation—that this great monster, to whom corporeal warmth is as
indispensable as it is to man; how wonderful that he should be found at
home, immersed to his lips for life in those Arctic waters! where, when
seamen fall overboard, they are sometimes found, months afterwards,
perpendicularly frozen into the hearts of fields of ice, as a fly is
found glued in amber. But more surprising is it to know, as has been
proved by experiment, that the blood of a Polar whale is warmer than
that of a Borneo negro in summer.

It does seem to me, that herein we see the rare virtue of a strong
individual vitality, and the rare virtue of thick walls, and the rare
virtue of interior spaciousness. Oh, man! admire and model thyself
after the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too,
live in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep
thy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s, and
like the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of
thine own.

But how easy and how hopeless to teach these fine things! Of erections,
how few are domed like St. Peter’s! of creatures, how few vast as the
whale!


CHAPTER 69. The Funeral.

“Haul in the chains! Let the carcase go astern!”

The vast tackles have now done their duty. The peeled white body of the
beheaded whale flashes like a marble sepulchre; though changed in hue,
it has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk. It is still colossal.
Slowly it floats more and more away, the water round it torn and
splashed by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with
rapacious flights of screaming fowls, whose beaks are like so many
insulting poniards in the whale. The vast white headless phantom floats
further and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats,
what seem square roods of sharks and cubic roods of fowls, augment the
murderous din. For hours and hours from the almost stationary ship that
hideous sight is seen. Beneath the unclouded and mild azure sky, upon
the fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joyous breezes, that
great mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite
perspectives.

There’s a most doleful and most mocking funeral! The sea-vultures all
in pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or
speckled. In life but few of them would have helped the whale, I ween,
if peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral
they most piously do pounce. Oh, horrible vultureism of earth! from
which not the mightiest whale is free.

Nor is this the end. Desecrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost
survives and hovers over it to scare. Espied by some timid man-of-war
or blundering discovery-vessel from afar, when the distance obscuring
the swarming fowls, nevertheless still shows the white mass floating in
the sun, and the white spray heaving high against it; straightway the
whale’s unharming corpse, with trembling fingers is set down in the
log—_shoals, rocks, and breakers hereabouts: beware!_ And for years
afterwards, perhaps, ships shun the place; leaping over it as silly
sheep leap over a vacuum, because their leader originally leaped there
when a stick was held. There’s your law of precedents; there’s your
utility of traditions; there’s the story of your obstinate survival of
old beliefs never bottomed on the earth, and now not even hovering in
the air! There’s orthodoxy!

Thus, while in life the great whale’s body may have been a real terror
to his foes, in his death his ghost becomes a powerless panic to a
world.

Are you a believer in ghosts, my friend? There are other ghosts than
the Cock-Lane one, and far deeper men than Doctor Johnson who believe
in them.


CHAPTER 70. The Sphynx.

It should not have been omitted that previous to completely stripping
the body of the leviathan, he was beheaded. Now, the beheading of the
Sperm Whale is a scientific anatomical feat, upon which experienced
whale surgeons very much pride themselves: and not without reason.

Consider that the whale has nothing that can properly be called a neck;
on the contrary, where his head and body seem to join, there, in that
very place, is the thickest part of him. Remember, also, that the
surgeon must operate from above, some eight or ten feet intervening
between him and his subject, and that subject almost hidden in a
discoloured, rolling, and oftentimes tumultuous and bursting sea. Bear
in mind, too, that under these untoward circumstances he has to cut
many feet deep in the flesh; and in that subterraneous manner, without
so much as getting one single peep into the ever-contracting gash thus
made, he must skilfully steer clear of all adjacent, interdicted parts,
and exactly divide the spine at a critical point hard by its insertion
into the skull. Do you not marvel, then, at Stubb’s boast, that he
demanded but ten minutes to behead a sperm whale?

When first severed, the head is dropped astern and held there by a
cable till the body is stripped. That done, if it belong to a small
whale it is hoisted on deck to be deliberately disposed of. But, with a
full grown leviathan this is impossible; for the sperm whale’s head
embraces nearly one third of his entire bulk, and completely to suspend
such a burden as that, even by the immense tackles of a whaler, this
were as vain a thing as to attempt weighing a Dutch barn in jewellers’
scales.

The Pequod’s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head
was hoisted against the ship’s side—about half way out of the sea, so
that it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element. And
there with the strained craft steeply leaning over to it, by reason of
the enormous downward drag from the lower mast-head, and every yard-arm
on that side projecting like a crane over the waves; there, that
blood-dripping head hung to the Pequod’s waist like the giant
Holofernes’s from the girdle of Judith.

When this last task was accomplished it was noon, and the seamen went
below to their dinner. Silence reigned over the before tumultuous but
now deserted deck. An intense copper calm, like a universal yellow
lotus, was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves
upon the sea.

A short space elapsed, and up into this noiselessness came Ahab alone
from his cabin. Taking a few turns on the quarter-deck, he paused to
gaze over the side, then slowly getting into the main-chains he took
Stubb’s long spade—still remaining there after the whale’s
decapitation—and striking it into the lower part of the half-suspended
mass, placed its other end crutch-wise under one arm, and so stood
leaning over with eyes attentively fixed on this head.

It was a black and hooded head; and hanging there in the midst of so
intense a calm, it seemed the Sphynx’s in the desert. “Speak, thou vast
and venerable head,” muttered Ahab, “which, though ungarnished with a
beard, yet here and there lookest hoary with mosses; speak, mighty
head, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee. Of all divers, thou
hast dived the deepest. That head upon which the upper sun now gleams,
has moved amid this world’s foundations. Where unrecorded names and
navies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous
hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the
drowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar
home. Thou hast been where bell or diver never went; hast slept by many
a sailor’s side, where sleepless mothers would give their lives to lay
them down. Thou saw’st the locked lovers when leaping from their
flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true
to each other, when heaven seemed false to them. Thou saw’st the
murdered mate when tossed by pirates from the midnight deck; for hours
he fell into the deeper midnight of the insatiate maw; and his
murderers still sailed on unharmed—while swift lightnings shivered the
neighboring ship that would have borne a righteous husband to
outstretched, longing arms. O head! thou hast seen enough to split the
planets and make an infidel of Abraham, and not one syllable is thine!”

“Sail ho!” cried a triumphant voice from the main-mast-head.

“Aye? Well, now, that’s cheering,” cried Ahab, suddenly erecting
himself, while whole thunder-clouds swept aside from his brow. “That
lively cry upon this deadly calm might almost convert a better
man.—Where away?”

“Three points on the starboard bow, sir, and bringing down her breeze
to us!

“Better and better, man. Would now St. Paul would come along that way,
and to my breezelessness bring his breeze! O Nature, and O soul of man!
how far beyond all utterance are your linked analogies! not the
smallest atom stirs or lives on matter, but has its cunning duplicate
in mind.”


CHAPTER 71. The Jeroboam’s Story.

Hand in hand, ship and breeze blew on; but the breeze came faster than
the ship, and soon the Pequod began to rock.

By and by, through the glass the stranger’s boats and manned mast-heads
proved her a whale-ship. But as she was so far to windward, and
shooting by, apparently making a passage to some other ground, the
Pequod could not hope to reach her. So the signal was set to see what
response would be made.

Here be it said, that like the vessels of military marines, the ships
of the American Whale Fleet have each a private signal; all which
signals being collected in a book with the names of the respective
vessels attached, every captain is provided with it. Thereby, the whale
commanders are enabled to recognise each other upon the ocean, even at
considerable distances and with no small facility.

The Pequod’s signal was at last responded to by the stranger’s setting
her own; which proved the ship to be the Jeroboam of Nantucket.
Squaring her yards, she bore down, ranged abeam under the Pequod’s lee,
and lowered a boat; it soon drew nigh; but, as the side-ladder was
being rigged by Starbuck’s order to accommodate the visiting captain,
the stranger in question waved his hand from his boat’s stern in token
of that proceeding being entirely unnecessary. It turned out that the
Jeroboam had a malignant epidemic on board, and that Mayhew, her
captain, was fearful of infecting the Pequod’s company. For, though
himself and boat’s crew remained untainted, and though his ship was
half a rifle-shot off, and an incorruptible sea and air rolling and
flowing between; yet conscientiously adhering to the timid quarantine
of the land, he peremptorily refused to come into direct contact with
the Pequod.

But this did by no means prevent all communications. Preserving an
interval of some few yards between itself and the ship, the Jeroboam’s
boat by the occasional use of its oars contrived to keep parallel to
the Pequod, as she heavily forged through the sea (for by this time it
blew very fresh), with her main-topsail aback; though, indeed, at times
by the sudden onset of a large rolling wave, the boat would be pushed
some way ahead; but would be soon skilfully brought to her proper
bearings again. Subject to this, and other the like interruptions now
and then, a conversation was sustained between the two parties; but at
intervals not without still another interruption of a very different
sort.

Pulling an oar in the Jeroboam’s boat, was a man of a singular
appearance, even in that wild whaling life where individual
notabilities make up all totalities. He was a small, short, youngish
man, sprinkled all over his face with freckles, and wearing redundant
yellow hair. A long-skirted, cabalistically-cut coat of a faded walnut
tinge enveloped him; the overlapping sleeves of which were rolled up on
his wrists. A deep, settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes.

So soon as this figure had been first descried, Stubb had
exclaimed—“That’s he! that’s he!—the long-togged scaramouch the
Town-Ho’s company told us of!” Stubb here alluded to a strange story
told of the Jeroboam, and a certain man among her crew, some time
previous when the Pequod spoke the Town-Ho. According to this account
and what was subsequently learned, it seemed that the scaramouch in
question had gained a wonderful ascendency over almost everybody in the
Jeroboam. His story was this:

He had been originally nurtured among the crazy society of Neskyeuna
Shakers, where he had been a great prophet; in their cracked, secret
meetings having several times descended from heaven by the way of a
trap-door, announcing the speedy opening of the seventh vial, which he
carried in his vest-pocket; but, which, instead of containing
gunpowder, was supposed to be charged with laudanum. A strange,
apostolic whim having seized him, he had left Neskyeuna for Nantucket,
where, with that cunning peculiar to craziness, he assumed a steady,
common-sense exterior, and offered himself as a green-hand candidate
for the Jeroboam’s whaling voyage. They engaged him; but straightway
upon the ship’s getting out of sight of land, his insanity broke out in
a freshet. He announced himself as the archangel Gabriel, and commanded
the captain to jump overboard. He published his manifesto, whereby he
set himself forth as the deliverer of the isles of the sea and
vicar-general of all Oceanica. The unflinching earnestness with which
he declared these things;—the dark, daring play of his sleepless,
excited imagination, and all the preternatural terrors of real
delirium, united to invest this Gabriel in the minds of the majority of
the ignorant crew, with an atmosphere of sacredness. Moreover, they
were afraid of him. As such a man, however, was not of much practical
use in the ship, especially as he refused to work except when he
pleased, the incredulous captain would fain have been rid of him; but
apprised that that individual’s intention was to land him in the first
convenient port, the archangel forthwith opened all his seals and
vials—devoting the ship and all hands to unconditional perdition, in
case this intention was carried out. So strongly did he work upon his
disciples among the crew, that at last in a body they went to the
captain and told him if Gabriel was sent from the ship, not a man of
them would remain. He was therefore forced to relinquish his plan. Nor
would they permit Gabriel to be any way maltreated, say or do what he
would; so that it came to pass that Gabriel had the complete freedom of
the ship. The consequence of all this was, that the archangel cared
little or nothing for the captain and mates; and since the epidemic had
broken out, he carried a higher hand than ever; declaring that the
plague, as he called it, was at his sole command; nor should it be
stayed but according to his good pleasure. The sailors, mostly poor
devils, cringed, and some of them fawned before him; in obedience to
his instructions, sometimes rendering him personal homage, as to a god.
Such things may seem incredible; but, however wondrous, they are true.
Nor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the
measureless self-deception of the fanatic himself, as his measureless
power of deceiving and bedevilling so many others. But it is time to
return to the Pequod.

“I fear not thy epidemic, man,” said Ahab from the bulwarks, to Captain
Mayhew, who stood in the boat’s stern; “come on board.”

But now Gabriel started to his feet.

“Think, think of the fevers, yellow and bilious! Beware of the horrible
plague!”

“Gabriel! Gabriel!” cried Captain Mayhew; “thou must either—” But that
instant a headlong wave shot the boat far ahead, and its seethings
drowned all speech.

“Hast thou seen the White Whale?” demanded Ahab, when the boat drifted
back.

“Think, think of thy whale-boat, stoven and sunk! Beware of the
horrible tail!”

“I tell thee again, Gabriel, that—” But again the boat tore ahead as if
dragged by fiends. Nothing was said for some moments, while a
succession of riotous waves rolled by, which by one of those occasional
caprices of the seas were tumbling, not heaving it. Meantime, the
hoisted sperm whale’s head jogged about very violently, and Gabriel was
seen eyeing it with rather more apprehensiveness than his archangel
nature seemed to warrant.

When this interlude was over, Captain Mayhew began a dark story
concerning Moby Dick; not, however, without frequent interruptions from
Gabriel, whenever his name was mentioned, and the crazy sea that seemed
leagued with him.

It seemed that the Jeroboam had not long left home, when upon speaking
a whale-ship, her people were reliably apprised of the existence of
Moby Dick, and the havoc he had made. Greedily sucking in this
intelligence, Gabriel solemnly warned the captain against attacking the
White Whale, in case the monster should be seen; in his gibbering
insanity, pronouncing the White Whale to be no less a being than the
Shaker God incarnated; the Shakers receiving the Bible. But when, some
year or two afterwards, Moby Dick was fairly sighted from the
mast-heads, Macey, the chief mate, burned with ardour to encounter him;
and the captain himself being not unwilling to let him have the
opportunity, despite all the archangel’s denunciations and
forewarnings, Macey succeeded in persuading five men to man his boat.
With them he pushed off; and, after much weary pulling, and many
perilous, unsuccessful onsets, he at last succeeded in getting one iron
fast. Meantime, Gabriel, ascending to the main-royal mast-head, was
tossing one arm in frantic gestures, and hurling forth prophecies of
speedy doom to the sacrilegious assailants of his divinity. Now, while
Macey, the mate, was standing up in his boat’s bow, and with all the
reckless energy of his tribe was venting his wild exclamations upon the
whale, and essaying to get a fair chance for his poised lance, lo! a
broad white shadow rose from the sea; by its quick, fanning motion,
temporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen. Next
instant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily
into the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea
at the distance of about fifty yards. Not a chip of the boat was
harmed, nor a hair of any oarsman’s head; but the mate for ever sank.

It is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the
Sperm-Whale Fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any.
Sometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated;
oftener the boat’s bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the
headsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body. But
strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one,
when the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is
discernible; the man being stark dead.

The whole calamity, with the falling form of Macey, was plainly
descried from the ship. Raising a piercing shriek—“The vial! the vial!”
Gabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of
the whale. This terrible event clothed the archangel with added
influence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had
specifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general
prophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one
of many marks in the wide margin allowed. He became a nameless terror
to the ship.

Mayhew having concluded his narration, Ahab put such questions to him,
that the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he
intended to hunt the White Whale, if opportunity should offer. To which
Ahab answered—“Aye.” Straightway, then, Gabriel once more started to
his feet, glaring upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with
downward pointed finger—“Think, think of the blasphemer—dead, and down
there!—beware of the blasphemer’s end!”

Ahab stolidly turned aside; then said to Mayhew, “Captain, I have just
bethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy
officers, if I mistake not. Starbuck, look over the bag.”

Every whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various
ships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed,
depends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans.
Thus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received
after attaining an age of two or three years or more.

Soon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand. It was sorely
tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in
consequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin. Of such a
letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy.

“Can’st not read it?” cried Ahab. “Give it me, man. Aye, aye, it’s but
a dim scrawl;—what’s this?” As he was studying it out, Starbuck took a
long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the end, to
insert the letter there, and in that way, hand it to the boat, without
its coming any closer to the ship.

Meantime, Ahab holding the letter, muttered, “Mr. Har—yes, Mr. Harry—(a
woman’s pinny hand,—the man’s wife, I’ll wager)—Aye—Mr. Harry Macey,
Ship Jeroboam;—why it’s Macey, and he’s dead!”

“Poor fellow! poor fellow! and from his wife,” sighed Mayhew; “but let
me have it.”

“Nay, keep it thyself,” cried Gabriel to Ahab; “thou art soon going
that way.”

“Curses throttle thee!” yelled Ahab. “Captain Mayhew, stand by now to
receive it”; and taking the fatal missive from Starbuck’s hands, he
caught it in the slit of the pole, and reached it over towards the
boat. But as he did so, the oarsmen expectantly desisted from rowing;
the boat drifted a little towards the ship’s stern; so that, as if by
magic, the letter suddenly ranged along with Gabriel’s eager hand. He
clutched it in an instant, seized the boat-knife, and impaling the
letter on it, sent it thus loaded back into the ship. It fell at Ahab’s
feet. Then Gabriel shrieked out to his comrades to give way with their
oars, and in that manner the mutinous boat rapidly shot away from the
Pequod.

As, after this interlude, the seamen resumed their work upon the jacket
of the whale, many strange things were hinted in reference to this wild
affair.


CHAPTER 72. The Monkey-Rope.

In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale,
there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands
are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no
staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has
to be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the
description of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was
mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the
blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the
spades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that
same hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my
particular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to
descend upon the monster’s back for the special purpose referred to.
But in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall
remain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is
concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged,
excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten
feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about,
half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like
a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured
in the Highland costume—a shirt and socks—in which to my eyes, at
least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better
chance to observe him, as will presently be seen.

Being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar
in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to
attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead
whale’s back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by
a long cord. Just so, from the ship’s steep side, did I hold Queequeg
down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a
monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his
waist.

It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we
proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both
ends; fast to Queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow
leather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time,
were wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both
usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should
drag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature
united us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I
any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond
entailed.

So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then,
that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to
perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock
company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that
another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited
disaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of
interregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have
so gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering—while I jerked
him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten
to jam him—still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of
mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in
most cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a
plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your
apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True,
you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these
and the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg’s
monkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I
came very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do
what I would, I only had the management of one end of it.*

*The monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the Pequod
that the monkey and his holder were ever tied together. This
improvement upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man
than Stubb, in order to afford the imperilled harpooneer the strongest
possible guarantee for the faithfulness and vigilance of his
monkey-rope holder.

I have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the
whale and the ship—where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant
rolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy
he was exposed to. Unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the
night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before
pent blood which began to flow from the carcass—the rabid creatures
swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.

And right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them
aside with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it
not that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise
miscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.

Nevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a
ravenous finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to
them. Accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which I now and then
jerked the poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what
seemed a peculiarly ferocious shark—he was provided with still another
protection. Suspended over the side in one of the stages, Tashtego and
Daggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen
whale-spades, wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could
reach. This procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and
benevolent of them. They meant Queequeg’s best happiness, I admit; but
in their hasty zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that
both he and the sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled
water, those indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a
leg than a tail. But poor Queequeg, I suppose, straining and gasping
there with that great iron hook—poor Queequeg, I suppose, only prayed
to his Yojo, and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.

Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in
and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea—what matters
it, after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men
in this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those
sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks
and spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.

But courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now,
as with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last
climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily
trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent,
consolatory glance hands him—what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him, ye
gods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!

“Ginger? Do I smell ginger?” suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near.
“Yes, this must be ginger,” peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then
standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the
astonished steward slowly saying, “Ginger? ginger? and will you have
the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of
ginger? Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to
kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal? Ginger!—what the devil is
ginger? Sea-coal? firewood?—lucifer matches?—tinder?—gunpowder?—what
the devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor
Queequeg here.”

“There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this
business,” he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just
come from forward. “Will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it,
if you please.” Then watching the mate’s countenance, he added, “The
steward, Mr. Starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to
Queequeg, there, this instant off the whale. Is the steward an
apothecary, sir? and may I ask whether this is the sort of bitters by
which he blows back the life into a half-drowned man?”

“I trust not,” said Starbuck, “it is poor stuff enough.”

“Aye, aye, steward,” cried Stubb, “we’ll teach you to drug a
harpooneer; none of your apothecary’s medicine here; you want to poison
us, do ye? You have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder
us all, and pocket the proceeds, do ye?”

“It was not me,” cried Dough-Boy, “it was Aunt Charity that brought the
ginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits,
but only this ginger-jub—so she called it.”

“Ginger-jub! you gingerly rascal! take that! and run along with ye to
the lockers, and get something better. I hope I do no wrong, Mr.
Starbuck. It is the captain’s orders—grog for the harpooneer on a
whale.”

“Enough,” replied Starbuck, “only don’t hit him again, but—”

“Oh, I never hurt when I hit, except when I hit a whale or something of
that sort; and this fellow’s a weazel. What were you about saying,
sir?”

“Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself.”

When Stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a
sort of tea-caddy in the other. The first contained strong spirits, and
was handed to Queequeg; the second was Aunt Charity’s gift, and that
was freely given to the waves.


CHAPTER 73. Stubb and Flask kill a Right Whale; and Then Have a Talk
over Him.

It must be borne in mind that all this time we have a Sperm Whale’s
prodigious head hanging to the Pequod’s side. But we must let it
continue hanging there a while till we can get a chance to attend to
it. For the present other matters press, and the best we can do now for
the head, is to pray heaven the tackles may hold.

Now, during the past night and forenoon, the Pequod had gradually
drifted into a sea, which, by its occasional patches of yellow brit,
gave unusual tokens of the vicinity of Right Whales, a species of the
Leviathan that but few supposed to be at this particular time lurking
anywhere near. And though all hands commonly disdained the capture of
those inferior creatures; and though the Pequod was not commissioned to
cruise for them at all, and though she had passed numbers of them near
the Crozetts without lowering a boat; yet now that a Sperm Whale had
been brought alongside and beheaded, to the surprise of all, the
announcement was made that a Right Whale should be captured that day,
if opportunity offered.

Nor was this long wanting. Tall spouts were seen to leeward; and two
boats, Stubb’s and Flask’s, were detached in pursuit. Pulling further
and further away, they at last became almost invisible to the men at
the mast-head. But suddenly in the distance, they saw a great heap of
tumultuous white water, and soon after news came from aloft that one or
both the boats must be fast. An interval passed and the boats were in
plain sight, in the act of being dragged right towards the ship by the
towing whale. So close did the monster come to the hull, that at first
it seemed as if he meant it malice; but suddenly going down in a
maelstrom, within three rods of the planks, he wholly disappeared from
view, as if diving under the keel. “Cut, cut!” was the cry from the
ship to the boats, which, for one instant, seemed on the point of being
brought with a deadly dash against the vessel’s side. But having plenty
of line yet in the tubs, and the whale not sounding very rapidly, they
paid out abundance of rope, and at the same time pulled with all their
might so as to get ahead of the ship. For a few minutes the struggle
was intensely critical; for while they still slacked out the tightened
line in one direction, and still plied their oars in another, the
contending strain threatened to take them under. But it was only a few
feet advance they sought to gain. And they stuck to it till they did
gain it; when instantly, a swift tremor was felt running like lightning
along the keel, as the strained line, scraping beneath the ship,
suddenly rose to view under her bows, snapping and quivering; and so
flinging off its drippings, that the drops fell like bits of broken
glass on the water, while the whale beyond also rose to sight, and once
more the boats were free to fly. But the fagged whale abated his speed,
and blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship
towing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete
circuit.

Meantime, they hauled more and more upon their lines, till close
flanking him on both sides, Stubb answered Flask with lance for lance;
and thus round and round the Pequod the battle went, while the
multitudes of sharks that had before swum round the Sperm Whale’s body,
rushed to the fresh blood that was spilled, thirstily drinking at every
new gash, as the eager Israelites did at the new bursting fountains
that poured from the smitten rock.

At last his spout grew thick, and with a frightful roll and vomit, he
turned upon his back a corpse.

While the two headsmen were engaged in making fast cords to his flukes,
and in other ways getting the mass in readiness for towing, some
conversation ensued between them.

“I wonder what the old man wants with this lump of foul lard,” said
Stubb, not without some disgust at the thought of having to do with so
ignoble a leviathan.

“Wants with it?” said Flask, coiling some spare line in the boat’s bow,
“did you never hear that the ship which but once has a Sperm Whale’s
head hoisted on her starboard side, and at the same time a Right
Whale’s on the larboard; did you never hear, Stubb, that that ship can
never afterwards capsize?”

“Why not?

“I don’t know, but I heard that gamboge ghost of a Fedallah saying so,
and he seems to know all about ships’ charms. But I sometimes think
he’ll charm the ship to no good at last. I don’t half like that chap,
Stubb. Did you ever notice how that tusk of his is a sort of carved
into a snake’s head, Stubb?”

“Sink him! I never look at him at all; but if ever I get a chance of a
dark night, and he standing hard by the bulwarks, and no one by; look
down there, Flask”—pointing into the sea with a peculiar motion of both
hands—“Aye, will I! Flask, I take that Fedallah to be the devil in
disguise. Do you believe that cock and bull story about his having been
stowed away on board ship? He’s the devil, I say. The reason why you
don’t see his tail, is because he tucks it up out of sight; he carries
it coiled away in his pocket, I guess. Blast him! now that I think of
it, he’s always wanting oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots.”

“He sleeps in his boots, don’t he? He hasn’t got any hammock; but I’ve
seen him lay of nights in a coil of rigging.”

“No doubt, and it’s because of his cursed tail; he coils it down, do ye
see, in the eye of the rigging.”

“What’s the old man have so much to do with him for?”

“Striking up a swap or a bargain, I suppose.”

“Bargain?—about what?”

“Why, do ye see, the old man is hard bent after that White Whale, and
the devil there is trying to come round him, and get him to swap away
his silver watch, or his soul, or something of that sort, and then
he’ll surrender Moby Dick.”

“Pooh! Stubb, you are skylarking; how can Fedallah do that?”

“I don’t know, Flask, but the devil is a curious chap, and a wicked
one, I tell ye. Why, they say as how he went a sauntering into the old
flag-ship once, switching his tail about devilish easy and
gentlemanlike, and inquiring if the old governor was at home. Well, he
was at home, and asked the devil what he wanted. The devil, switching
his hoofs, up and says, ‘I want John.’ ‘What for?’ says the old
governor. ‘What business is that of yours,’ says the devil, getting
mad,—‘I want to use him.’ ‘Take him,’ says the governor—and by the
Lord, Flask, if the devil didn’t give John the Asiatic cholera before
he got through with him, I’ll eat this whale in one mouthful. But look
sharp—ain’t you all ready there? Well, then, pull ahead, and let’s get
the whale alongside.”

“I think I remember some such story as you were telling,” said Flask,
when at last the two boats were slowly advancing with their burden
towards the ship, “but I can’t remember where.”

“Three Spaniards? Adventures of those three bloody-minded soldadoes?
Did ye read it there, Flask? I guess ye did?”

“No: never saw such a book; heard of it, though. But now, tell me,
Stubb, do you suppose that that devil you was speaking of just now, was
the same you say is now on board the Pequod?”

“Am I the same man that helped kill this whale? Doesn’t the devil live
for ever; who ever heard that the devil was dead? Did you ever see any
parson a wearing mourning for the devil? And if the devil has a
latch-key to get into the admiral’s cabin, don’t you suppose he can
crawl into a porthole? Tell me that, Mr. Flask?”

“How old do you suppose Fedallah is, Stubb?”

“Do you see that mainmast there?” pointing to the ship; “well, that’s
the figure one; now take all the hoops in the Pequod’s hold, and string
along in a row with that mast, for oughts, do you see; well, that
wouldn’t begin to be Fedallah’s age. Nor all the coopers in creation
couldn’t show hoops enough to make oughts enough.”

“But see here, Stubb, I thought you a little boasted just now, that you
meant to give Fedallah a sea-toss, if you got a good chance. Now, if
he’s so old as all those hoops of yours come to, and if he is going to
live for ever, what good will it do to pitch him overboard—tell me
that?

“Give him a good ducking, anyhow.”

“But he’d crawl back.”

“Duck him again; and keep ducking him.”

“Suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though—yes, and
drown you—what then?”

“I should like to see him try it; I’d give him such a pair of black
eyes that he wouldn’t dare to show his face in the admiral’s cabin
again for a long while, let alone down in the orlop there, where he
lives, and hereabouts on the upper decks where he sneaks so much. Damn
the devil, Flask; so you suppose I’m afraid of the devil? Who’s afraid
of him, except the old governor who daresn’t catch him and put him in
double-darbies, as he deserves, but lets him go about kidnapping
people; aye, and signed a bond with him, that all the people the devil
kidnapped, he’d roast for him? There’s a governor!”

“Do you suppose Fedallah wants to kidnap Captain Ahab?”

“Do I suppose it? You’ll know it before long, Flask. But I am going now
to keep a sharp look-out on him; and if I see anything very suspicious
going on, I’ll just take him by the nape of his neck, and say—Look
here, Beelzebub, you don’t do it; and if he makes any fuss, by the Lord
I’ll make a grab into his pocket for his tail, take it to the capstan,
and give him such a wrenching and heaving, that his tail will come
short off at the stump—do you see; and then, I rather guess when he
finds himself docked in that queer fashion, he’ll sneak off without the
poor satisfaction of feeling his tail between his legs.”

“And what will you do with the tail, Stubb?”

“Do with it? Sell it for an ox whip when we get home;—what else?”

“Now, do you mean what you say, and have been saying all along, Stubb?”

“Mean or not mean, here we are at the ship.”

The boats were here hailed, to tow the whale on the larboard side,
where fluke chains and other necessaries were already prepared for
securing him.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Flask; “yes, you’ll soon see this right
whale’s head hoisted up opposite that parmacetti’s.”

In good time, Flask’s saying proved true. As before, the Pequod steeply
leaned over towards the sperm whale’s head, now, by the counterpoise of
both heads, she regained her even keel; though sorely strained, you may
well believe. So, when on one side you hoist in Locke’s head, you go
over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kant’s and you come
back again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds for ever keep
trimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunder-heads overboard,
and then you will float light and right.

In disposing of the body of a right whale, when brought alongside the
ship, the same preliminary proceedings commonly take place as in the
case of a sperm whale; only, in the latter instance, the head is cut
off whole, but in the former the lips and tongue are separately removed
and hoisted on deck, with all the well known black bone attached to
what is called the crown-piece. But nothing like this, in the present
case, had been done. The carcases of both whales had dropped astern;
and the head-laden ship not a little resembled a mule carrying a pair
of overburdening panniers.

Meantime, Fedallah was calmly eyeing the right whale’s head, and ever
and anon glancing from the deep wrinkles there to the lines in his own
hand. And Ahab chanced so to stand, that the Parsee occupied his
shadow; while, if the Parsee’s shadow was there at all it seemed only
to blend with, and lengthen Ahab’s. As the crew toiled on, Laplandish
speculations were bandied among them, concerning all these passing
things.


CHAPTER 74. The Sperm Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.

Here, now, are two great whales, laying their heads together; let us
join them, and lay together our own.

Of the grand order of folio leviathans, the Sperm Whale and the Right
Whale are by far the most noteworthy. They are the only whales
regularly hunted by man. To the Nantucketer, they present the two
extremes of all the known varieties of the whale. As the external
difference between them is mainly observable in their heads; and as a
head of each is this moment hanging from the Pequod’s side; and as we
may freely go from one to the other, by merely stepping across the
deck:—where, I should like to know, will you obtain a better chance to
study practical cetology than here?

In the first place, you are struck by the general contrast between
these heads. Both are massive enough in all conscience; but there is a
certain mathematical symmetry in the Sperm Whale’s which the Right
Whale’s sadly lacks. There is more character in the Sperm Whale’s head.
As you behold it, you involuntarily yield the immense superiority to
him, in point of pervading dignity. In the present instance, too, this
dignity is heightened by the pepper and salt colour of his head at the
summit, giving token of advanced age and large experience. In short, he
is what the fishermen technically call a “grey-headed whale.”

Let us now note what is least dissimilar in these heads—namely, the two
most important organs, the eye and the ear. Far back on the side of the
head, and low down, near the angle of either whale’s jaw, if you
narrowly search, you will at last see a lashless eye, which you would
fancy to be a young colt’s eye; so out of all proportion is it to the
magnitude of the head.

Now, from this peculiar sideway position of the whale’s eyes, it is
plain that he can never see an object which is exactly ahead, no more
than he can one exactly astern. In a word, the position of the whale’s
eyes corresponds to that of a man’s ears; and you may fancy, for
yourself, how it would fare with you, did you sideways survey objects
through your ears. You would find that you could only command some
thirty degrees of vision in advance of the straight side-line of sight;
and about thirty more behind it. If your bitterest foe were walking
straight towards you, with dagger uplifted in broad day, you would not
be able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from
behind. In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the
same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes
the front of a man—what, indeed, but his eyes?

Moreover, while in most other animals that I can now think of, the eyes
are so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to
produce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of
the whale’s eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of
solid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating
two lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the
impressions which each independent organ imparts. The whale, therefore,
must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct
picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and
nothingness to him. Man may, in effect, be said to look out on the
world from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window. But with
the whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two
distinct windows, but sadly impairing the view. This peculiarity of the
whale’s eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and
to be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes.

A curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning this
visual matter as touching the Leviathan. But I must be content with a
hint. So long as a man’s eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing
is involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing
whatever objects are before him. Nevertheless, any one’s experience
will teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of
things at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and
completely, to examine any two things—however large or however small—at
one and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side
and touch each other. But if you now come to separate these two
objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in
order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to
bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary
consciousness. How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in
themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more
comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man’s, that he can at the
same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on
one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he
can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able
simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct
problems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any
incongruity in this comparison.

It may be but an idle whim, but it has always seemed to me, that the
extraordinary vacillations of movement displayed by some whales when
beset by three or four boats; the timidity and liability to queer
frights, so common to such whales; I think that all this indirectly
proceeds from the helpless perplexity of volition, in which their
divided and diametrically opposite powers of vision must involve them.

But the ear of the whale is full as curious as the eye. If you are an
entire stranger to their race, you might hunt over these two heads for
hours, and never discover that organ. The ear has no external leaf
whatever; and into the hole itself you can hardly insert a quill, so
wondrously minute is it. It is lodged a little behind the eye. With
respect to their ears, this important difference is to be observed
between the sperm whale and the right. While the ear of the former has
an external opening, that of the latter is entirely and evenly covered
over with a membrane, so as to be quite imperceptible from without.

Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the
world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear
which is smaller than a hare’s? But if his eyes were broad as the lens
of Herschel’s great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of
cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of
hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to “enlarge” your mind?
Subtilize it.

Let us now with whatever levers and steam-engines we have at hand, cant
over the sperm whale’s head, that it may lie bottom up; then, ascending
by a ladder to the summit, have a peep down the mouth; and were it not
that the body is now completely separated from it, with a lantern we
might descend into the great Kentucky Mammoth Cave of his stomach. But
let us hold on here by this tooth, and look about us where we are. What
a really beautiful and chaste-looking mouth! from floor to ceiling,
lined, or rather papered with a glistening white membrane, glossy as
bridal satins.

But come out now, and look at this portentous lower jaw, which seems
like the long narrow lid of an immense snuff-box, with the hinge at one
end, instead of one side. If you pry it up, so as to get it overhead,
and expose its rows of teeth, it seems a terrific portcullis; and such,
alas! it proves to many a poor wight in the fishery, upon whom these
spikes fall with impaling force. But far more terrible is it to behold,
when fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there
suspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging
straight down at right-angles with his body, for all the world like a
ship’s jib-boom. This whale is not dead; he is only dispirited; out of
sorts, perhaps; hypochondriac; and so supine, that the hinges of his
jaw have relaxed, leaving him there in that ungainly sort of plight, a
reproach to all his tribe, who must, no doubt, imprecate lock-jaws upon
him.

In most cases this lower jaw—being easily unhinged by a practised
artist—is disengaged and hoisted on deck for the purpose of extracting
the ivory teeth, and furnishing a supply of that hard white whalebone
with which the fishermen fashion all sorts of curious articles,
including canes, umbrella-stocks, and handles to riding-whips.

With a long, weary hoist the jaw is dragged on board, as if it were an
anchor; and when the proper time comes—some few days after the other
work—Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego, being all accomplished dentists,
are set to drawing teeth. With a keen cutting-spade, Queequeg lances
the gums; then the jaw is lashed down to ringbolts, and a tackle being
rigged from aloft, they drag out these teeth, as Michigan oxen drag
stumps of old oaks out of wild wood lands. There are generally
forty-two teeth in all; in old whales, much worn down, but undecayed;
nor filled after our artificial fashion. The jaw is afterwards sawn
into slabs, and piled away like joists for building houses.


CHAPTER 75. The Right Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.

Crossing the deck, let us now have a good long look at the Right
Whale’s head.

As in general shape the noble Sperm Whale’s head may be compared to a
Roman war-chariot (especially in front, where it is so broadly
rounded); so, at a broad view, the Right Whale’s head bears a rather
inelegant resemblance to a gigantic galliot-toed shoe. Two hundred
years ago an old Dutch voyager likened its shape to that of a
shoemaker’s last. And in this same last or shoe, that old woman of the
nursery tale, with the swarming brood, might very comfortably be
lodged, she and all her progeny.

But as you come nearer to this great head it begins to assume different
aspects, according to your point of view. If you stand on its summit
and look at these two F-shaped spoutholes, you would take the whole
head for an enormous bass-viol, and these spiracles, the apertures in
its sounding-board. Then, again, if you fix your eye upon this strange,
crested, comb-like incrustation on the top of the mass—this green,
barnacled thing, which the Greenlanders call the “crown,” and the
Southern fishers the “bonnet” of the Right Whale; fixing your eyes
solely on this, you would take the head for the trunk of some huge oak,
with a bird’s nest in its crotch. At any rate, when you watch those
live crabs that nestle here on this bonnet, such an idea will be almost
sure to occur to you; unless, indeed, your fancy has been fixed by the
technical term “crown” also bestowed upon it; in which case you will
take great interest in thinking how this mighty monster is actually a
diademed king of the sea, whose green crown has been put together for
him in this marvellous manner. But if this whale be a king, he is a
very sulky looking fellow to grace a diadem. Look at that hanging lower
lip! what a huge sulk and pout is there! a sulk and pout, by
carpenter’s measurement, about twenty feet long and five feet deep; a
sulk and pout that will yield you some 500 gallons of oil and more.

A great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped.
The fissure is about a foot across. Probably the mother during an
important interval was sailing down the Peruvian coast, when
earthquakes caused the beach to gape. Over this lip, as over a slippery
threshold, we now slide into the mouth. Upon my word were I at
Mackinaw, I should take this to be the inside of an Indian wigwam. Good
Lord! is this the road that Jonah went? The roof is about twelve feet
high, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular
ridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us
with those wondrous, half vertical, scimetar-shaped slats of whalebone,
say three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the
head or crown bone, form those Venetian blinds which have elsewhere
been cursorily mentioned. The edges of these bones are fringed with
hairy fibres, through which the Right Whale strains the water, and in
whose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes
through the seas of brit in feeding time. In the central blinds of
bone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious
marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the
creature’s age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings. Though the
certainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the
savor of analogical probability. At any rate, if we yield to it, we
must grant a far greater age to the Right Whale than at first glance
will seem reasonable.

In old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies
concerning these blinds. One voyager in Purchas calls them the wondrous
“whiskers” inside of the whale’s mouth;* another, “hogs’ bristles”; a
third old gentleman in Hackluyt uses the following elegant language:
“There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his
upper _chop_, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth.”

*This reminds us that the Right Whale really has a sort of whisker, or
rather a moustache, consisting of a few scattered white hairs on the
upper part of the outer end of the lower jaw. Sometimes these tufts
impart a rather brigandish expression to his otherwise solemn
countenance.

As every one knows, these same “hogs’ bristles,” “fins,” “whiskers,”
“blinds,” or whatever you please, furnish to the ladies their busks and
other stiffening contrivances. But in this particular, the demand has
long been on the decline. It was in Queen Anne’s time that the bone was
in its glory, the farthingale being then all the fashion. And as those
ancient dames moved about gaily, though in the jaws of the whale, as
you may say; even so, in a shower, with the like thoughtlessness, do we
nowadays fly under the same jaws for protection; the umbrella being a
tent spread over the same bone.

But now forget all about blinds and whiskers for a moment, and,
standing in the Right Whale’s mouth, look around you afresh. Seeing all
these colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not
think you were inside of the great Haarlem organ, and gazing upon its
thousand pipes? For a carpet to the organ we have a rug of the softest
Turkey—the tongue, which is glued, as it were, to the floor of the
mouth. It is very fat and tender, and apt to tear in pieces in hoisting
it on deck. This particular tongue now before us; at a passing glance I
should say it was a six-barreler; that is, it will yield you about that
amount of oil.

Ere this, you must have plainly seen the truth of what I started
with—that the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale have almost entirely
different heads. To sum up, then: in the Right Whale’s there is no
great well of sperm; no ivory teeth at all; no long, slender mandible
of a lower jaw, like the Sperm Whale’s. Nor in the Sperm Whale are
there any of those blinds of bone; no huge lower lip; and scarcely
anything of a tongue. Again, the Right Whale has two external
spout-holes, the Sperm Whale only one.

Look your last, now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet
lie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other
will not be very long in following.

Can you catch the expression of the Sperm Whale’s there? It is the same
he died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now
faded away. I think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like
placidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death. But mark the
other head’s expression. See that amazing lower lip, pressed by
accident against the vessel’s side, so as firmly to embrace the jaw.
Does not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical
resolution in facing death? This Right Whale I take to have been a
Stoic; the Sperm Whale, a Platonian, who might have taken up Spinoza in
his latter years.


CHAPTER 76. The Battering-Ram.

Ere quitting, for the nonce, the Sperm Whale’s head, I would have you,
as a sensible physiologist, simply—particularly remark its front
aspect, in all its compacted collectedness. I would have you
investigate it now with the sole view of forming to yourself some
unexaggerated, intelligent estimate of whatever battering-ram power may
be lodged there. Here is a vital point; for you must either
satisfactorily settle this matter with yourself, or for ever remain an
infidel as to one of the most appalling, but not the less true events,
perhaps anywhere to be found in all recorded history.

You observe that in the ordinary swimming position of the Sperm Whale,
the front of his head presents an almost wholly vertical plane to the
water; you observe that the lower part of that front slopes
considerably backwards, so as to furnish more of a retreat for the long
socket which receives the boom-like lower jaw; you observe that the
mouth is entirely under the head, much in the same way, indeed, as
though your own mouth were entirely under your chin. Moreover you
observe that the whale has no external nose; and that what nose he
has—his spout hole—is on the top of his head; you observe that his eyes
and ears are at the sides of his head, nearly one third of his entire
length from the front. Wherefore, you must now have perceived that the
front of the Sperm Whale’s head is a dead, blind wall, without a single
organ or tender prominence of any sort whatsoever. Furthermore, you are
now to consider that only in the extreme, lower, backward sloping part
of the front of the head, is there the slightest vestige of bone; and
not till you get near twenty feet from the forehead do you come to the
full cranial development. So that this whole enormous boneless mass is
as one wad. Finally, though, as will soon be revealed, its contents
partly comprise the most delicate oil; yet, you are now to be apprised
of the nature of the substance which so impregnably invests all that
apparent effeminacy. In some previous place I have described to you how
the blubber wraps the body of the whale, as the rind wraps an orange.
Just so with the head; but with this difference: about the head this
envelope, though not so thick, is of a boneless toughness, inestimable
by any man who has not handled it. The severest pointed harpoon, the
sharpest lance darted by the strongest human arm, impotently rebounds
from it. It is as though the forehead of the Sperm Whale were paved
with horses’ hoofs. I do not think that any sensation lurks in it.

Bethink yourself also of another thing. When two large, loaded Indiamen
chance to crowd and crush towards each other in the docks, what do the
sailors do? They do not suspend between them, at the point of coming
contact, any merely hard substance, like iron or wood. No, they hold
there a large, round wad of tow and cork, enveloped in the thickest and
toughest of ox-hide. That bravely and uninjured takes the jam which
would have snapped all their oaken handspikes and iron crow-bars. By
itself this sufficiently illustrates the obvious fact I drive at. But
supplementary to this, it has hypothetically occurred to me, that as
ordinary fish possess what is called a swimming bladder in them,
capable, at will, of distension or contraction; and as the Sperm Whale,
as far as I know, has no such provision in him; considering, too, the
otherwise inexplicable manner in which he now depresses his head
altogether beneath the surface, and anon swims with it high elevated
out of the water; considering the unobstructed elasticity of its
envelope; considering the unique interior of his head; it has
hypothetically occurred to me, I say, that those mystical lung-celled
honeycombs there may possibly have some hitherto unknown and
unsuspected connexion with the outer air, so as to be susceptible to
atmospheric distension and contraction. If this be so, fancy the
irresistibleness of that might, to which the most impalpable and
destructive of all elements contributes.

Now, mark. Unerringly impelling this dead, impregnable, uninjurable
wall, and this most buoyant thing within; there swims behind it all a
mass of tremendous life, only to be adequately estimated as piled wood
is—by the cord; and all obedient to one volition, as the smallest
insect. So that when I shall hereafter detail to you all the
specialities and concentrations of potency everywhere lurking in this
expansive monster; when I shall show you some of his more
inconsiderable braining feats; I trust you will have renounced all
ignorant incredulity, and be ready to abide by this; that though the
Sperm Whale stove a passage through the Isthmus of Darien, and mixed
the Atlantic with the Pacific, you would not elevate one hair of your
eye-brow. For unless you own the whale, you are but a provincial and
sentimentalist in Truth. But clear Truth is a thing for salamander
giants only to encounter; how small the chances for the provincials
then? What befell the weakling youth lifting the dread goddess’s veil
at Lais?


CHAPTER 77. The Great Heidelburgh Tun.

Now comes the Baling of the Case. But to comprehend it aright, you must
know something of the curious internal structure of the thing operated
upon.

Regarding the Sperm Whale’s head as a solid oblong, you may, on an
inclined plane, sideways divide it into two quoins,* whereof the lower
is the bony structure, forming the cranium and jaws, and the upper an
unctuous mass wholly free from bones; its broad forward end forming the
expanded vertical apparent forehead of the whale. At the middle of the
forehead horizontally subdivide this upper quoin, and then you have two
almost equal parts, which before were naturally divided by an internal
wall of a thick tendinous substance.

*Quoin is not a Euclidean term. It belongs to the pure nautical
mathematics. I know not that it has been defined before. A quoin is a
solid which differs from a wedge in having its sharp end formed by the
steep inclination of one side, instead of the mutual tapering of both
sides.

The lower subdivided part, called the junk, is one immense honeycomb of
oil, formed by the crossing and recrossing, into ten thousand
infiltrated cells, of tough elastic white fibres throughout its whole
extent. The upper part, known as the Case, may be regarded as the great
Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale. And as that famous great tierce is
mystically carved in front, so the whale’s vast plaited forehead forms
innumerable strange devices for the emblematical adornment of his
wondrous tun. Moreover, as that of Heidelburgh was always replenished
with the most excellent of the wines of the Rhenish valleys, so the tun
of the whale contains by far the most precious of all his oily
vintages; namely, the highly-prized spermaceti, in its absolutely pure,
limpid, and odoriferous state. Nor is this precious substance found
unalloyed in any other part of the creature. Though in life it remains
perfectly fluid, yet, upon exposure to the air, after death, it soon
begins to concrete; sending forth beautiful crystalline shoots, as when
the first thin delicate ice is just forming in water. A large whale’s
case generally yields about five hundred gallons of sperm, though from
unavoidable circumstances, considerable of it is spilled, leaks, and
dribbles away, or is otherwise irrevocably lost in the ticklish
business of securing what you can.

I know not with what fine and costly material the Heidelburgh Tun was
coated within, but in superlative richness that coating could not
possibly have compared with the silken pearl-coloured membrane, like
the lining of a fine pelisse, forming the inner surface of the Sperm
Whale’s case.

It will have been seen that the Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale
embraces the entire length of the entire top of the head; and since—as
has been elsewhere set forth—the head embraces one third of the whole
length of the creature, then setting that length down at eighty feet
for a good sized whale, you have more than twenty-six feet for the
depth of the tun, when it is lengthwise hoisted up and down against a
ship’s side.

As in decapitating the whale, the operator’s instrument is brought
close to the spot where an entrance is subsequently forced into the
spermaceti magazine; he has, therefore, to be uncommonly heedful, lest
a careless, untimely stroke should invade the sanctuary and wastingly
let out its invaluable contents. It is this decapitated end of the
head, also, which is at last elevated out of the water, and retained in
that position by the enormous cutting tackles, whose hempen
combinations, on one side, make quite a wilderness of ropes in that
quarter.

Thus much being said, attend now, I pray you, to that marvellous and—in
this particular instance—almost fatal operation whereby the Sperm
Whale’s great Heidelburgh Tun is tapped.


CHAPTER 78. Cistern and Buckets.

Nimble as a cat, Tashtego mounts aloft; and without altering his erect
posture, runs straight out upon the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the
part where it exactly projects over the hoisted Tun. He has carried
with him a light tackle called a whip, consisting of only two parts,
travelling through a single-sheaved block. Securing this block, so that
it hangs down from the yard-arm, he swings one end of the rope, till it
is caught and firmly held by a hand on deck. Then, hand-over-hand, down
the other part, the Indian drops through the air, till dexterously he
lands on the summit of the head. There—still high elevated above the
rest of the company, to whom he vivaciously cries—he seems some Turkish
Muezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower. A
short-handled sharp spade being sent up to him, he diligently searches
for the proper place to begin breaking into the Tun. In this business
he proceeds very heedfully, like a treasure-hunter in some old house,
sounding the walls to find where the gold is masoned in. By the time
this cautious search is over, a stout iron-bound bucket, precisely like
a well-bucket, has been attached to one end of the whip; while the
other end, being stretched across the deck, is there held by two or
three alert hands. These last now hoist the bucket within grasp of the
Indian, to whom another person has reached up a very long pole.
Inserting this pole into the bucket, Tashtego downward guides the
bucket into the Tun, till it entirely disappears; then giving the word
to the seamen at the whip, up comes the bucket again, all bubbling like
a dairy-maid’s pail of new milk. Carefully lowered from its height, the
full-freighted vessel is caught by an appointed hand, and quickly
emptied into a large tub. Then remounting aloft, it again goes through
the same round until the deep cistern will yield no more. Towards the
end, Tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper
and deeper into the Tun, until some twenty feet of the pole have gone
down.

Now, the people of the Pequod had been baling some time in this way;
several tubs had been filled with the fragrant sperm; when all at once
a queer accident happened. Whether it was that Tashtego, that wild
Indian, was so heedless and reckless as to let go for a moment his
one-handed hold on the great cabled tackles suspending the head; or
whether the place where he stood was so treacherous and oozy; or
whether the Evil One himself would have it to fall out so, without
stating his particular reasons; how it was exactly, there is no telling
now; but, on a sudden, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came
suckingly up—my God! poor Tashtego—like the twin reciprocating bucket
in a veritable well, dropped head-foremost down into this great Tun of
Heidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, went clean out of
sight!

“Man overboard!” cried Daggoo, who amid the general consternation first
came to his senses. “Swing the bucket this way!” and putting one foot
into it, so as the better to secure his slippery hand-hold on the whip
itself, the hoisters ran him high up to the top of the head, almost
before Tashtego could have reached its interior bottom. Meantime, there
was a terrible tumult. Looking over the side, they saw the before
lifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the surface of the sea,
as if that moment seized with some momentous idea; whereas it was only
the poor Indian unconsciously revealing by those struggles the perilous
depth to which he had sunk.

At this instant, while Daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing
the whip—which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles—a
sharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all,
one of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a
vast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship
reeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg. The one remaining hook,
upon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be
on the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent
motions of the head.

“Come down, come down!” yelled the seamen to Daggoo, but with one hand
holding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he
would still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line,
rammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the
buried harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out.

“In heaven’s name, man,” cried Stubb, “are you ramming home a cartridge
there?—Avast! How will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on
top of his head? Avast, will ye!”

“Stand clear of the tackle!” cried a voice like the bursting of a
rocket.

Almost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass
dropped into the sea, like Niagara’s Table-Rock into the whirlpool; the
suddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering
copper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging—now over the
sailors’ heads, and now over the water—Daggoo, through a thick mist of
spray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor,
buried-alive Tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the
sea! But hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked
figure with a boarding-sword in his hand, was for one swift moment seen
hovering over the bulwarks. The next, a loud splash announced that my
brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. One packed rush was made to the
side, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment,
and no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen. Some hands
now jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the
ship.

“Ha! ha!” cried Daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch
overhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust
upright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust
forth from the grass over a grave.

“Both! both!—it is both!”—cried Daggoo again with a joyful shout; and
soon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and
with the other clutching the long hair of the Indian. Drawn into the
waiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but Tashtego was
long in coming to, and Queequeg did not look very brisk.

Now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Why, diving after the
slowly descending head, Queequeg with his keen sword had made side
lunges near its bottom, so as to scuttle a large hole there; then
dropping his sword, had thrust his long arm far inwards and upwards,
and so hauled out poor Tash by the head. He averred, that upon first
thrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that
was not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble;—he had
thrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a
somerset upon the Indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in
the good old way—head foremost. As for the great head itself, that was
doing as well as could be expected.

And thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of
Queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego, was
successfully accomplished, in the teeth, too, of the most untoward and
apparently hopeless impediments; which is a lesson by no means to be
forgotten. Midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing
and boxing, riding and rowing.

I know that this queer adventure of the Gay-Header’s will be sure to
seem incredible to some landsmen, though they themselves may have
either seen or heard of some one’s falling into a cistern ashore; an
accident which not seldom happens, and with much less reason too than
the Indian’s, considering the exceeding slipperiness of the curb of the
Sperm Whale’s well.

But, peradventure, it may be sagaciously urged, how is this? We thought
the tissued, infiltrated head of the Sperm Whale, was the lightest and
most corky part about him; and yet thou makest it sink in an element of
a far greater specific gravity than itself. We have thee there. Not at
all, but I have ye; for at the time poor Tash fell in, the case had
been nearly emptied of its lighter contents, leaving little but the
dense tendinous wall of the well—a double welded, hammered substance,
as I have before said, much heavier than the sea water, and a lump of
which sinks in it like lead almost. But the tendency to rapid sinking
in this substance was in the present instance materially counteracted
by the other parts of the head remaining undetached from it, so that it
sank very slowly and deliberately indeed, affording Queequeg a fair
chance for performing his agile obstetrics on the run, as you may say.
Yes, it was a running delivery, so it was.

Now, had Tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious
perishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant
spermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber
and sanctum sanctorum of the whale. Only one sweeter end can readily be
recalled—the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey
in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that
leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed. How
many, think ye, have likewise fallen into Plato’s honey head, and
sweetly perished there?


CHAPTER 79. The Prairie.

To scan the lines of his face, or feel the bumps on the head of this
Leviathan; this is a thing which no Physiognomist or Phrenologist has
as yet undertaken. Such an enterprise would seem almost as hopeful as
for Lavater to have scrutinized the wrinkles on the Rock of Gibraltar,
or for Gall to have mounted a ladder and manipulated the Dome of the
Pantheon. Still, in that famous work of his, Lavater not only treats of
the various faces of men, but also attentively studies the faces of
horses, birds, serpents, and fish; and dwells in detail upon the
modifications of expression discernible therein. Nor have Gall and his
disciple Spurzheim failed to throw out some hints touching the
phrenological characteristics of other beings than man. Therefore,
though I am but ill qualified for a pioneer, in the application of
these two semi-sciences to the whale, I will do my endeavor. I try all
things; I achieve what I can.

Physiognomically regarded, the Sperm Whale is an anomalous creature. He
has no proper nose. And since the nose is the central and most
conspicuous of the features; and since it perhaps most modifies and
finally controls their combined expression; hence it would seem that
its entire absence, as an external appendage, must very largely affect
the countenance of the whale. For as in landscape gardening, a spire,
cupola, monument, or tower of some sort, is deemed almost indispensable
to the completion of the scene; so no face can be physiognomically in
keeping without the elevated open-work belfry of the nose. Dash the
nose from Phidias’s marble Jove, and what a sorry remainder!
Nevertheless, Leviathan is of so mighty a magnitude, all his
proportions are so stately, that the same deficiency which in the
sculptured Jove were hideous, in him is no blemish at all. Nay, it is
an added grandeur. A nose to the whale would have been impertinent. As
on your physiognomical voyage you sail round his vast head in your
jolly-boat, your noble conceptions of him are never insulted by the
reflection that he has a nose to be pulled. A pestilent conceit, which
so often will insist upon obtruding even when beholding the mightiest
royal beadle on his throne.

In some particulars, perhaps the most imposing physiognomical view to
be had of the Sperm Whale, is that of the full front of his head. This
aspect is sublime.

In thought, a fine human brow is like the East when troubled with the
morning. In the repose of the pasture, the curled brow of the bull has
a touch of the grand in it. Pushing heavy cannon up mountain defiles,
the elephant’s brow is majestic. Human or animal, the mystical brow is
as that great golden seal affixed by the German emperors to their
decrees. It signifies—“God: done this day by my hand.” But in most
creatures, nay in man himself, very often the brow is but a mere strip
of alpine land lying along the snow line. Few are the foreheads which
like Shakespeare’s or Melancthon’s rise so high, and descend so low,
that the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes;
and all above them in the forehead’s wrinkles, you seem to track the
antlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the Highland hunters
track the snow prints of the deer. But in the great Sperm Whale, this
high and mighty god-like dignity inherent in the brow is so immensely
amplified, that gazing on it, in that full front view, you feel the
Deity and the dread powers more forcibly than in beholding any other
object in living nature. For you see no one point precisely; not one
distinct feature is revealed; no nose, eyes, ears, or mouth; no face;
he has none, proper; nothing but that one broad firmament of a
forehead, pleated with riddles; dumbly lowering with the doom of boats,
and ships, and men. Nor, in profile, does this wondrous brow diminish;
though that way viewed its grandeur does not domineer upon you so. In
profile, you plainly perceive that horizontal, semi-crescentic
depression in the forehead’s middle, which, in man, is Lavater’s mark
of genius.

But how? Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a
book, spoken a speech? No, his great genius is declared in his doing
nothing particular to prove it. It is moreover declared in his
pyramidical silence. And this reminds me that had the great Sperm Whale
been known to the young Orient World, he would have been deified by
their child-magian thoughts. They deified the crocodile of the Nile,
because the crocodile is tongueless; and the Sperm Whale has no tongue,
or at least it is so exceedingly small, as to be incapable of
protrusion. If hereafter any highly cultured, poetical nation shall
lure back to their birth-right, the merry May-day gods of old; and
livingly enthrone them again in the now egotistical sky; in the now
unhaunted hill; then be sure, exalted to Jove’s high seat, the great
Sperm Whale shall lord it.

Champollion deciphered the wrinkled granite hieroglyphics. But there is
no Champollion to decipher the Egypt of every man’s and every being’s
face. Physiognomy, like every other human science, is but a passing
fable. If then, Sir William Jones, who read in thirty languages, could
not read the simplest peasant’s face in its profounder and more subtle
meanings, how may unlettered Ishmael hope to read the awful Chaldee of
the Sperm Whale’s brow? I but put that brow before you. Read it if you
can.


CHAPTER 80. The Nut.

If the Sperm Whale be physiognomically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist
his brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to
square.

In the full-grown creature the skull will measure at least twenty feet
in length. Unhinge the lower jaw, and the side view of this skull is as
the side of a moderately inclined plane resting throughout on a level
base. But in life—as we have elsewhere seen—this inclined plane is
angularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous superincumbent
mass of the junk and sperm. At the high end the skull forms a crater to
bed that part of the mass; while under the long floor of this crater—in
another cavity seldom exceeding ten inches in length and as many in
depth—reposes the mere handful of this monster’s brain. The brain is at
least twenty feet from his apparent forehead in life; it is hidden away
behind its vast outworks, like the innermost citadel within the
amplified fortifications of Quebec. So like a choice casket is it
secreted in him, that I have known some whalemen who peremptorily deny
that the Sperm Whale has any other brain than that palpable semblance
of one formed by the cubic-yards of his sperm magazine. Lying in
strange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it
seems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that
mystic part of him as the seat of his intelligence.

It is plain, then, that phrenologically the head of this Leviathan, in
the creature’s living intact state, is an entire delusion. As for his
true brain, you can then see no indications of it, nor feel any. The
whale, like all things that are mighty, wears a false brow to the
common world.

If you unload his skull of its spermy heaps and then take a rear view
of its rear end, which is the high end, you will be struck by its
resemblance to the human skull, beheld in the same situation, and from
the same point of view. Indeed, place this reversed skull (scaled down
to the human magnitude) among a plate of men’s skulls, and you would
involuntarily confound it with them; and remarking the depressions on
one part of its summit, in phrenological phrase you would say—This man
had no self-esteem, and no veneration. And by those negations,
considered along with the affirmative fact of his prodigious bulk and
power, you can best form to yourself the truest, though not the most
exhilarating conception of what the most exalted potency is.

But if from the comparative dimensions of the whale’s proper brain, you
deem it incapable of being adequately charted, then I have another idea
for you. If you attentively regard almost any quadruped’s spine, you
will be struck with the resemblance of its vertebræ to a strung
necklace of dwarfed skulls, all bearing rudimental resemblance to the
skull proper. It is a German conceit, that the vertebræ are absolutely
undeveloped skulls. But the curious external resemblance, I take it the
Germans were not the first men to perceive. A foreign friend once
pointed it out to me, in the skeleton of a foe he had slain, and with
the vertebræ of which he was inlaying, in a sort of basso-relievo, the
beaked prow of his canoe. Now, I consider that the phrenologists have
omitted an important thing in not pushing their investigations from the
cerebellum through the spinal canal. For I believe that much of a man’s
character will be found betokened in his backbone. I would rather feel
your spine than your skull, whoever you are. A thin joist of a spine
never yet upheld a full and noble soul. I rejoice in my spine, as in
the firm audacious staff of that flag which I fling half out to the
world.

Apply this spinal branch of phrenology to the Sperm Whale. His cranial
cavity is continuous with the first neck-vertebra; and in that vertebra
the bottom of the spinal canal will measure ten inches across, being
eight in height, and of a triangular figure with the base downwards. As
it passes through the remaining vertebræ the canal tapers in size, but
for a considerable distance remains of large capacity. Now, of course,
this canal is filled with much the same strangely fibrous substance—the
spinal cord—as the brain; and directly communicates with the brain. And
what is still more, for many feet after emerging from the brain’s
cavity, the spinal cord remains of an undecreasing girth, almost equal
to that of the brain. Under all these circumstances, would it be
unreasonable to survey and map out the whale’s spine phrenologically?
For, viewed in this light, the wonderful comparative smallness of his
brain proper is more than compensated by the wonderful comparative
magnitude of his spinal cord.

But leaving this hint to operate as it may with the phrenologists, I
would merely assume the spinal theory for a moment, in reference to the
Sperm Whale’s hump. This august hump, if I mistake not, rises over one
of the larger vertebræ, and is, therefore, in some sort, the outer
convex mould of it. From its relative situation then, I should call
this high hump the organ of firmness or indomitableness in the Sperm
Whale. And that the great monster is indomitable, you will yet have
reason to know.


CHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.

The predestinated day arrived, and we duly met the ship Jungfrau,
Derick De Deer, master, of Bremen.

At one time the greatest whaling people in the world, the Dutch and
Germans are now among the least; but here and there at very wide
intervals of latitude and longitude, you still occasionally meet with
their flag in the Pacific.

For some reason, the Jungfrau seemed quite eager to pay her respects.
While yet some distance from the Pequod, she rounded to, and dropping a
boat, her captain was impelled towards us, impatiently standing in the
bows instead of the stern.

“What has he in his hand there?” cried Starbuck, pointing to something
wavingly held by the German. “Impossible!—a lamp-feeder!”

“Not that,” said Stubb, “no, no, it’s a coffee-pot, Mr. Starbuck; he’s
coming off to make us our coffee, is the Yarman; don’t you see that big
tin can there alongside of him?—that’s his boiling water. Oh! he’s all
right, is the Yarman.”

“Go along with you,” cried Flask, “it’s a lamp-feeder and an oil-can.
He’s out of oil, and has come a-begging.”

However curious it may seem for an oil-ship to be borrowing oil on the
whale-ground, and however much it may invertedly contradict the old
proverb about carrying coals to Newcastle, yet sometimes such a thing
really happens; and in the present case Captain Derick De Deer did
indubitably conduct a lamp-feeder as Flask did declare.

As he mounted the deck, Ahab abruptly accosted him, without at all
heeding what he had in his hand; but in his broken lingo, the German
soon evinced his complete ignorance of the White Whale; immediately
turning the conversation to his lamp-feeder and oil can, with some
remarks touching his having to turn into his hammock at night in
profound darkness—his last drop of Bremen oil being gone, and not a
single flying-fish yet captured to supply the deficiency; concluding by
hinting that his ship was indeed what in the Fishery is technically
called a _clean_ one (that is, an empty one), well deserving the name
of Jungfrau or the Virgin.

His necessities supplied, Derick departed; but he had not gained his
ship’s side, when whales were almost simultaneously raised from the
mast-heads of both vessels; and so eager for the chase was Derick, that
without pausing to put his oil-can and lamp-feeder aboard, he slewed
round his boat and made after the leviathan lamp-feeders.

Now, the game having risen to leeward, he and the other three German
boats that soon followed him, had considerably the start of the
Pequod’s keels. There were eight whales, an average pod. Aware of their
danger, they were going all abreast with great speed straight before
the wind, rubbing their flanks as closely as so many spans of horses in
harness. They left a great, wide wake, as though continually unrolling
a great wide parchment upon the sea.

Full in this rapid wake, and many fathoms in the rear, swam a huge,
humped old bull, which by his comparatively slow progress, as well as
by the unusual yellowish incrustations overgrowing him, seemed
afflicted with the jaundice, or some other infirmity. Whether this
whale belonged to the pod in advance, seemed questionable; for it is
not customary for such venerable leviathans to be at all social.
Nevertheless, he stuck to their wake, though indeed their back water
must have retarded him, because the white-bone or swell at his broad
muzzle was a dashed one, like the swell formed when two hostile
currents meet. His spout was short, slow, and laborious; coming forth
with a choking sort of gush, and spending itself in torn shreds,
followed by strange subterranean commotions in him, which seemed to
have egress at his other buried extremity, causing the waters behind
him to upbubble.

“Who’s got some paregoric?” said Stubb, “he has the stomach-ache, I’m
afraid. Lord, think of having half an acre of stomach-ache! Adverse
winds are holding mad Christmas in him, boys. It’s the first foul wind
I ever knew to blow from astern; but look, did ever whale yaw so
before? it must be, he’s lost his tiller.”

As an overladen Indiaman bearing down the Hindostan coast with a deck
load of frightened horses, careens, buries, rolls, and wallows on her
way; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and then partly
turning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause of his devious
wake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin. Whether he had lost
that fin in battle, or had been born without it, it were hard to say.

“Only wait a bit, old chap, and I’ll give ye a sling for that wounded
arm,” cried cruel Flask, pointing to the whale-line near him.

“Mind he don’t sling thee with it,” cried Starbuck. “Give way, or the
German will have him.”

With one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for this one
fish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the most
valuable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other whales were
going with such great velocity, moreover, as almost to defy pursuit for
the time. At this juncture the Pequod’s keels had shot by the three
German boats last lowered; but from the great start he had had,
Derick’s boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by his
foreign rivals. The only thing they feared, was, that from being
already so nigh to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron
before they could completely overtake and pass him. As for Derick, he
seemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally
with a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats.

“The ungracious and ungrateful dog!” cried Starbuck; “he mocks and
dares me with the very poor-box I filled for him not five minutes
ago!”—then in his old intense whisper—“Give way, greyhounds! Dog to
it!”

“I tell ye what it is, men”—cried Stubb to his crew—“it’s against my
religion to get mad; but I’d like to eat that villainous
Yarman—Pull—won’t ye? Are ye going to let that rascal beat ye? Do ye
love brandy? A hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man. Come, why
don’t some of ye burst a blood-vessel? Who’s that been dropping an
anchor overboard—we don’t budge an inch—we’re becalmed. Halloo, here’s
grass growing in the boat’s bottom—and by the Lord, the mast there’s
budding. This won’t do, boys. Look at that Yarman! The short and long
of it is, men, will ye spit fire or not?”

“Oh! see the suds he makes!” cried Flask, dancing up and down—“What a
hump—Oh, _do_ pile on the beef—lays like a log! Oh! my lads, _do_
spring—slap-jacks and quahogs for supper, you know, my lads—baked clams
and muffins—oh, _do_, _do_, spring,—he’s a hundred barreller—don’t lose
him now—don’t oh, _don’t!_—see that Yarman—Oh, won’t ye pull for your
duff, my lads—such a sog! such a sogger! Don’t ye love sperm? There
goes three thousand dollars, men!—a bank!—a whole bank! The bank of
England!—Oh, _do_, _do_, _do!_—What’s that Yarman about now?”

At this moment Derick was in the act of pitching his lamp-feeder at the
advancing boats, and also his oil-can; perhaps with the double view of
retarding his rivals’ way, and at the same time economically
accelerating his own by the momentary impetus of the backward toss.

“The unmannerly Dutch dogger!” cried Stubb. “Pull now, men, like fifty
thousand line-of-battle-ship loads of red-haired devils. What d’ye say,
Tashtego; are you the man to snap your spine in two-and-twenty pieces
for the honor of old Gayhead? What d’ye say?”

“I say, pull like god-dam,”—cried the Indian.

Fiercely, but evenly incited by the taunts of the German, the Pequod’s
three boats now began ranging almost abreast; and, so disposed,
momentarily neared him. In that fine, loose, chivalrous attitude of the
headsman when drawing near to his prey, the three mates stood up
proudly, occasionally backing the after oarsman with an exhilarating
cry of, “There she slides, now! Hurrah for the white-ash breeze! Down
with the Yarman! Sail over him!”

But so decided an original start had Derick had, that spite of all
their gallantry, he would have proved the victor in this race, had not
a righteous judgment descended upon him in a crab which caught the
blade of his midship oarsman. While this clumsy lubber was striving to
free his white-ash, and while, in consequence, Derick’s boat was nigh
to capsizing, and he thundering away at his men in a mighty rage;—that
was a good time for Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask. With a shout, they took
a mortal start forwards, and slantingly ranged up on the German’s
quarter. An instant more, and all four boats were diagonically in the
whale’s immediate wake, while stretching from them, on both sides, was
the foaming swell that he made.

It was a terrific, most pitiable, and maddening sight. The whale was
now going head out, and sending his spout before him in a continual
tormented jet; while his one poor fin beat his side in an agony of
fright. Now to this hand, now to that, he yawed in his faltering
flight, and still at every billow that he broke, he spasmodically sank
in the sea, or sideways rolled towards the sky his one beating fin. So
have I seen a bird with clipped wing making affrighted broken circles
in the air, vainly striving to escape the piratical hawks. But the bird
has a voice, and with plaintive cries will make known her fear; but the
fear of this vast dumb brute of the sea, was chained up and enchanted
in him; he had no voice, save that choking respiration through his
spiracle, and this made the sight of him unspeakably pitiable; while
still, in his amazing bulk, portcullis jaw, and omnipotent tail, there
was enough to appal the stoutest man who so pitied.

Seeing now that but a very few moments more would give the Pequod’s
boats the advantage, and rather than be thus foiled of his game, Derick
chose to hazard what to him must have seemed a most unusually long
dart, ere the last chance would for ever escape.

But no sooner did his harpooneer stand up for the stroke, than all
three tigers—Queequeg, Tashtego, Daggoo—instinctively sprang to their
feet, and standing in a diagonal row, simultaneously pointed their
barbs; and darted over the head of the German harpooneer, their three
Nantucket irons entered the whale. Blinding vapors of foam and
white-fire! The three boats, in the first fury of the whale’s headlong
rush, bumped the German’s aside with such force, that both Derick and
his baffled harpooneer were spilled out, and sailed over by the three
flying keels.

“Don’t be afraid, my butter-boxes,” cried Stubb, casting a passing
glance upon them as he shot by; “ye’ll be picked up presently—all
right—I saw some sharks astern—St. Bernard’s dogs, you know—relieve
distressed travellers. Hurrah! this is the way to sail now. Every keel
a sunbeam! Hurrah!—Here we go like three tin kettles at the tail of a
mad cougar! This puts me in mind of fastening to an elephant in a
tilbury on a plain—makes the wheel-spokes fly, boys, when you fasten to
him that way; and there’s danger of being pitched out too, when you
strike a hill. Hurrah! this is the way a fellow feels when he’s going
to Davy Jones—all a rush down an endless inclined plane! Hurrah! this
whale carries the everlasting mail!”

But the monster’s run was a brief one. Giving a sudden gasp, he
tumultuously sounded. With a grating rush, the three lines flew round
the loggerheads with such a force as to gouge deep grooves in them;
while so fearful were the harpooneers that this rapid sounding would
soon exhaust the lines, that using all their dexterous might, they
caught repeated smoking turns with the rope to hold on; till at
last—owing to the perpendicular strain from the lead-lined chocks of
the boats, whence the three ropes went straight down into the blue—the
gunwales of the bows were almost even with the water, while the three
sterns tilted high in the air. And the whale soon ceasing to sound, for
some time they remained in that attitude, fearful of expending more
line, though the position was a little ticklish. But though boats have
been taken down and lost in this way, yet it is this “holding on,” as
it is called; this hooking up by the sharp barbs of his live flesh from
the back; this it is that often torments the Leviathan into soon rising
again to meet the sharp lance of his foes. Yet not to speak of the
peril of the thing, it is to be doubted whether this course is always
the best; for it is but reasonable to presume, that the longer the
stricken whale stays under water, the more he is exhausted. Because,
owing to the enormous surface of him—in a full grown sperm whale
something less than 2000 square feet—the pressure of the water is
immense. We all know what an astonishing atmospheric weight we
ourselves stand up under; even here, above-ground, in the air; how
vast, then, the burden of a whale, bearing on his back a column of two
hundred fathoms of ocean! It must at least equal the weight of fifty
atmospheres. One whaleman has estimated it at the weight of twenty
line-of-battle ships, with all their guns, and stores, and men on
board.

As the three boats lay there on that gently rolling sea, gazing down
into its eternal blue noon; and as not a single groan or cry of any
sort, nay, not so much as a ripple or a bubble came up from its depths;
what landsman would have thought, that beneath all that silence and
placidity, the utmost monster of the seas was writhing and wrenching in
agony! Not eight inches of perpendicular rope were visible at the bows.
Seems it credible that by three such thin threads the great Leviathan
was suspended like the big weight to an eight day clock. Suspended? and
to what? To three bits of board. Is this the creature of whom it was
once so triumphantly said—“Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons?
or his head with fish-spears? The sword of him that layeth at him
cannot hold, the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon: he esteemeth iron
as straw; the arrow cannot make him flee; darts are counted as stubble;
he laugheth at the shaking of a spear!” This the creature? this he? Oh!
that unfulfilments should follow the prophets. For with the strength of
a thousand thighs in his tail, Leviathan had run his head under the
mountains of the sea, to hide him from the Pequod’s fish-spears!

In that sloping afternoon sunlight, the shadows that the three boats
sent down beneath the surface, must have been long enough and broad
enough to shade half Xerxes’ army. Who can tell how appalling to the
wounded whale must have been such huge phantoms flitting over his head!

“Stand by, men; he stirs,” cried Starbuck, as the three lines suddenly
vibrated in the water, distinctly conducting upwards to them, as by
magnetic wires, the life and death throbs of the whale, so that every
oarsman felt them in his seat. The next moment, relieved in great part
from the downward strain at the bows, the boats gave a sudden bounce
upwards, as a small icefield will, when a dense herd of white bears are
scared from it into the sea.

“Haul in! Haul in!” cried Starbuck again; “he’s rising.”

The lines, of which, hardly an instant before, not one hand’s breadth
could have been gained, were now in long quick coils flung back all
dripping into the boats, and soon the whale broke water within two
ship’s lengths of the hunters.

His motions plainly denoted his extreme exhaustion. In most land
animals there are certain valves or flood-gates in many of their veins,
whereby when wounded, the blood is in some degree at least instantly
shut off in certain directions. Not so with the whale; one of whose
peculiarities it is to have an entire non-valvular structure of the
blood-vessels, so that when pierced even by so small a point as a
harpoon, a deadly drain is at once begun upon his whole arterial
system; and when this is heightened by the extraordinary pressure of
water at a great distance below the surface, his life may be said to
pour from him in incessant streams. Yet so vast is the quantity of
blood in him, and so distant and numerous its interior fountains, that
he will keep thus bleeding and bleeding for a considerable period; even
as in a drought a river will flow, whose source is in the well-springs
of far-off and undiscernible hills. Even now, when the boats pulled
upon this whale, and perilously drew over his swaying flukes, and the
lances were darted into him, they were followed by steady jets from the
new made wound, which kept continually playing, while the natural
spout-hole in his head was only at intervals, however rapid, sending
its affrighted moisture into the air. From this last vent no blood yet
came, because no vital part of him had thus far been struck. His life,
as they significantly call it, was untouched.

As the boats now more closely surrounded him, the whole upper part of
his form, with much of it that is ordinarily submerged, was plainly
revealed. His eyes, or rather the places where his eyes had been, were
beheld. As strange misgrown masses gather in the knot-holes of the
noblest oaks when prostrate, so from the points which the whale’s eyes
had once occupied, now protruded blind bulbs, horribly pitiable to see.
But pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm, and his
blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light
the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate
the solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to
all. Still rolling in his blood, at last he partially disclosed a
strangely discoloured bunch or protuberance, the size of a bushel, low
down on the flank.

“A nice spot,” cried Flask; “just let me prick him there once.”

“Avast!” cried Starbuck, “there’s no need of that!”

But humane Starbuck was too late. At the instant of the dart an
ulcerous jet shot from this cruel wound, and goaded by it into more
than sufferable anguish, the whale now spouting thick blood, with swift
fury blindly darted at the craft, bespattering them and their glorying
crews all over with showers of gore, capsizing Flask’s boat and marring
the bows. It was his death stroke. For, by this time, so spent was he
by loss of blood, that he helplessly rolled away from the wreck he had
made; lay panting on his side, impotently flapped with his stumped fin,
then over and over slowly revolved like a waning world; turned up the
white secrets of his belly; lay like a log, and died. It was most
piteous, that last expiring spout. As when by unseen hands the water is
gradually drawn off from some mighty fountain, and with half-stifled
melancholy gurglings the spray-column lowers and lowers to the
ground—so the last long dying spout of the whale.

Soon, while the crews were awaiting the arrival of the ship, the body
showed symptoms of sinking with all its treasures unrifled.
Immediately, by Starbuck’s orders, lines were secured to it at
different points, so that ere long every boat was a buoy; the sunken
whale being suspended a few inches beneath them by the cords. By very
heedful management, when the ship drew nigh, the whale was transferred
to her side, and was strongly secured there by the stiffest
fluke-chains, for it was plain that unless artificially upheld, the
body would at once sink to the bottom.

It so chanced that almost upon first cutting into him with the spade,
the entire length of a corroded harpoon was found imbedded in his
flesh, on the lower part of the bunch before described. But as the
stumps of harpoons are frequently found in the dead bodies of captured
whales, with the flesh perfectly healed around them, and no prominence
of any kind to denote their place; therefore, there must needs have
been some other unknown reason in the present case fully to account for
the ulceration alluded to. But still more curious was the fact of a
lance-head of stone being found in him, not far from the buried iron,
the flesh perfectly firm about it. Who had darted that stone lance? And
when? It might have been darted by some Nor’ West Indian long before
America was discovered.

What other marvels might have been rummaged out of this monstrous
cabinet there is no telling. But a sudden stop was put to further
discoveries, by the ship’s being unprecedentedly dragged over sideways
to the sea, owing to the body’s immensely increasing tendency to sink.
However, Starbuck, who had the ordering of affairs, hung on to it to
the last; hung on to it so resolutely, indeed, that when at length the
ship would have been capsized, if still persisting in locking arms with
the body; then, when the command was given to break clear from it, such
was the immovable strain upon the timber-heads to which the
fluke-chains and cables were fastened, that it was impossible to cast
them off. Meantime everything in the Pequod was aslant. To cross to the
other side of the deck was like walking up the steep gabled roof of a
house. The ship groaned and gasped. Many of the ivory inlayings of her
bulwarks and cabins were started from their places, by the unnatural
dislocation. In vain handspikes and crows were brought to bear upon the
immovable fluke-chains, to pry them adrift from the timberheads; and so
low had the whale now settled that the submerged ends could not be at
all approached, while every moment whole tons of ponderosity seemed
added to the sinking bulk, and the ship seemed on the point of going
over.

“Hold on, hold on, won’t ye?” cried Stubb to the body, “don’t be in
such a devil of a hurry to sink! By thunder, men, we must do something
or go for it. No use prying there; avast, I say with your handspikes,
and run one of ye for a prayer book and a pen-knife, and cut the big
chains.”

“Knife? Aye, aye,” cried Queequeg, and seizing the carpenter’s heavy
hatchet, he leaned out of a porthole, and steel to iron, began slashing
at the largest fluke-chains. But a few strokes, full of sparks, were
given, when the exceeding strain effected the rest. With a terrific
snap, every fastening went adrift; the ship righted, the carcase sank.

Now, this occasional inevitable sinking of the recently killed Sperm
Whale is a very curious thing; nor has any fisherman yet adequately
accounted for it. Usually the dead Sperm Whale floats with great
buoyancy, with its side or belly considerably elevated above the
surface. If the only whales that thus sank were old, meagre, and
broken-hearted creatures, their pads of lard diminished and all their
bones heavy and rheumatic; then you might with some reason assert that
this sinking is caused by an uncommon specific gravity in the fish so
sinking, consequent upon this absence of buoyant matter in him. But it
is not so. For young whales, in the highest health, and swelling with
noble aspirations, prematurely cut off in the warm flush and May of
life, with all their panting lard about them; even these brawny,
buoyant heroes do sometimes sink.

Be it said, however, that the Sperm Whale is far less liable to this
accident than any other species. Where one of that sort go down, twenty
Right Whales do. This difference in the species is no doubt imputable
in no small degree to the greater quantity of bone in the Right Whale;
his Venetian blinds alone sometimes weighing more than a ton; from this
incumbrance the Sperm Whale is wholly free. But there are instances
where, after the lapse of many hours or several days, the sunken whale
again rises, more buoyant than in life. But the reason of this is
obvious. Gases are generated in him; he swells to a prodigious
magnitude; becomes a sort of animal balloon. A line-of-battle ship
could hardly keep him under then. In the Shore Whaling, on soundings,
among the Bays of New Zealand, when a Right Whale gives token of
sinking, they fasten buoys to him, with plenty of rope; so that when
the body has gone down, they know where to look for it when it shall
have ascended again.

It was not long after the sinking of the body that a cry was heard from
the Pequod’s mast-heads, announcing that the Jungfrau was again
lowering her boats; though the only spout in sight was that of a
Fin-Back, belonging to the species of uncapturable whales, because of
its incredible power of swimming. Nevertheless, the Fin-Back’s spout is
so similar to the Sperm Whale’s, that by unskilful fishermen it is
often mistaken for it. And consequently Derick and all his host were
now in valiant chase of this unnearable brute. The Virgin crowding all
sail, made after her four young keels, and thus they all disappeared
far to leeward, still in bold, hopeful chase.

Oh! many are the Fin-Backs, and many are the Dericks, my friend.


CHAPTER 82. The Honor and Glory of Whaling.

There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the
true method.

The more I dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up
to the very spring-head of it so much the more am I impressed with its
great honorableness and antiquity; and especially when I find so many
great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other
have shed distinction upon it, I am transported with the reflection
that I myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a
fraternity.

The gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to
the eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale
attacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent.
Those were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms
to succor the distressed, and not to fill men’s lamp-feeders. Every one
knows the fine story of Perseus and Andromeda; how the lovely
Andromeda, the daughter of a king, was tied to a rock on the sea-coast,
and as Leviathan was in the very act of carrying her off, Perseus, the
prince of whalemen, intrepidly advancing, harpooned the monster, and
delivered and married the maid. It was an admirable artistic exploit,
rarely achieved by the best harpooneers of the present day; inasmuch as
this Leviathan was slain at the very first dart. And let no man doubt
this Arkite story; for in the ancient Joppa, now Jaffa, on the Syrian
coast, in one of the Pagan temples, there stood for many ages the vast
skeleton of a whale, which the city’s legends and all the inhabitants
asserted to be the identical bones of the monster that Perseus slew.
When the Romans took Joppa, the same skeleton was carried to Italy in
triumph. What seems most singular and suggestively important in this
story, is this: it was from Joppa that Jonah set sail.

Akin to the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda—indeed, by some supposed
to be indirectly derived from it—is that famous story of St. George and
the Dragon; which dragon I maintain to have been a whale; for in many
old chronicles whales and dragons are strangely jumbled together, and
often stand for each other. “Thou art as a lion of the waters, and as a
dragon of the sea,” saith Ezekiel; hereby, plainly meaning a whale; in
truth, some versions of the Bible use that word itself. Besides, it
would much subtract from the glory of the exploit had St. George but
encountered a crawling reptile of the land, instead of doing battle
with the great monster of the deep. Any man may kill a snake, but only
a Perseus, a St. George, a Coffin, have the heart in them to march
boldly up to a whale.

Let not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the
creature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely
represented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted
on land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance
of those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists;
and considering that as in Perseus’ case, St. George’s whale might have
crawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal
ridden by St. George might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse;
bearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible
with the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to
hold this so-called dragon no other than the great Leviathan himself.
In fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story
will fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the Philistines,
Dagon by name; who being planted before the ark of Israel, his horse’s
head and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the
stump or fishy part of him remained. Thus, then, one of our own noble
stamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of England; and by
good rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most
noble order of St. George. And therefore, let not the knights of that
honorable company (none of whom, I venture to say, have ever had to do
with a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a Nantucketer
with disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we
are much better entitled to St. George’s decoration than they.

Whether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long
remained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that
antique Crockett and Kit Carson—that brawny doer of rejoicing good
deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that
strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere
appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from
the inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary
whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I
claim him for one of our clan.

But, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of
Hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more
ancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versâ; certainly
they are very similar. If I claim the demi-god then, why not the
prophet?

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole
roll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like
royal kings of old times, we find the head waters of our fraternity in
nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental
story is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread
Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives
us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord;—Vishnoo, who, by the first
of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified
the whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved
to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave
birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical
books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo
before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained
something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these
Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became
incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths,
rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even
as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?

Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there’s a
member-roll for you! What club but the whaleman’s can head off like
that?


CHAPTER 83. Jonah Historically Regarded.

Reference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in
the preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this
historical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some
sceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans
of their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale,
and Arion and the dolphin; and yet their doubting those traditions did
not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that.

One old Sag-Harbor whaleman’s chief reason for questioning the Hebrew
story was this:—He had one of those quaint old-fashioned Bibles,
embellished with curious, unscientific plates; one of which represented
Jonah’s whale with two spouts in his head—a peculiarity only true with
respect to a species of the Leviathan (the Right Whale, and the
varieties of that order), concerning which the fishermen have this
saying, “A penny roll would choke him”; his swallow is so very small.
But, to this, Bishop Jebb’s anticipative answer is ready. It is not
necessary, hints the Bishop, that we consider Jonah as tombed in the
whale’s belly, but as temporarily lodged in some part of his mouth. And
this seems reasonable enough in the good Bishop. For truly, the Right
Whale’s mouth would accommodate a couple of whist-tables, and
comfortably seat all the players. Possibly, too, Jonah might have
ensconced himself in a hollow tooth; but, on second thoughts, the Right
Whale is toothless.

Another reason which Sag-Harbor (he went by that name) urged for his
want of faith in this matter of the prophet, was something obscurely in
reference to his incarcerated body and the whale’s gastric juices. But
this objection likewise falls to the ground, because a German exegetist
supposes that Jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a
_dead_ whale—even as the French soldiers in the Russian campaign turned
their dead horses into tents, and crawled into them. Besides, it has
been divined by other continental commentators, that when Jonah was
thrown overboard from the Joppa ship, he straightway effected his
escape to another vessel near by, some vessel with a whale for a
figure-head; and, I would add, possibly called “The Whale,” as some
craft are nowadays christened the “Shark,” the “Gull,” the “Eagle.” Nor
have there been wanting learned exegetists who have opined that the
whale mentioned in the book of Jonah merely meant a life-preserver—an
inflated bag of wind—which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was
saved from a watery doom. Poor Sag-Harbor, therefore, seems worsted all
round. But he had still another reason for his want of faith. It was
this, if I remember right: Jonah was swallowed by the whale in the
Mediterranean Sea, and after three days he was vomited up somewhere
within three days’ journey of Nineveh, a city on the Tigris, very much
more than three days’ journey across from the nearest point of the
Mediterranean coast. How is that?

But was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within
that short distance of Nineveh? Yes. He might have carried him round by
the way of the Cape of Good Hope. But not to speak of the passage
through the whole length of the Mediterranean, and another passage up
the Persian Gulf and Red Sea, such a supposition would involve the
complete circumnavigation of all Africa in three days, not to speak of
the Tigris waters, near the site of Nineveh, being too shallow for any
whale to swim in. Besides, this idea of Jonah’s weathering the Cape of
Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of
that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and
so make modern history a liar.

But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his
foolish pride of reason—a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing
that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the
sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and
abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a
Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah’s going to Nineveh
via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the
general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly
enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah.
And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris’s
Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which
Mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil.


CHAPTER 84. Pitchpoling.

To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are
anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an
analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it
to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly
be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are
hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to
make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing
his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau
disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation;
crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in
the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair
from the craft’s bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to
some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the
event.

Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to
them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered
flight, as of Cleopatra’s barges from Actium.

Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb’s was foremost. By great
exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the
stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal
flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the
planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became
imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to
haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and
furious. What then remained?

Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and
countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced,
none exceed that fine manœuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small
sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It
is only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact
and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is
accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme
headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or
twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the
harpoon, and also of a lighter material—pine. It is furnished with a
small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be
hauled back to the hand after darting.

But before going further, it is important to mention here, that though
the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is
seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on
account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as
compared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks. As a
general thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before
any pitchpoling comes into play.

Look now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and
equanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel
in pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the
flying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet
ahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along
its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers
up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its free end in
his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full
before his waistband’s middle, he levels it at the whale; when,
covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand,
thereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon
his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler,
balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless
impulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans the foaming
distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of
sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.

“That drove the spigot out of him!” cried Stubb. “’Tis July’s immortal
Fourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old
Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then,
Tashtego, lad, I’d have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we’d drink
round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we’d brew choice punch in the
spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the
living stuff.”

Again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated,
the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful
leash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is
slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and
mutely watches the monster die.


CHAPTER 85. The Fountain.

That for six thousand years—and no one knows how many millions of ages
before—the great whales should have been spouting all over the sea, and
sprinkling and mistifying the gardens of the deep, as with so many
sprinkling or mistifying pots; and that for some centuries back,
thousands of hunters should have been close by the fountain of the
whale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings—that all this should
be, and yet, that down to this blessed minute (fifteen and a quarter
minutes past one o’clock P.M. of this sixteenth day of December, A.D.
1851), it should still remain a problem, whether these spoutings are,
after all, really water, or nothing but vapor—this is surely a
noteworthy thing.

Let us, then, look at this matter, along with some interesting items
contingent. Every one knows that by the peculiar cunning of their
gills, the finny tribes in general breathe the air which at all times
is combined with the element in which they swim; hence, a herring or a
cod might live a century, and never once raise its head above the
surface. But owing to his marked internal structure which gives him
regular lungs, like a human being’s, the whale can only live by
inhaling the disengaged air in the open atmosphere. Wherefore the
necessity for his periodical visits to the upper world. But he cannot
in any degree breathe through his mouth, for, in his ordinary attitude,
the Sperm Whale’s mouth is buried at least eight feet beneath the
surface; and what is still more, his windpipe has no connexion with his
mouth. No, he breathes through his spiracle alone; and this is on the
top of his head.

If I say, that in any creature breathing is only a function
indispensable to vitality, inasmuch as it withdraws from the air a
certain element, which being subsequently brought into contact with the
blood imparts to the blood its vivifying principle, I do not think I
shall err; though I may possibly use some superfluous scientific words.
Assume it, and it follows that if all the blood in a man could be
aerated with one breath, he might then seal up his nostrils and not
fetch another for a considerable time. That is to say, he would then
live without breathing. Anomalous as it may seem, this is precisely the
case with the whale, who systematically lives, by intervals, his full
hour and more (when at the bottom) without drawing a single breath, or
so much as in any way inhaling a particle of air; for, remember, he has
no gills. How is this? Between his ribs and on each side of his spine
he is supplied with a remarkable involved Cretan labyrinth of
vermicelli-like vessels, which vessels, when he quits the surface, are
completely distended with oxygenated blood. So that for an hour or
more, a thousand fathoms in the sea, he carries a surplus stock of
vitality in him, just as the camel crossing the waterless desert
carries a surplus supply of drink for future use in its four
supplementary stomachs. The anatomical fact of this labyrinth is
indisputable; and that the supposition founded upon it is reasonable
and true, seems the more cogent to me, when I consider the otherwise
inexplicable obstinacy of that leviathan in _having his spoutings out_,
as the fishermen phrase it. This is what I mean. If unmolested, upon
rising to the surface, the Sperm Whale will continue there for a period
of time exactly uniform with all his other unmolested risings. Say he
stays eleven minutes, and jets seventy times, that is, respires seventy
breaths; then whenever he rises again, he will be sure to have his
seventy breaths over again, to a minute. Now, if after he fetches a few
breaths you alarm him, so that he sounds, he will be always dodging up
again to make good his regular allowance of air. And not till those
seventy breaths are told, will he finally go down to stay out his full
term below. Remark, however, that in different individuals these rates
are different; but in any one they are alike. Now, why should the whale
thus insist upon having his spoutings out, unless it be to replenish
his reservoir of air, ere descending for good? How obvious is it, too,
that this necessity for the whale’s rising exposes him to all the fatal
hazards of the chase. For not by hook or by net could this vast
leviathan be caught, when sailing a thousand fathoms beneath the
sunlight. Not so much thy skill, then, O hunter, as the great
necessities that strike the victory to thee!

In man, breathing is incessantly going on—one breath only serving for
two or three pulsations; so that whatever other business he has to
attend to, waking or sleeping, breathe he must, or die he will. But the
Sperm Whale only breathes about one seventh or Sunday of his time.

It has been said that the whale only breathes through his spout-hole;
if it could truthfully be added that his spouts are mixed with water,
then I opine we should be furnished with the reason why his sense of
smell seems obliterated in him; for the only thing about him that at
all answers to his nose is that identical spout-hole; and being so
clogged with two elements, it could not be expected to have the power
of smelling. But owing to the mystery of the spout—whether it be water
or whether it be vapor—no absolute certainty can as yet be arrived at
on this head. Sure it is, nevertheless, that the Sperm Whale has no
proper olfactories. But what does he want of them? No roses, no
violets, no Cologne-water in the sea.

Furthermore, as his windpipe solely opens into the tube of his spouting
canal, and as that long canal—like the grand Erie Canal—is furnished
with a sort of locks (that open and shut) for the downward retention of
air or the upward exclusion of water, therefore the whale has no voice;
unless you insult him by saying, that when he so strangely rumbles, he
talks through his nose. But then again, what has the whale to say?
Seldom have I known any profound being that had anything to say to this
world, unless forced to stammer out something by way of getting a
living. Oh! happy that the world is such an excellent listener!

Now, the spouting canal of the Sperm Whale, chiefly intended as it is
for the conveyance of air, and for several feet laid along,
horizontally, just beneath the upper surface of his head, and a little
to one side; this curious canal is very much like a gas-pipe laid down
in a city on one side of a street. But the question returns whether
this gas-pipe is also a water-pipe; in other words, whether the spout
of the Sperm Whale is the mere vapor of the exhaled breath, or whether
that exhaled breath is mixed with water taken in at the mouth, and
discharged through the spiracle. It is certain that the mouth
indirectly communicates with the spouting canal; but it cannot be
proved that this is for the purpose of discharging water through the
spiracle. Because the greatest necessity for so doing would seem to be,
when in feeding he accidentally takes in water. But the Sperm Whale’s
food is far beneath the surface, and there he cannot spout even if he
would. Besides, if you regard him very closely, and time him with your
watch, you will find that when unmolested, there is an undeviating
rhyme between the periods of his jets and the ordinary periods of
respiration.

But why pester one with all this reasoning on the subject? Speak out!
You have seen him spout; then declare what the spout is; can you not
tell water from air? My dear sir, in this world it is not so easy to
settle these plain things. I have ever found your plain things the
knottiest of all. And as for this whale spout, you might almost stand
in it, and yet be undecided as to what it is precisely.

The central body of it is hidden in the snowy sparkling mist enveloping
it; and how can you certainly tell whether any water falls from it,
when, always, when you are close enough to a whale to get a close view
of his spout, he is in a prodigious commotion, the water cascading all
around him. And if at such times you should think that you really
perceived drops of moisture in the spout, how do you know that they are
not merely condensed from its vapor; or how do you know that they are
not those identical drops superficially lodged in the spout-hole
fissure, which is countersunk into the summit of the whale’s head? For
even when tranquilly swimming through the mid-day sea in a calm, with
his elevated hump sun-dried as a dromedary’s in the desert; even then,
the whale always carries a small basin of water on his head, as under a
blazing sun you will sometimes see a cavity in a rock filled up with
rain.

Nor is it at all prudent for the hunter to be over curious touching the
precise nature of the whale spout. It will not do for him to be peering
into it, and putting his face in it. You cannot go with your pitcher to
this fountain and fill it, and bring it away. For even when coming into
slight contact with the outer, vapory shreds of the jet, which will
often happen, your skin will feverishly smart, from the acridness of
the thing so touching it. And I know one, who coming into still closer
contact with the spout, whether with some scientific object in view, or
otherwise, I cannot say, the skin peeled off from his cheek and arm.
Wherefore, among whalemen, the spout is deemed poisonous; they try to
evade it. Another thing; I have heard it said, and I do not much doubt
it, that if the jet is fairly spouted into your eyes, it will blind
you. The wisest thing the investigator can do then, it seems to me, is
to let this deadly spout alone.

Still, we can hypothesize, even if we cannot prove and establish. My
hypothesis is this: that the spout is nothing but mist. And besides
other reasons, to this conclusion I am impelled, by considerations
touching the great inherent dignity and sublimity of the Sperm Whale; I
account him no common, shallow being, inasmuch as it is an undisputed
fact that he is never found on soundings, or near shores; all other
whales sometimes are. He is both ponderous and profound. And I am
convinced that from the heads of all ponderous profound beings, such as
Plato, Pyrrho, the Devil, Jupiter, Dante, and so on, there always goes
up a certain semi-visible steam, while in the act of thinking deep
thoughts. While composing a little treatise on Eternity, I had the
curiosity to place a mirror before me; and ere long saw reflected
there, a curious involved worming and undulation in the atmosphere over
my head. The invariable moisture of my hair, while plunged in deep
thought, after six cups of hot tea in my thin shingled attic, of an
August noon; this seems an additional argument for the above
supposition.

And how nobly it raises our conceit of the mighty, misty monster, to
behold him solemnly sailing through a calm tropical sea; his vast, mild
head overhung by a canopy of vapor, engendered by his incommunicable
contemplations, and that vapor—as you will sometimes see it—glorified
by a rainbow, as if Heaven itself had put its seal upon his thoughts.
For, d’ye see, rainbows do not visit the clear air; they only irradiate
vapor. And so, through all the thick mists of the dim doubts in my
mind, divine intuitions now and then shoot, enkindling my fog with a
heavenly ray. And for this I thank God; for all have doubts; many deny;
but doubts or denials, few along with them, have intuitions. Doubts of
all things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this
combination makes neither believer nor infidel, but makes a man who
regards them both with equal eye.


CHAPTER 86. The Tail.

Other poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope,
and the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial,
I celebrate a tail.

Reckoning the largest sized Sperm Whale’s tail to begin at that point
of the trunk where it tapers to about the girth of a man, it comprises
upon its upper surface alone, an area of at least fifty square feet.
The compact round body of its root expands into two broad, firm, flat
palms or flukes, gradually shoaling away to less than an inch in
thickness. At the crotch or junction, these flukes slightly overlap,
then sideways recede from each other like wings, leaving a wide vacancy
between. In no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely
defined than in the crescentic borders of these flukes. At its utmost
expansion in the full grown whale, the tail will considerably exceed
twenty feet across.

The entire member seems a dense webbed bed of welded sinews; but cut
into it, and you find that three distinct strata compose it:—upper,
middle, and lower. The fibres in the upper and lower layers, are long
and horizontal; those of the middle one, very short, and running
crosswise between the outside layers. This triune structure, as much as
anything else, imparts power to the tail. To the student of old Roman
walls, the middle layer will furnish a curious parallel to the thin
course of tiles always alternating with the stone in those wonderful
relics of the antique, and which undoubtedly contribute so much to the
great strength of the masonry.

But as if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough,
the whole bulk of the leviathan is knit over with a warp and woof of
muscular fibres and filaments, which passing on either side the loins
and running down into the flukes, insensibly blend with them, and
largely contribute to their might; so that in the tail the confluent
measureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point.
Could annihilation occur to matter, this were the thing to do it.

Nor does this—its amazing strength, at all tend to cripple the graceful
flexion of its motions; where infantileness of ease undulates through a
Titanism of power. On the contrary, those motions derive their most
appalling beauty from it. Real strength never impairs beauty or
harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly
beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic. Take away the tied
tendons that all over seem bursting from the marble in the carved
Hercules, and its charm would be gone. As devout Eckerman lifted the
linen sheet from the naked corpse of Goethe, he was overwhelmed with
the massive chest of the man, that seemed as a Roman triumphal arch.
When Angelo paints even God the Father in human form, mark what
robustness is there. And whatever they may reveal of the divine love in
the Son, the soft, curled, hermaphroditical Italian pictures, in which
his idea has been most successfully embodied; these pictures, so
destitute as they are of all brawniness, hint nothing of any power, but
the mere negative, feminine one of submission and endurance, which on
all hands it is conceded, form the peculiar practical virtues of his
teachings.

Such is the subtle elasticity of the organ I treat of, that whether
wielded in sport, or in earnest, or in anger, whatever be the mood it
be in, its flexions are invariably marked by exceeding grace. Therein
no fairy’s arm can transcend it.

Five great motions are peculiar to it. First, when used as a fin for
progression; Second, when used as a mace in battle; Third, in sweeping;
Fourth, in lobtailing; Fifth, in peaking flukes.

First: Being horizontal in its position, the Leviathan’s tail acts in a
different manner from the tails of all other sea creatures. It never
wriggles. In man or fish, wriggling is a sign of inferiority. To the
whale, his tail is the sole means of propulsion. Scroll-wise coiled
forwards beneath the body, and then rapidly sprung backwards, it is
this which gives that singular darting, leaping motion to the monster
when furiously swimming. His side-fins only serve to steer by.

Second: It is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only
fights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his
conflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail. In
striking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the
blow is only inflicted by the recoil. If it be made in the unobstructed
air, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply
irresistible. No ribs of man or boat can withstand it. Your only
salvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the
opposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the
whale-boat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a
dashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the
most serious result. These submerged side blows are so often received
in the fishery, that they are accounted mere child’s play. Some one
strips off a frock, and the hole is stopped.

Third: I cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale
the sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect
there is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the
elephant’s trunk. This delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of
sweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft
slowness moves his immense flukes from side to side upon the surface of
the sea; and if he feel but a sailor’s whisker, woe to that sailor,
whiskers and all. What tenderness there is in that preliminary touch!
Had this tail any prehensile power, I should straightway bethink me of
Darmonodes’ elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low
salutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their
zones. On more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not
possess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for I have heard of yet
another elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his
trunk and extracted the dart.

Fourth: Stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the
middle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence
of his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a
hearth. But still you see his power in his play. The broad palms of his
tail are flirted high into the air; then smiting the surface, the
thunderous concussion resounds for miles. You would almost think a
great gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of
vapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that
that was the smoke from the touch-hole.

Fifth: As in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes
lie considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely
out of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into
the deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are
tossed erect in the air, and so remain vibrating a moment, till they
downwards shoot out of view. Excepting the sublime _breach_—somewhere
else to be described—this peaking of the whale’s flukes is perhaps the
grandest sight to be seen in all animated nature. Out of the bottomless
profundities the gigantic tail seems spasmodically snatching at the
highest heaven. So in dreams, have I seen majestic Satan thrusting
forth his tormented colossal claw from the flame Baltic of Hell. But in
gazing at such scenes, it is all in all what mood you are in; if in the
Dantean, the devils will occur to you; if in that of Isaiah, the
archangels. Standing at the mast-head of my ship during a sunrise that
crimsoned sky and sea, I once saw a large herd of whales in the east,
all heading towards the sun, and for a moment vibrating in concert with
peaked flukes. As it seemed to me at the time, such a grand embodiment
of adoration of the gods was never beheld, even in Persia, the home of
the fire worshippers. As Ptolemy Philopater testified of the African
elephant, I then testified of the whale, pronouncing him the most
devout of all beings. For according to King Juba, the military
elephants of antiquity often hailed the morning with their trunks
uplifted in the profoundest silence.

The chance comparison in this chapter, between the whale and the
elephant, so far as some aspects of the tail of the one and the trunk
of the other are concerned, should not tend to place those two opposite
organs on an equality, much less the creatures to which they
respectively belong. For as the mightiest elephant is but a terrier to
Leviathan, so, compared with Leviathan’s tail, his trunk is but the
stalk of a lily. The most direful blow from the elephant’s trunk were
as the playful tap of a fan, compared with the measureless crush and
crash of the sperm whale’s ponderous flukes, which in repeated
instances have one after the other hurled entire boats with all their
oars and crews into the air, very much as an Indian juggler tosses his
balls.*

*Though all comparison in the way of general bulk between the whale and
the elephant is preposterous, inasmuch as in that particular the
elephant stands in much the same respect to the whale that a dog does
to the elephant; nevertheless, there are not wanting some points of
curious similitude; among these is the spout. It is well known that the
elephant will often draw up water or dust in his trunk, and then
elevating it, jet it forth in a stream.

The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my
inability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which,
though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly
inexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are
these mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them
akin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these
methods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting
other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness,
and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I
may, then, I but go skin deep; I know him not, and never will. But if I
know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much
more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my
back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen.
But I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will
about his face, I say again he has no face.


CHAPTER 87. The Grand Armada.

The long and narrow peninsula of Malacca, extending south-eastward from
the territories of Birmah, forms the most southerly point of all Asia.
In a continuous line from that peninsula stretch the long islands of
Sumatra, Java, Bally, and Timor; which, with many others, form a vast
mole, or rampart, lengthwise connecting Asia with Australia, and
dividing the long unbroken Indian ocean from the thickly studded
oriental archipelagoes. This rampart is pierced by several sally-ports
for the convenience of ships and whales; conspicuous among which are
the straits of Sunda and Malacca. By the straits of Sunda, chiefly,
vessels bound to China from the west, emerge into the China seas.

Those narrow straits of Sunda divide Sumatra from Java; and standing
midway in that vast rampart of islands, buttressed by that bold green
promontory, known to seamen as Java Head; they not a little correspond
to the central gateway opening into some vast walled empire: and
considering the inexhaustible wealth of spices, and silks, and jewels,
and gold, and ivory, with which the thousand islands of that oriental
sea are enriched, it seems a significant provision of nature, that such
treasures, by the very formation of the land, should at least bear the
appearance, however ineffectual, of being guarded from the all-grasping
western world. The shores of the Straits of Sunda are unsupplied with
those domineering fortresses which guard the entrances to the
Mediterranean, the Baltic, and the Propontis. Unlike the Danes, these
Orientals do not demand the obsequious homage of lowered top-sails from
the endless procession of ships before the wind, which for centuries
past, by night and by day, have passed between the islands of Sumatra
and Java, freighted with the costliest cargoes of the east. But while
they freely waive a ceremonial like this, they do by no means renounce
their claim to more solid tribute.

Time out of mind the piratical proas of the Malays, lurking among the
low shaded coves and islets of Sumatra, have sallied out upon the
vessels sailing through the straits, fiercely demanding tribute at the
point of their spears. Though by the repeated bloody chastisements they
have received at the hands of European cruisers, the audacity of these
corsairs has of late been somewhat repressed; yet, even at the present
day, we occasionally hear of English and American vessels, which, in
those waters, have been remorselessly boarded and pillaged.

With a fair, fresh wind, the Pequod was now drawing nigh to these
straits; Ahab purposing to pass through them into the Javan sea, and
thence, cruising northwards, over waters known to be frequented here
and there by the Sperm Whale, sweep inshore by the Philippine Islands,
and gain the far coast of Japan, in time for the great whaling season
there. By these means, the circumnavigating Pequod would sweep almost
all the known Sperm Whale cruising grounds of the world, previous to
descending upon the Line in the Pacific; where Ahab, though everywhere
else foiled in his pursuit, firmly counted upon giving battle to Moby
Dick, in the sea he was most known to frequent; and at a season when he
might most reasonably be presumed to be haunting it.

But how now? in this zoned quest, does Ahab touch no land? does his
crew drink air? Surely, he will stop for water. Nay. For a long time,
now, the circus-running sun has raced within his fiery ring, and needs
no sustenance but what’s in himself. So Ahab. Mark this, too, in the
whaler. While other hulls are loaded down with alien stuff, to be
transferred to foreign wharves; the world-wandering whale-ship carries
no cargo but herself and crew, their weapons and their wants. She has a
whole lake’s contents bottled in her ample hold. She is ballasted with
utilities; not altogether with unusable pig-lead and kentledge. She
carries years’ water in her. Clear old prime Nantucket water; which,
when three years afloat, the Nantucketer, in the Pacific, prefers to
drink before the brackish fluid, but yesterday rafted off in casks,
from the Peruvian or Indian streams. Hence it is, that, while other
ships may have gone to China from New York, and back again, touching at
a score of ports, the whale-ship, in all that interval, may not have
sighted one grain of soil; her crew having seen no man but floating
seamen like themselves. So that did you carry them the news that
another flood had come; they would only answer—“Well, boys, here’s the
ark!”

Now, as many Sperm Whales had been captured off the western coast of
Java, in the near vicinity of the Straits of Sunda; indeed, as most of
the ground, roundabout, was generally recognised by the fishermen as an
excellent spot for cruising; therefore, as the Pequod gained more and
more upon Java Head, the look-outs were repeatedly hailed, and
admonished to keep wide awake. But though the green palmy cliffs of the
land soon loomed on the starboard bow, and with delighted nostrils the
fresh cinnamon was snuffed in the air, yet not a single jet was
descried. Almost renouncing all thought of falling in with any game
hereabouts, the ship had well nigh entered the straits, when the
customary cheering cry was heard from aloft, and ere long a spectacle
of singular magnificence saluted us.

But here be it premised, that owing to the unwearied activity with
which of late they have been hunted over all four oceans, the Sperm
Whales, instead of almost invariably sailing in small detached
companies, as in former times, are now frequently met with in extensive
herds, sometimes embracing so great a multitude, that it would almost
seem as if numerous nations of them had sworn solemn league and
covenant for mutual assistance and protection. To this aggregation of
the Sperm Whale into such immense caravans, may be imputed the
circumstance that even in the best cruising grounds, you may now
sometimes sail for weeks and months together, without being greeted by
a single spout; and then be suddenly saluted by what sometimes seems
thousands on thousands.

Broad on both bows, at the distance of some two or three miles, and
forming a great semicircle, embracing one half of the level horizon, a
continuous chain of whale-jets were up-playing and sparkling in the
noon-day air. Unlike the straight perpendicular twin-jets of the Right
Whale, which, dividing at top, fall over in two branches, like the
cleft drooping boughs of a willow, the single forward-slanting spout of
the Sperm Whale presents a thick curled bush of white mist, continually
rising and falling away to leeward.

Seen from the Pequod’s deck, then, as she would rise on a high hill of
the sea, this host of vapory spouts, individually curling up into the
air, and beheld through a blending atmosphere of bluish haze, showed
like the thousand cheerful chimneys of some dense metropolis, descried
of a balmy autumnal morning, by some horseman on a height.

As marching armies approaching an unfriendly defile in the mountains,
accelerate their march, all eagerness to place that perilous passage in
their rear, and once more expand in comparative security upon the
plain; even so did this vast fleet of whales now seem hurrying forward
through the straits; gradually contracting the wings of their
semicircle, and swimming on, in one solid, but still crescentic centre.

Crowding all sail the Pequod pressed after them; the harpooneers
handling their weapons, and loudly cheering from the heads of their yet
suspended boats. If the wind only held, little doubt had they, that
chased through these Straits of Sunda, the vast host would only deploy
into the Oriental seas to witness the capture of not a few of their
number. And who could tell whether, in that congregated caravan, Moby
Dick himself might not temporarily be swimming, like the worshipped
white-elephant in the coronation procession of the Siamese! So with
stun-sail piled on stun-sail, we sailed along, driving these leviathans
before us; when, of a sudden, the voice of Tashtego was heard, loudly
directing attention to something in our wake.

Corresponding to the crescent in our van, we beheld another in our
rear. It seemed formed of detached white vapors, rising and falling
something like the spouts of the whales; only they did not so
completely come and go; for they constantly hovered, without finally
disappearing. Levelling his glass at this sight, Ahab quickly revolved
in his pivot-hole, crying, “Aloft there, and rig whips and buckets to
wet the sails;—Malays, sir, and after us!”

As if too long lurking behind the headlands, till the Pequod should
fairly have entered the straits, these rascally Asiatics were now in
hot pursuit, to make up for their over-cautious delay. But when the
swift Pequod, with a fresh leading wind, was herself in hot chase; how
very kind of these tawny philanthropists to assist in speeding her on
to her own chosen pursuit,—mere riding-whips and rowels to her, that
they were. As with glass under arm, Ahab to-and-fro paced the deck; in
his forward turn beholding the monsters he chased, and in the after one
the bloodthirsty pirates chasing _him_; some such fancy as the above
seemed his. And when he glanced upon the green walls of the watery
defile in which the ship was then sailing, and bethought him that
through that gate lay the route to his vengeance, and beheld, how that
through that same gate he was now both chasing and being chased to his
deadly end; and not only that, but a herd of remorseless wild pirates
and inhuman atheistical devils were infernally cheering him on with
their curses;—when all these conceits had passed through his brain,
Ahab’s brow was left gaunt and ribbed, like the black sand beach after
some stormy tide has been gnawing it, without being able to drag the
firm thing from its place.

But thoughts like these troubled very few of the reckless crew; and
when, after steadily dropping and dropping the pirates astern, the
Pequod at last shot by the vivid green Cockatoo Point on the Sumatra
side, emerging at last upon the broad waters beyond; then, the
harpooneers seemed more to grieve that the swift whales had been
gaining upon the ship, than to rejoice that the ship had so
victoriously gained upon the Malays. But still driving on in the wake
of the whales, at length they seemed abating their speed; gradually the
ship neared them; and the wind now dying away, word was passed to
spring to the boats. But no sooner did the herd, by some presumed
wonderful instinct of the Sperm Whale, become notified of the three
keels that were after them,—though as yet a mile in their rear,—than
they rallied again, and forming in close ranks and battalions, so that
their spouts all looked like flashing lines of stacked bayonets, moved
on with redoubled velocity.

Stripped to our shirts and drawers, we sprang to the white-ash, and
after several hours’ pulling were almost disposed to renounce the
chase, when a general pausing commotion among the whales gave animating
token that they were now at last under the influence of that strange
perplexity of inert irresolution, which, when the fishermen perceive it
in the whale, they say he is gallied. The compact martial columns in
which they had been hitherto rapidly and steadily swimming, were now
broken up in one measureless rout; and like King Porus’ elephants in
the Indian battle with Alexander, they seemed going mad with
consternation. In all directions expanding in vast irregular circles,
and aimlessly swimming hither and thither, by their short thick
spoutings, they plainly betrayed their distraction of panic. This was
still more strangely evinced by those of their number, who, completely
paralysed as it were, helplessly floated like water-logged dismantled
ships on the sea. Had these Leviathans been but a flock of simple
sheep, pursued over the pasture by three fierce wolves, they could not
possibly have evinced such excessive dismay. But this occasional
timidity is characteristic of almost all herding creatures. Though
banding together in tens of thousands, the lion-maned buffaloes of the
West have fled before a solitary horseman. Witness, too, all human
beings, how when herded together in the sheepfold of a theatre’s pit,
they will, at the slightest alarm of fire, rush helter-skelter for the
outlets, crowding, trampling, jamming, and remorselessly dashing each
other to death. Best, therefore, withhold any amazement at the
strangely gallied whales before us, for there is no folly of the beasts
of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.

Though many of the whales, as has been said, were in violent motion,
yet it is to be observed that as a whole the herd neither advanced nor
retreated, but collectively remained in one place. As is customary in
those cases, the boats at once separated, each making for some one lone
whale on the outskirts of the shoal. In about three minutes’ time,
Queequeg’s harpoon was flung; the stricken fish darted blinding spray
in our faces, and then running away with us like light, steered
straight for the heart of the herd. Though such a movement on the part
of the whale struck under such circumstances, is in no wise
unprecedented; and indeed is almost always more or less anticipated;
yet does it present one of the more perilous vicissitudes of the
fishery. For as the swift monster drags you deeper and deeper into the
frantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and only exist in a
delirious throb.

As, blind and deaf, the whale plunged forward, as if by sheer power of
speed to rid himself of the iron leech that had fastened to him; as we
thus tore a white gash in the sea, on all sides menaced as we flew, by
the crazed creatures to and fro rushing about us; our beset boat was
like a ship mobbed by ice-isles in a tempest, and striving to steer
through their complicated channels and straits, knowing not at what
moment it may be locked in and crushed.

But not a bit daunted, Queequeg steered us manfully; now sheering off
from this monster directly across our route in advance; now edging away
from that, whose colossal flukes were suspended overhead, while all the
time, Starbuck stood up in the bows, lance in hand, pricking out of our
way whatever whales he could reach by short darts, for there was no
time to make long ones. Nor were the oarsmen quite idle, though their
wonted duty was now altogether dispensed with. They chiefly attended to
the shouting part of the business. “Out of the way, Commodore!” cried
one, to a great dromedary that of a sudden rose bodily to the surface,
and for an instant threatened to swamp us. “Hard down with your tail,
there!” cried a second to another, which, close to our gunwale, seemed
calmly cooling himself with his own fan-like extremity.

All whaleboats carry certain curious contrivances, originally invented
by the Nantucket Indians, called druggs. Two thick squares of wood of
equal size are stoutly clenched together, so that they cross each
other’s grain at right angles; a line of considerable length is then
attached to the middle of this block, and the other end of the line
being looped, it can in a moment be fastened to a harpoon. It is
chiefly among gallied whales that this drugg is used. For then, more
whales are close round you than you can possibly chase at one time. But
sperm whales are not every day encountered; while you may, then, you
must kill all you can. And if you cannot kill them all at once, you
must wing them, so that they can be afterwards killed at your leisure.
Hence it is, that at times like these the drugg, comes into
requisition. Our boat was furnished with three of them. The first and
second were successfully darted, and we saw the whales staggeringly
running off, fettered by the enormous sidelong resistance of the towing
drugg. They were cramped like malefactors with the chain and ball. But
upon flinging the third, in the act of tossing overboard the clumsy
wooden block, it caught under one of the seats of the boat, and in an
instant tore it out and carried it away, dropping the oarsman in the
boat’s bottom as the seat slid from under him. On both sides the sea
came in at the wounded planks, but we stuffed two or three drawers and
shirts in, and so stopped the leaks for the time.

It had been next to impossible to dart these drugged-harpoons, were it
not that as we advanced into the herd, our whale’s way greatly
diminished; moreover, that as we went still further and further from
the circumference of commotion, the direful disorders seemed waning. So
that when at last the jerking harpoon drew out, and the towing whale
sideways vanished; then, with the tapering force of his parting
momentum, we glided between two whales into the innermost heart of the
shoal, as if from some mountain torrent we had slid into a serene
valley lake. Here the storms in the roaring glens between the outermost
whales, were heard but not felt. In this central expanse the sea
presented that smooth satin-like surface, called a sleek, produced by
the subtle moisture thrown off by the whale in his more quiet moods.
Yes, we were now in that enchanted calm which they say lurks at the
heart of every commotion. And still in the distracted distance we
beheld the tumults of the outer concentric circles, and saw successive
pods of whales, eight or ten in each, swiftly going round and round,
like multiplied spans of horses in a ring; and so closely shoulder to
shoulder, that a Titanic circus-rider might easily have over-arched the
middle ones, and so have gone round on their backs. Owing to the
density of the crowd of reposing whales, more immediately surrounding
the embayed axis of the herd, no possible chance of escape was at
present afforded us. We must watch for a breach in the living wall that
hemmed us in; the wall that had only admitted us in order to shut us
up. Keeping at the centre of the lake, we were occasionally visited by
small tame cows and calves; the women and children of this routed host.

Now, inclusive of the occasional wide intervals between the revolving
outer circles, and inclusive of the spaces between the various pods in
any one of those circles, the entire area at this juncture, embraced by
the whole multitude, must have contained at least two or three square
miles. At any rate—though indeed such a test at such a time might be
deceptive—spoutings might be discovered from our low boat that seemed
playing up almost from the rim of the horizon. I mention this
circumstance, because, as if the cows and calves had been purposely
locked up in this innermost fold; and as if the wide extent of the herd
had hitherto prevented them from learning the precise cause of its
stopping; or, possibly, being so young, unsophisticated, and every way
innocent and inexperienced; however it may have been, these smaller
whales—now and then visiting our becalmed boat from the margin of the
lake—evinced a wondrous fearlessness and confidence, or else a still
becharmed panic which it was impossible not to marvel at. Like
household dogs they came snuffling round us, right up to our gunwales,
and touching them; till it almost seemed that some spell had suddenly
domesticated them. Queequeg patted their foreheads; Starbuck scratched
their backs with his lance; but fearful of the consequences, for the
time refrained from darting it.

But far beneath this wondrous world upon the surface, another and still
stranger world met our eyes as we gazed over the side. For, suspended
in those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the
whales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become
mothers. The lake, as I have hinted, was to a considerable depth
exceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will
calmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two
different lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment,
be still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence;—even so
did the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at
us, as if we were but a bit of Gulfweed in their new-born sight.
Floating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us. One
of these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a
day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six
feet in girth. He was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed
scarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately
occupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready
for the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a Tartar’s bow.
The delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly
retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby’s ears newly arrived
from foreign parts.

“Line! line!” cried Queequeg, looking over the gunwale; “him fast! him
fast!—Who line him! Who struck?—Two whale; one big, one little!”

“What ails ye, man?” cried Starbuck.

“Look-e here,” said Queequeg, pointing down.

As when the stricken whale, that from the tub has reeled out hundreds
of fathoms of rope; as, after deep sounding, he floats up again, and
shows the slackened curling line buoyantly rising and spiralling
towards the air; so now, Starbuck saw long coils of the umbilical cord
of Madame Leviathan, by which the young cub seemed still tethered to
its dam. Not seldom in the rapid vicissitudes of the chase, this
natural line, with the maternal end loose, becomes entangled with the
hempen one, so that the cub is thereby trapped. Some of the subtlest
secrets of the seas seemed divulged to us in this enchanted pond. We
saw young Leviathan amours in the deep.*

*The sperm whale, as with all other species of the Leviathan, but
unlike most other fish, breeds indifferently at all seasons; after a
gestation which may probably be set down at nine months, producing but
one at a time; though in some few known instances giving birth to an
Esau and Jacob:—a contingency provided for in suckling by two teats,
curiously situated, one on each side of the anus; but the breasts
themselves extend upwards from that. When by chance these precious
parts in a nursing whale are cut by the hunter’s lance, the mother’s
pouring milk and blood rivallingly discolour the sea for rods. The milk
is very sweet and rich; it has been tasted by man; it might do well
with strawberries. When overflowing with mutual esteem, the whales
salute _more hominum_.

And thus, though surrounded by circle upon circle of consternations and
affrights, did these inscrutable creatures at the centre freely and
fearlessly indulge in all peaceful concernments; yea, serenely revelled
in dalliance and delight. But even so, amid the tornadoed Atlantic of
my being, do I myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm;
and while ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve round me, deep down
and deep inland there I still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.

Meanwhile, as we thus lay entranced, the occasional sudden frantic
spectacles in the distance evinced the activity of the other boats,
still engaged in drugging the whales on the frontier of the host; or
possibly carrying on the war within the first circle, where abundance
of room and some convenient retreats were afforded them. But the sight
of the enraged drugged whales now and then blindly darting to and fro
across the circles, was nothing to what at last met our eyes. It is
sometimes the custom when fast to a whale more than commonly powerful
and alert, to seek to hamstring him, as it were, by sundering or
maiming his gigantic tail-tendon. It is done by darting a short-handled
cutting-spade, to which is attached a rope for hauling it back again. A
whale wounded (as we afterwards learned) in this part, but not
effectually, as it seemed, had broken away from the boat, carrying
along with him half of the harpoon line; and in the extraordinary agony
of the wound, he was now dashing among the revolving circles like the
lone mounted desperado Arnold, at the battle of Saratoga, carrying
dismay wherever he went.

But agonizing as was the wound of this whale, and an appalling
spectacle enough, any way; yet the peculiar horror with which he seemed
to inspire the rest of the herd, was owing to a cause which at first
the intervening distance obscured from us. But at length we perceived
that by one of the unimaginable accidents of the fishery, this whale
had become entangled in the harpoon-line that he towed; he had also run
away with the cutting-spade in him; and while the free end of the rope
attached to that weapon, had permanently caught in the coils of the
harpoon-line round his tail, the cutting-spade itself had worked loose
from his flesh. So that tormented to madness, he was now churning
through the water, violently flailing with his flexible tail, and
tossing the keen spade about him, wounding and murdering his own
comrades.

This terrific object seemed to recall the whole herd from their
stationary fright. First, the whales forming the margin of our lake
began to crowd a little, and tumble against each other, as if lifted by
half spent billows from afar; then the lake itself began faintly to
heave and swell; the submarine bridal-chambers and nurseries vanished;
in more and more contracting orbits the whales in the more central
circles began to swim in thickening clusters. Yes, the long calm was
departing. A low advancing hum was soon heard; and then like to the
tumultuous masses of block-ice when the great river Hudson breaks up in
Spring, the entire host of whales came tumbling upon their inner
centre, as if to pile themselves up in one common mountain. Instantly
Starbuck and Queequeg changed places; Starbuck taking the stern.

“Oars! Oars!” he intensely whispered, seizing the helm—“gripe your
oars, and clutch your souls, now! My God, men, stand by! Shove him off,
you Queequeg—the whale there!—prick him!—hit him! Stand up—stand up,
and stay so! Spring, men—pull, men; never mind their backs—scrape
them!—scrape away!”

The boat was now all but jammed between two vast black bulks, leaving a
narrow Dardanelles between their long lengths. But by desperate
endeavor we at last shot into a temporary opening; then giving way
rapidly, and at the same time earnestly watching for another outlet.
After many similar hair-breadth escapes, we at last swiftly glided into
what had just been one of the outer circles, but now crossed by random
whales, all violently making for one centre. This lucky salvation was
cheaply purchased by the loss of Queequeg’s hat, who, while standing in
the bows to prick the fugitive whales, had his hat taken clean from his
head by the air-eddy made by the sudden tossing of a pair of broad
flukes close by.

Riotous and disordered as the universal commotion now was, it soon
resolved itself into what seemed a systematic movement; for having
clumped together at last in one dense body, they then renewed their
onward flight with augmented fleetness. Further pursuit was useless;
but the boats still lingered in their wake to pick up what drugged
whales might be dropped astern, and likewise to secure one which Flask
had killed and waifed. The waif is a pennoned pole, two or three of
which are carried by every boat; and which, when additional game is at
hand, are inserted upright into the floating body of a dead whale, both
to mark its place on the sea, and also as token of prior possession,
should the boats of any other ship draw near.

The result of this lowering was somewhat illustrative of that sagacious
saying in the Fishery,—the more whales the less fish. Of all the
drugged whales only one was captured. The rest contrived to escape for
the time, but only to be taken, as will hereafter be seen, by some
other craft than the Pequod.


CHAPTER 88. Schools and Schoolmasters.

The previous chapter gave account of an immense body or herd of Sperm
Whales, and there was also then given the probable cause inducing those
vast aggregations.

Now, though such great bodies are at times encountered, yet, as must
have been seen, even at the present day, small detached bands are
occasionally observed, embracing from twenty to fifty individuals each.
Such bands are known as schools. They generally are of two sorts; those
composed almost entirely of females, and those mustering none but young
vigorous males, or bulls, as they are familiarly designated.

In cavalier attendance upon the school of females, you invariably see a
male of full grown magnitude, but not old; who, upon any alarm, evinces
his gallantry by falling in the rear and covering the flight of his
ladies. In truth, this gentleman is a luxurious Ottoman, swimming about
over the watery world, surroundingly accompanied by all the solaces and
endearments of the harem. The contrast between this Ottoman and his
concubines is striking; because, while he is always of the largest
leviathanic proportions, the ladies, even at full growth, are not more
than one-third of the bulk of an average-sized male. They are
comparatively delicate, indeed; I dare say, not to exceed half a dozen
yards round the waist. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied, that upon the
whole they are hereditarily entitled to _en bon point_.

It is very curious to watch this harem and its lord in their indolent
ramblings. Like fashionables, they are for ever on the move in
leisurely search of variety. You meet them on the Line in time for the
full flower of the Equatorial feeding season, having just returned,
perhaps, from spending the summer in the Northern seas, and so cheating
summer of all unpleasant weariness and warmth. By the time they have
lounged up and down the promenade of the Equator awhile, they start for
the Oriental waters in anticipation of the cool season there, and so
evade the other excessive temperature of the year.

When serenely advancing on one of these journeys, if any strange
suspicious sights are seen, my lord whale keeps a wary eye on his
interesting family. Should any unwarrantably pert young Leviathan
coming that way, presume to draw confidentially close to one of the
ladies, with what prodigious fury the Bashaw assails him, and chases
him away! High times, indeed, if unprincipled young rakes like him are
to be permitted to invade the sanctity of domestic bliss; though do
what the Bashaw will, he cannot keep the most notorious Lothario out of
his bed; for, alas! all fish bed in common. As ashore, the ladies often
cause the most terrible duels among their rival admirers; just so with
the whales, who sometimes come to deadly battle, and all for love. They
fence with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together, and
so striving for the supremacy like elks that warringly interweave their
antlers. Not a few are captured having the deep scars of these
encounters,—furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some
instances, wrenched and dislocated mouths.

But supposing the invader of domestic bliss to betake himself away at
the first rush of the harem’s lord, then is it very diverting to watch
that lord. Gently he insinuates his vast bulk among them again and
revels there awhile, still in tantalizing vicinity to young Lothario,
like pious Solomon devoutly worshipping among his thousand concubines.
Granting other whales to be in sight, the fishermen will seldom give
chase to one of these Grand Turks; for these Grand Turks are too lavish
of their strength, and hence their unctuousness is small. As for the
sons and the daughters they beget, why, those sons and daughters must
take care of themselves; at least, with only the maternal help. For
like certain other omnivorous roving lovers that might be named, my
Lord Whale has no taste for the nursery, however much for the bower;
and so, being a great traveller, he leaves his anonymous babies all
over the world; every baby an exotic. In good time, nevertheless, as
the ardour of youth declines; as years and dumps increase; as
reflection lends her solemn pauses; in short, as a general lassitude
overtakes the sated Turk; then a love of ease and virtue supplants the
love for maidens; our Ottoman enters upon the impotent, repentant,
admonitory stage of life, forswears, disbands the harem, and grown to
an exemplary, sulky old soul, goes about all alone among the meridians
and parallels saying his prayers, and warning each young Leviathan from
his amorous errors.

Now, as the harem of whales is called by the fishermen a school, so is
the lord and master of that school technically known as the
schoolmaster. It is therefore not in strict character, however
admirably satirical, that after going to school himself, he should then
go abroad inculcating not what he learned there, but the folly of it.
His title, schoolmaster, would very naturally seem derived from the
name bestowed upon the harem itself, but some have surmised that the
man who first thus entitled this sort of Ottoman whale, must have read
the memoirs of Vidocq, and informed himself what sort of a
country-schoolmaster that famous Frenchman was in his younger days, and
what was the nature of those occult lessons he inculcated into some of
his pupils.

The same secludedness and isolation to which the schoolmaster whale
betakes himself in his advancing years, is true of all aged Sperm
Whales. Almost universally, a lone whale—as a solitary Leviathan is
called—proves an ancient one. Like venerable moss-bearded Daniel Boone,
he will have no one near him but Nature herself; and her he takes to
wife in the wilderness of waters, and the best of wives she is, though
she keeps so many moody secrets.

The schools composing none but young and vigorous males, previously
mentioned, offer a strong contrast to the harem schools. For while
those female whales are characteristically timid, the young males, or
forty-barrel-bulls, as they call them, are by far the most pugnacious
of all Leviathans, and proverbially the most dangerous to encounter;
excepting those wondrous grey-headed, grizzled whales, sometimes met,
and these will fight you like grim fiends exasperated by a penal gout.

The Forty-barrel-bull schools are larger than the harem schools. Like a
mob of young collegians, they are full of fight, fun, and wickedness,
tumbling round the world at such a reckless, rollicking rate, that no
prudent underwriter would insure them any more than he would a riotous
lad at Yale or Harvard. They soon relinquish this turbulence though,
and when about three-fourths grown, break up, and separately go about
in quest of settlements, that is, harems.

Another point of difference between the male and female schools is
still more characteristic of the sexes. Say you strike a
Forty-barrel-bull—poor devil! all his comrades quit him. But strike a
member of the harem school, and her companions swim around her with
every token of concern, sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as
themselves to fall a prey.


CHAPTER 89. Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish.

The allusion to the waif and waif-poles in the last chapter but one,
necessitates some account of the laws and regulations of the whale
fishery, of which the waif may be deemed the grand symbol and badge.

It frequently happens that when several ships are cruising in company,
a whale may be struck by one vessel, then escape, and be finally killed
and captured by another vessel; and herein are indirectly comprised
many minor contingencies, all partaking of this one grand feature. For
example,—after a weary and perilous chase and capture of a whale, the
body may get loose from the ship by reason of a violent storm; and
drifting far away to leeward, be retaken by a second whaler, who, in a
calm, snugly tows it alongside, without risk of life or line. Thus the
most vexatious and violent disputes would often arise between the
fishermen, were there not some written or unwritten, universal,
undisputed law applicable to all cases.

Perhaps the only formal whaling code authorized by legislative
enactment, was that of Holland. It was decreed by the States-General in
A.D. 1695. But though no other nation has ever had any written whaling
law, yet the American fishermen have been their own legislators and
lawyers in this matter. They have provided a system which for terse
comprehensiveness surpasses Justinian’s Pandects and the By-laws of the
Chinese Society for the Suppression of Meddling with other People’s
Business. Yes; these laws might be engraven on a Queen Anne’s farthing,
or the barb of a harpoon, and worn round the neck, so small are they.

I. A Fast-Fish belongs to the party fast to it.

II. A Loose-Fish is fair game for anybody who can soonest catch it.

But what plays the mischief with this masterly code is the admirable
brevity of it, which necessitates a vast volume of commentaries to
expound it.

First: What is a Fast-Fish? Alive or dead a fish is technically fast,
when it is connected with an occupied ship or boat, by any medium at
all controllable by the occupant or occupants,—a mast, an oar, a
nine-inch cable, a telegraph wire, or a strand of cobweb, it is all the
same. Likewise a fish is technically fast when it bears a waif, or any
other recognised symbol of possession; so long as the party waifing it
plainly evince their ability at any time to take it alongside, as well
as their intention so to do.

These are scientific commentaries; but the commentaries of the whalemen
themselves sometimes consist in hard words and harder knocks—the
Coke-upon-Littleton of the fist. True, among the more upright and
honorable whalemen allowances are always made for peculiar cases, where
it would be an outrageous moral injustice for one party to claim
possession of a whale previously chased or killed by another party. But
others are by no means so scrupulous.

Some fifty years ago there was a curious case of whale-trover litigated
in England, wherein the plaintiffs set forth that after a hard chase of
a whale in the Northern seas; and when indeed they (the plaintiffs) had
succeeded in harpooning the fish; they were at last, through peril of
their lives, obliged to forsake not only their lines, but their boat
itself. Ultimately the defendants (the crew of another ship) came up
with the whale, struck, killed, seized, and finally appropriated it
before the very eyes of the plaintiffs. And when those defendants were
remonstrated with, their captain snapped his fingers in the plaintiffs’
teeth, and assured them that by way of doxology to the deed he had
done, he would now retain their line, harpoons, and boat, which had
remained attached to the whale at the time of the seizure. Wherefore
the plaintiffs now sued for the recovery of the value of their whale,
line, harpoons, and boat.

Mr. Erskine was counsel for the defendants; Lord Ellenborough was the
judge. In the course of the defence, the witty Erskine went on to
illustrate his position, by alluding to a recent crim. con. case,
wherein a gentleman, after in vain trying to bridle his wife’s
viciousness, had at last abandoned her upon the seas of life; but in
the course of years, repenting of that step, he instituted an action to
recover possession of her. Erskine was on the other side; and he then
supported it by saying, that though the gentleman had originally
harpooned the lady, and had once had her fast, and only by reason of
the great stress of her plunging viciousness, had at last abandoned
her; yet abandon her he did, so that she became a loose-fish; and
therefore when a subsequent gentleman re-harpooned her, the lady then
became that subsequent gentleman’s property, along with whatever
harpoon might have been found sticking in her.

Now in the present case Erskine contended that the examples of the
whale and the lady were reciprocally illustrative of each other.

These pleadings, and the counter pleadings, being duly heard, the very
learned judge in set terms decided, to wit,—That as for the boat, he
awarded it to the plaintiffs, because they had merely abandoned it to
save their lives; but that with regard to the controverted whale,
harpoons, and line, they belonged to the defendants; the whale, because
it was a Loose-Fish at the time of the final capture; and the harpoons
and line because when the fish made off with them, it (the fish)
acquired a property in those articles; and hence anybody who afterwards
took the fish had a right to them. Now the defendants afterwards took
the fish; ergo, the aforesaid articles were theirs.

A common man looking at this decision of the very learned Judge, might
possibly object to it. But ploughed up to the primary rock of the
matter, the two great principles laid down in the twin whaling laws
previously quoted, and applied and elucidated by Lord Ellenborough in
the above cited case; these two laws touching Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish,
I say, will, on reflection, be found the fundamentals of all human
jurisprudence; for notwithstanding its complicated tracery of
sculpture, the Temple of the Law, like the Temple of the Philistines,
has but two props to stand on.

Is it not a saying in every one’s mouth, Possession is half of the law:
that is, regardless of how the thing came into possession? But often
possession is the whole of the law. What are the sinews and souls of
Russian serfs and Republican slaves but Fast-Fish, whereof possession
is the whole of the law? What to the rapacious landlord is the widow’s
last mite but a Fast-Fish? What is yonder undetected villain’s marble
mansion with a door-plate for a waif; what is that but a Fast-Fish?
What is the ruinous discount which Mordecai, the broker, gets from poor
Woebegone, the bankrupt, on a loan to keep Woebegone’s family from
starvation; what is that ruinous discount but a Fast-Fish? What is the
Archbishop of Savesoul’s income of £100,000 seized from the scant bread
and cheese of hundreds of thousands of broken-backed laborers (all sure
of heaven without any of Savesoul’s help) what is that globular
£100,000 but a Fast-Fish? What are the Duke of Dunder’s hereditary
towns and hamlets but Fast-Fish? What to that redoubted harpooneer,
John Bull, is poor Ireland, but a Fast-Fish? What to that apostolic
lancer, Brother Jonathan, is Texas but a Fast-Fish? And concerning all
these, is not Possession the whole of the law?

But if the doctrine of Fast-Fish be pretty generally applicable, the
kindred doctrine of Loose-Fish is still more widely so. That is
internationally and universally applicable.

What was America in 1492 but a Loose-Fish, in which Columbus struck the
Spanish standard by way of waifing it for his royal master and
mistress? What was Poland to the Czar? What Greece to the Turk? What
India to England? What at last will Mexico be to the United States? All
Loose-Fish.

What are the Rights of Man and the Liberties of the World but
Loose-Fish? What all men’s minds and opinions but Loose-Fish? What is
the principle of religious belief in them but a Loose-Fish? What to the
ostentatious smuggling verbalists are the thoughts of thinkers but
Loose-Fish? What is the great globe itself but a Loose-Fish? And what
are you, reader, but a Loose-Fish and a Fast-Fish, too?


CHAPTER 90. Heads or Tails.

“De balena vero sufficit, si rex habeat caput, et regina caudam.”
_Bracton, l. 3, c. 3._

Latin from the books of the Laws of England, which taken along with the
context, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of
that land, the King, as Honorary Grand Harpooneer, must have the head,
and the Queen be respectfully presented with the tail. A division
which, in the whale, is much like halving an apple; there is no
intermediate remainder. Now as this law, under a modified form, is to
this day in force in England; and as it offers in various respects a
strange anomaly touching the general law of Fast and Loose-Fish, it is
here treated of in a separate chapter, on the same courteous principle
that prompts the English railways to be at the expense of a separate
car, specially reserved for the accommodation of royalty. In the first
place, in curious proof of the fact that the above-mentioned law is
still in force, I proceed to lay before you a circumstance that
happened within the last two years.

It seems that some honest mariners of Dover, or Sandwich, or some one
of the Cinque Ports, had after a hard chase succeeded in killing and
beaching a fine whale which they had originally descried afar off from
the shore. Now the Cinque Ports are partially or somehow under the
jurisdiction of a sort of policeman or beadle, called a Lord Warden.
Holding the office directly from the crown, I believe, all the royal
emoluments incident to the Cinque Port territories become by assignment
his. By some writers this office is called a sinecure. But not so.
Because the Lord Warden is busily employed at times in fobbing his
perquisites; which are his chiefly by virtue of that same fobbing of
them.

Now when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and with their
trowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily hauled their
fat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good £150 from the
precious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea with their
wives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength of their
respective shares; up steps a very learned and most Christian and
charitable gentleman, with a copy of Blackstone under his arm; and
laying it upon the whale’s head, he says—“Hands off! this fish, my
masters, is a Fast-Fish. I seize it as the Lord Warden’s.” Upon this
the poor mariners in their respectful consternation—so truly
English—knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their
heads all round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the
stranger. But that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the
hard heart of the learned gentleman with the copy of Blackstone. At
length one of them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made
bold to speak,

“Please, sir, who is the Lord Warden?”

“The Duke.”

“But the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish?”

“It is his.”

“We have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense, and is all
that to go to the Duke’s benefit; we getting nothing at all for our
pains but our blisters?”

“It is his.”

“Is the Duke so very poor as to be forced to this desperate mode of
getting a livelihood?”

“It is his.”

“I thought to relieve my old bed-ridden mother by part of my share of
this whale.”

“It is his.”

“Won’t the Duke be content with a quarter or a half?”

“It is his.”

In a word, the whale was seized and sold, and his Grace the Duke of
Wellington received the money. Thinking that viewed in some particular
lights, the case might by a bare possibility in some small degree be
deemed, under the circumstances, a rather hard one, an honest clergyman
of the town respectfully addressed a note to his Grace, begging him to
take the case of those unfortunate mariners into full consideration. To
which my Lord Duke in substance replied (both letters were published)
that he had already done so, and received the money, and would be
obliged to the reverend gentleman if for the future he (the reverend
gentleman) would decline meddling with other people’s business. Is this
the still militant old man, standing at the corners of the three
kingdoms, on all hands coercing alms of beggars?

It will readily be seen that in this case the alleged right of the Duke
to the whale was a delegated one from the Sovereign. We must needs
inquire then on what principle the Sovereign is originally invested
with that right. The law itself has already been set forth. But Plowdon
gives us the reason for it. Says Plowdon, the whale so caught belongs
to the King and Queen, “because of its superior excellence.” And by the
soundest commentators this has ever been held a cogent argument in such
matters.

But why should the King have the head, and the Queen the tail? A reason
for that, ye lawyers!

In his treatise on “Queen-Gold,” or Queen-pinmoney, an old King’s Bench
author, one William Prynne, thus discourseth: “Ye tail is ye Queen’s,
that ye Queen’s wardrobe may be supplied with ye whalebone.” Now this
was written at a time when the black limber bone of the Greenland or
Right whale was largely used in ladies’ bodices. But this same bone is
not in the tail; it is in the head, which is a sad mistake for a
sagacious lawyer like Prynne. But is the Queen a mermaid, to be
presented with a tail? An allegorical meaning may lurk here.

There are two royal fish so styled by the English law writers—the whale
and the sturgeon; both royal property under certain limitations, and
nominally supplying the tenth branch of the crown’s ordinary revenue. I
know not that any other author has hinted of the matter; but by
inference it seems to me that the sturgeon must be divided in the same
way as the whale, the King receiving the highly dense and elastic head
peculiar to that fish, which, symbolically regarded, may possibly be
humorously grounded upon some presumed congeniality. And thus there
seems a reason in all things, even in law.


CHAPTER 91. The Pequod Meets The Rose-Bud.

“In vain it was to rake for Ambergriese in the paunch of this
Leviathan, insufferable fetor denying not inquiry.” _Sir T. Browne,
V.E._

It was a week or two after the last whaling scene recounted, and when
we were slowly sailing over a sleepy, vapory, mid-day sea, that the
many noses on the Pequod’s deck proved more vigilant discoverers than
the three pairs of eyes aloft. A peculiar and not very pleasant smell
was smelt in the sea.

“I will bet something now,” said Stubb, “that somewhere hereabouts are
some of those drugged whales we tickled the other day. I thought they
would keel up before long.”

Presently, the vapors in advance slid aside; and there in the distance
lay a ship, whose furled sails betokened that some sort of whale must
be alongside. As we glided nearer, the stranger showed French colours
from his peak; and by the eddying cloud of vulture sea-fowl that
circled, and hovered, and swooped around him, it was plain that the
whale alongside must be what the fishermen call a blasted whale, that
is, a whale that has died unmolested on the sea, and so floated an
unappropriated corpse. It may well be conceived, what an unsavory odor
such a mass must exhale; worse than an Assyrian city in the plague,
when the living are incompetent to bury the departed. So intolerable
indeed is it regarded by some, that no cupidity could persuade them to
moor alongside of it. Yet are there those who will still do it;
notwithstanding the fact that the oil obtained from such subjects is of
a very inferior quality, and by no means of the nature of
attar-of-rose.

Coming still nearer with the expiring breeze, we saw that the Frenchman
had a second whale alongside; and this second whale seemed even more of
a nosegay than the first. In truth, it turned out to be one of those
problematical whales that seem to dry up and die with a sort of
prodigious dyspepsia, or indigestion; leaving their defunct bodies
almost entirely bankrupt of anything like oil. Nevertheless, in the
proper place we shall see that no knowing fisherman will ever turn up
his nose at such a whale as this, however much he may shun blasted
whales in general.

The Pequod had now swept so nigh to the stranger, that Stubb vowed he
recognised his cutting spade-pole entangled in the lines that were
knotted round the tail of one of these whales.

“There’s a pretty fellow, now,” he banteringly laughed, standing in the
ship’s bows, “there’s a jackal for ye! I well know that these Crappoes
of Frenchmen are but poor devils in the fishery; sometimes lowering
their boats for breakers, mistaking them for Sperm Whale spouts; yes,
and sometimes sailing from their port with their hold full of boxes of
tallow candles, and cases of snuffers, foreseeing that all the oil they
will get won’t be enough to dip the Captain’s wick into; aye, we all
know these things; but look ye, here’s a Crappo that is content with
our leavings, the drugged whale there, I mean; aye, and is content too
with scraping the dry bones of that other precious fish he has there.
Poor devil! I say, pass round a hat, some one, and let’s make him a
present of a little oil for dear charity’s sake. For what oil he’ll get
from that drugged whale there, wouldn’t be fit to burn in a jail; no,
not in a condemned cell. And as for the other whale, why, I’ll agree to
get more oil by chopping up and trying out these three masts of ours,
than he’ll get from that bundle of bones; though, now that I think of
it, it may contain something worth a good deal more than oil; yes,
ambergris. I wonder now if our old man has thought of that. It’s worth
trying. Yes, I’m for it;” and so saying he started for the
quarter-deck.

By this time the faint air had become a complete calm; so that whether
or no, the Pequod was now fairly entrapped in the smell, with no hope
of escaping except by its breezing up again. Issuing from the cabin,
Stubb now called his boat’s crew, and pulled off for the stranger.
Drawing across her bow, he perceived that in accordance with the
fanciful French taste, the upper part of her stem-piece was carved in
the likeness of a huge drooping stalk, was painted green, and for
thorns had copper spikes projecting from it here and there; the whole
terminating in a symmetrical folded bulb of a bright red colour. Upon
her head boards, in large gilt letters, he read “Bouton de
Rose,”—Rose-button, or Rose-bud; and this was the romantic name of this
aromatic ship.

Though Stubb did not understand the _Bouton_ part of the inscription,
yet the word _rose_, and the bulbous figure-head put together,
sufficiently explained the whole to him.

“A wooden rose-bud, eh?” he cried with his hand to his nose, “that will
do very well; but how like all creation it smells!”

Now in order to hold direct communication with the people on deck, he
had to pull round the bows to the starboard side, and thus come close
to the blasted whale; and so talk over it.

Arrived then at this spot, with one hand still to his nose, he
bawled—“Bouton-de-Rose, ahoy! are there any of you Bouton-de-Roses that
speak English?”

“Yes,” rejoined a Guernsey-man from the bulwarks, who turned out to be
the chief-mate.

“Well, then, my Bouton-de-Rose-bud, have you seen the White Whale?”

“_What_ whale?”

“The _White_ Whale—a Sperm Whale—Moby Dick, have ye seen him?

“Never heard of such a whale. Cachalot Blanche! White Whale—no.”

“Very good, then; good bye now, and I’ll call again in a minute.”

Then rapidly pulling back towards the Pequod, and seeing Ahab leaning
over the quarter-deck rail awaiting his report, he moulded his two
hands into a trumpet and shouted—“No, Sir! No!” Upon which Ahab
retired, and Stubb returned to the Frenchman.

He now perceived that the Guernsey-man, who had just got into the
chains, and was using a cutting-spade, had slung his nose in a sort of
bag.

“What’s the matter with your nose, there?” said Stubb. “Broke it?”

“I wish it was broken, or that I didn’t have any nose at all!” answered
the Guernsey-man, who did not seem to relish the job he was at very
much. “But what are you holding _yours_ for?”

“Oh, nothing! It’s a wax nose; I have to hold it on. Fine day, ain’t
it? Air rather gardenny, I should say; throw us a bunch of posies, will
ye, Bouton-de-Rose?”

“What in the devil’s name do you want here?” roared the Guernseyman,
flying into a sudden passion.

“Oh! keep cool—cool? yes, that’s the word! why don’t you pack those
whales in ice while you’re working at ’em? But joking aside, though; do
you know, Rose-bud, that it’s all nonsense trying to get any oil out of
such whales? As for that dried up one, there, he hasn’t a gill in his
whole carcase.”

“I know that well enough; but, d’ye see, the Captain here won’t believe
it; this is his first voyage; he was a Cologne manufacturer before. But
come aboard, and mayhap he’ll believe you, if he won’t me; and so I’ll
get out of this dirty scrape.”

“Anything to oblige ye, my sweet and pleasant fellow,” rejoined Stubb,
and with that he soon mounted to the deck. There a queer scene
presented itself. The sailors, in tasselled caps of red worsted, were
getting the heavy tackles in readiness for the whales. But they worked
rather slow and talked very fast, and seemed in anything but a good
humor. All their noses upwardly projected from their faces like so many
jib-booms. Now and then pairs of them would drop their work, and run up
to the mast-head to get some fresh air. Some thinking they would catch
the plague, dipped oakum in coal-tar, and at intervals held it to their
nostrils. Others having broken the stems of their pipes almost short
off at the bowl, were vigorously puffing tobacco-smoke, so that it
constantly filled their olfactories.

Stubb was struck by a shower of outcries and anathemas proceeding from
the Captain’s round-house abaft; and looking in that direction saw a
fiery face thrust from behind the door, which was held ajar from
within. This was the tormented surgeon, who, after in vain
remonstrating against the proceedings of the day, had betaken himself
to the Captain’s round-house (_cabinet_ he called it) to avoid the
pest; but still, could not help yelling out his entreaties and
indignations at times.

Marking all this, Stubb argued well for his scheme, and turning to the
Guernsey-man had a little chat with him, during which the stranger mate
expressed his detestation of his Captain as a conceited ignoramus, who
had brought them all into so unsavory and unprofitable a pickle.
Sounding him carefully, Stubb further perceived that the Guernsey-man
had not the slightest suspicion concerning the ambergris. He therefore
held his peace on that head, but otherwise was quite frank and
confidential with him, so that the two quickly concocted a little plan
for both circumventing and satirizing the Captain, without his at all
dreaming of distrusting their sincerity. According to this little plan
of theirs, the Guernsey-man, under cover of an interpreter’s office,
was to tell the Captain what he pleased, but as coming from Stubb; and
as for Stubb, he was to utter any nonsense that should come uppermost
in him during the interview.

By this time their destined victim appeared from his cabin. He was a
small and dark, but rather delicate looking man for a sea-captain, with
large whiskers and moustache, however; and wore a red cotton velvet
vest with watch-seals at his side. To this gentleman, Stubb was now
politely introduced by the Guernsey-man, who at once ostentatiously put
on the aspect of interpreting between them.

“What shall I say to him first?” said he.

“Why,” said Stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch and seals, “you
may as well begin by telling him that he looks a sort of babyish to me,
though I don’t pretend to be a judge.”

“He says, Monsieur,” said the Guernsey-man, in French, turning to his
captain, “that only yesterday his ship spoke a vessel, whose captain
and chief-mate, with six sailors, had all died of a fever caught from a
blasted whale they had brought alongside.”

Upon this the captain started, and eagerly desired to know more.

“What now?” said the Guernsey-man to Stubb.

“Why, since he takes it so easy, tell him that now I have eyed him
carefully, I’m quite certain that he’s no more fit to command a
whale-ship than a St. Jago monkey. In fact, tell him from me he’s a
baboon.”

“He vows and declares, Monsieur, that the other whale, the dried one,
is far more deadly than the blasted one; in fine, Monsieur, he conjures
us, as we value our lives, to cut loose from these fish.”

Instantly the captain ran forward, and in a loud voice commanded his
crew to desist from hoisting the cutting-tackles, and at once cast
loose the cables and chains confining the whales to the ship.

“What now?” said the Guernsey-man, when the Captain had returned to
them.

“Why, let me see; yes, you may as well tell him now that—that—in fact,
tell him I’ve diddled him, and (aside to himself) perhaps somebody
else.”

“He says, Monsieur, that he’s very happy to have been of any service to
us.”

Hearing this, the captain vowed that they were the grateful parties
(meaning himself and mate) and concluded by inviting Stubb down into
his cabin to drink a bottle of Bordeaux.

“He wants you to take a glass of wine with him,” said the interpreter.

“Thank him heartily; but tell him it’s against my principles to drink
with the man I’ve diddled. In fact, tell him I must go.”

“He says, Monsieur, that his principles won’t admit of his drinking;
but that if Monsieur wants to live another day to drink, then Monsieur
had best drop all four boats, and pull the ship away from these whales,
for it’s so calm they won’t drift.”

By this time Stubb was over the side, and getting into his boat, hailed
the Guernsey-man to this effect,—that having a long tow-line in his
boat, he would do what he could to help them, by pulling out the
lighter whale of the two from the ship’s side. While the Frenchman’s
boats, then, were engaged in towing the ship one way, Stubb
benevolently towed away at his whale the other way, ostentatiously
slacking out a most unusually long tow-line.

Presently a breeze sprang up; Stubb feigned to cast off from the whale;
hoisting his boats, the Frenchman soon increased his distance, while
the Pequod slid in between him and Stubb’s whale. Whereupon Stubb
quickly pulled to the floating body, and hailing the Pequod to give
notice of his intentions, at once proceeded to reap the fruit of his
unrighteous cunning. Seizing his sharp boat-spade, he commenced an
excavation in the body, a little behind the side fin. You would almost
have thought he was digging a cellar there in the sea; and when at
length his spade struck against the gaunt ribs, it was like turning up
old Roman tiles and pottery buried in fat English loam. His boat’s crew
were all in high excitement, eagerly helping their chief, and looking
as anxious as gold-hunters.

And all the time numberless fowls were diving, and ducking, and
screaming, and yelling, and fighting around them. Stubb was beginning
to look disappointed, especially as the horrible nosegay increased,
when suddenly from out the very heart of this plague, there stole a
faint stream of perfume, which flowed through the tide of bad smells
without being absorbed by it, as one river will flow into and then
along with another, without at all blending with it for a time.

“I have it, I have it,” cried Stubb, with delight, striking something
in the subterranean regions, “a purse! a purse!”

Dropping his spade, he thrust both hands in, and drew out handfuls of
something that looked like ripe Windsor soap, or rich mottled old
cheese; very unctuous and savory withal. You might easily dent it with
your thumb; it is of a hue between yellow and ash colour. And this,
good friends, is ambergris, worth a gold guinea an ounce to any
druggist. Some six handfuls were obtained; but more was unavoidably
lost in the sea, and still more, perhaps, might have been secured were
it not for impatient Ahab’s loud command to Stubb to desist, and come
on board, else the ship would bid them good bye.


CHAPTER 92. Ambergris.

Now this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as an
article of commerce, that in 1791 a certain Nantucket-born Captain
Coffin was examined at the bar of the English House of Commons on that
subject. For at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day,
the precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem
to the learned. Though the word ambergris is but the French compound
for grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct. For amber,
though at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far
inland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea.
Besides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance,
used for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris
is soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely
used in perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and
pomatum. The Turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to Mecca, for
the same purpose that frankincense is carried to St. Peter’s in Rome.
Some wine merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.

Who would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should
regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a
sick whale! Yet so it is. By some, ambergris is supposed to be the
cause, and by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale. How to
cure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering
three or four boat loads of Brandreth’s pills, and then running out of
harm’s way, as laborers do in blasting rocks.

I have forgotten to say that there were found in this ambergris,
certain hard, round, bony plates, which at first Stubb thought might be
sailors’ trowsers buttons; but it afterwards turned out that they were
nothing more than pieces of small squid bones embalmed in that manner.

Now that the incorruption of this most fragrant ambergris should be
found in the heart of such decay; is this nothing? Bethink thee of that
saying of St. Paul in Corinthians, about corruption and incorruption;
how that we are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory. And likewise
call to mind that saying of Paracelsus about what it is that maketh the
best musk. Also forget not the strange fact that of all things of
ill-savor, Cologne-water, in its rudimental manufacturing stages, is
the worst.

I should like to conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but
cannot, owing to my anxiety to repel a charge often made against
whalemen, and which, in the estimation of some already biased minds,
might be considered as indirectly substantiated by what has been said
of the Frenchman’s two whales. Elsewhere in this volume the slanderous
aspersion has been disproved, that the vocation of whaling is
throughout a slatternly, untidy business. But there is another thing to
rebut. They hint that all whales always smell bad. Now how did this
odious stigma originate?

I opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the
Greenland whaling ships in London, more than two centuries ago. Because
those whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea
as the Southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh
blubber in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks,
and carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those
Icy Seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed,
forbidding any other course. The consequence is, that upon breaking
into the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the
Greenland dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising
from excavating an old city grave-yard, for the foundations of a
Lying-in Hospital.

I partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against whalers may be
likewise imputed to the existence on the coast of Greenland, in former
times, of a Dutch village called Schmerenburgh or Smeerenberg, which
latter name is the one used by the learned Fogo Von Slack, in his great
work on Smells, a text-book on that subject. As its name imports
(smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in order to
afford a place for the blubber of the Dutch whale fleet to be tried
out, without being taken home to Holland for that purpose. It was a
collection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works
were in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor. But
all this is quite different with a South Sea Sperm Whaler; which in a
voyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with
oil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boiling
out; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless.
The truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a
species are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be
recognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a Jew
in the company, by the nose. Nor indeed can the whale possibly be
otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high
health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it
is true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm
Whale’s flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented
lady rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the
Sperm Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be
to that famous elephant, with jewelled tusks, and redolent with myrrh,
which was led out of an Indian town to do honor to Alexander the Great?


CHAPTER 93. The Castaway.

It was but some few days after encountering the Frenchman, that a most
significant event befell the most insignificant of the Pequod’s crew;
an event most lamentable; and which ended in providing the sometimes
madly merry and predestinated craft with a living and ever accompanying
prophecy of whatever shattered sequel might prove her own.

Now, in the whale ship, it is not every one that goes in the boats.
Some few hands are reserved called ship-keepers, whose province it is
to work the vessel while the boats are pursuing the whale. As a general
thing, these ship-keepers are as hardy fellows as the men comprising
the boats’ crews. But if there happen to be an unduly slender, clumsy,
or timorous wight in the ship, that wight is certain to be made a
ship-keeper. It was so in the Pequod with the little negro Pippin by
nick-name, Pip by abbreviation. Poor Pip! ye have heard of him before;
ye must remember his tambourine on that dramatic midnight, so
gloomy-jolly.

In outer aspect, Pip and Dough-Boy made a match, like a black pony and
a white one, of equal developments, though of dissimilar colour, driven
in one eccentric span. But while hapless Dough-Boy was by nature dull
and torpid in his intellects, Pip, though over tender-hearted, was at
bottom very bright, with that pleasant, genial, jolly brightness
peculiar to his tribe; a tribe, which ever enjoy all holidays and
festivities with finer, freer relish than any other race. For blacks,
the year’s calendar should show naught but three hundred and sixty-five
Fourth of Julys and New Year’s Days. Nor smile so, while I write that
this little black was brilliant, for even blackness has its brilliancy;
behold yon lustrous ebony, panelled in king’s cabinets. But Pip loved
life, and all life’s peaceable securities; so that the panic-striking
business in which he had somehow unaccountably become entrapped, had
most sadly blurred his brightness; though, as ere long will be seen,
what was thus temporarily subdued in him, in the end was destined to be
luridly illumined by strange wild fires, that fictitiously showed him
off to ten times the natural lustre with which in his native Tolland
County in Connecticut, he had once enlivened many a fiddler’s frolic on
the green; and at melodious even-tide, with his gay ha-ha! had turned
the round horizon into one star-belled tambourine. So, though in the
clear air of day, suspended against a blue-veined neck, the
pure-watered diamond drop will healthful glow; yet, when the cunning
jeweller would show you the diamond in its most impressive lustre, he
lays it against a gloomy ground, and then lights it up, not by the sun,
but by some unnatural gases. Then come out those fiery effulgences,
infernally superb; then the evil-blazing diamond, once the divinest
symbol of the crystal skies, looks like some crown-jewel stolen from
the King of Hell. But let us to the story.

It came to pass, that in the ambergris affair Stubb’s after-oarsman
chanced so to sprain his hand, as for a time to become quite maimed;
and, temporarily, Pip was put into his place.

The first time Stubb lowered with him, Pip evinced much nervousness;
but happily, for that time, escaped close contact with the whale; and
therefore came off not altogether discreditably; though Stubb observing
him, took care, afterwards, to exhort him to cherish his courageousness
to the utmost, for he might often find it needful.

Now upon the second lowering, the boat paddled upon the whale; and as
the fish received the darted iron, it gave its customary rap, which
happened, in this instance, to be right under poor Pip’s seat. The
involuntary consternation of the moment caused him to leap, paddle in
hand, out of the boat; and in such a way, that part of the slack whale
line coming against his chest, he breasted it overboard with him, so as
to become entangled in it, when at last plumping into the water. That
instant the stricken whale started on a fierce run, the line swiftly
straightened; and presto! poor Pip came all foaming up to the chocks of
the boat, remorselessly dragged there by the line, which had taken
several turns around his chest and neck.

Tashtego stood in the bows. He was full of the fire of the hunt. He
hated Pip for a poltroon. Snatching the boat-knife from its sheath, he
suspended its sharp edge over the line, and turning towards Stubb,
exclaimed interrogatively, “Cut?” Meantime Pip’s blue, choked face
plainly looked, Do, for God’s sake! All passed in a flash. In less than
half a minute, this entire thing happened.

“Damn him, cut!” roared Stubb; and so the whale was lost and Pip was
saved.

So soon as he recovered himself, the poor little negro was assailed by
yells and execrations from the crew. Tranquilly permitting these
irregular cursings to evaporate, Stubb then in a plain, business-like,
but still half humorous manner, cursed Pip officially; and that done,
unofficially gave him much wholesome advice. The substance was, Never
jump from a boat, Pip, except—but all the rest was indefinite, as the
soundest advice ever is. Now, in general, _Stick to the boat_, is your
true motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when _Leap from
the boat_, is still better. Moreover, as if perceiving at last that if
he should give undiluted conscientious advice to Pip, he would be
leaving him too wide a margin to jump in for the future; Stubb suddenly
dropped all advice, and concluded with a peremptory command, “Stick to
the boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won’t pick you up if you jump; mind
that. We can’t afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would
sell for thirty times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear that in
mind, and don’t jump any more.” Hereby perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted,
that though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal,
which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.

But we are all in the hands of the Gods; and Pip jumped again. It was
under very similar circumstances to the first performance; but this
time he did not breast out the line; and hence, when the whale started
to run, Pip was left behind on the sea, like a hurried traveller’s
trunk. Alas! Stubb was but too true to his word. It was a beautiful,
bounteous, blue day; the spangled sea calm and cool, and flatly
stretching away, all round, to the horizon, like gold-beater’s skin
hammered out to the extremest. Bobbing up and down in that sea, Pip’s
ebon head showed like a head of cloves. No boat-knife was lifted when
he fell so rapidly astern. Stubb’s inexorable back was turned upon him;
and the whale was winged. In three minutes, a whole mile of shoreless
ocean was between Pip and Stubb. Out from the centre of the sea, poor
Pip turned his crisp, curling, black head to the sun, another lonely
castaway, though the loftiest and the brightest.

Now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the
practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful
lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the
middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it? Mark,
how when sailors in a dead calm bathe in the open sea—mark how closely
they hug their ship and only coast along her sides.

But had Stubb really abandoned the poor little negro to his fate? No;
he did not mean to, at least. Because there were two boats in his wake,
and he supposed, no doubt, that they would of course come up to Pip
very quickly, and pick him up; though, indeed, such considerations
towards oarsmen jeopardized through their own timidity, is not always
manifested by the hunters in all similar instances; and such instances
not unfrequently occur; almost invariably in the fishery, a coward, so
called, is marked with the same ruthless detestation peculiar to
military navies and armies.

But it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly
spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and
Stubb’s boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent
upon his fish, that Pip’s ringed horizon began to expand around him
miserably. By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him;
but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such,
at least, they said he was. The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body
up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though.
Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of
the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes;
and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the
joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous,
God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters
heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God’s foot upon the treadle of the
loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So
man’s insanity is heaven’s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason,
man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is
absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised,
indifferent as his God.

For the rest, blame not Stubb too hardly. The thing is common in that
fishery; and in the sequel of the narrative, it will then be seen what
like abandonment befell myself.


CHAPTER 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.

That whale of Stubb’s, so dearly purchased, was duly brought to the
Pequod’s side, where all those cutting and hoisting operations
previously detailed, were regularly gone through, even to the baling of
the Heidelburgh Tun, or Case.

While some were occupied with this latter duty, others were employed in
dragging away the larger tubs, so soon as filled with the sperm; and
when the proper time arrived, this same sperm was carefully manipulated
ere going to the try-works, of which anon.

It had cooled and crystallized to such a degree, that when, with
several others, I sat down before a large Constantine’s bath of it, I
found it strangely concreted into lumps, here and there rolling about
in the liquid part. It was our business to squeeze these lumps back
into fluid. A sweet and unctuous duty! No wonder that in old times this
sperm was such a favourite cosmetic. Such a clearer! such a sweetener!
such a softener! such a delicious molifier! After having my hands in it
for only a few minutes, my fingers felt like eels, and began, as it
were, to serpentine and spiralise.

As I sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter
exertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under
indolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as I bathed my hands
among those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven almost
within the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and discharged all
their opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as I snuffed up that
uncontaminated aroma,—literally and truly, like the smell of spring
violets; I declare to you, that for the time I lived as in a musky
meadow; I forgot all about our horrible oath; in that inexpressible
sperm, I washed my hands and my heart of it; I almost began to credit
the old Paracelsan superstition that sperm is of rare virtue in
allaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that bath, I felt divinely
free from all ill-will, or petulance, or malice, of any sort
whatsoever.

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm
till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a
strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly
squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the
gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving
feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually
squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as
much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish
any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come;
let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into
each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and
sperm of kindness.

Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now, since
by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all
cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of
attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the
fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the
fireside, the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready
to squeeze case eternally. In thoughts of the visions of the night, I
saw long rows of angels in paradise, each with his hands in a jar of
spermaceti.

Now, while discoursing of sperm, it behooves to speak of other things
akin to it, in the business of preparing the sperm whale for the
try-works.

First comes white-horse, so called, which is obtained from the tapering
part of the fish, and also from the thicker portions of his flukes. It
is tough with congealed tendons—a wad of muscle—but still contains some
oil. After being severed from the whale, the white-horse is first cut
into portable oblongs ere going to the mincer. They look much like
blocks of Berkshire marble.

Plum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the
whale’s flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and
often participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness. It is
a most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold. As its name
imports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked
snowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of the deepest crimson and
purple. It is plums of rubies, in pictures of citron. Spite of reason,
it is hard to keep yourself from eating it. I confess, that once I
stole behind the foremast to try it. It tasted something as I should
conceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis le Gros might have
tasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the
venison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an
unusually fine vintage of the vineyards of Champagne.

There is another substance, and a very singular one, which turns up in
the course of this business, but which I feel it to be very puzzling
adequately to describe. It is called slobgollion; an appellation
original with the whalemen, and even so is the nature of the substance.
It is an ineffably oozy, stringy affair, most frequently found in the
tubs of sperm, after a prolonged squeezing, and subsequent decanting. I
hold it to be the wondrously thin, ruptured membranes of the case,
coalescing.

Gurry, so called, is a term properly belonging to right whalemen, but
sometimes incidentally used by the sperm fishermen. It designates the
dark, glutinous substance which is scraped off the back of the
Greenland or right whale, and much of which covers the decks of those
inferior souls who hunt that ignoble Leviathan.

Nippers. Strictly this word is not indigenous to the whale’s
vocabulary. But as applied by whalemen, it becomes so. A whaleman’s
nipper is a short firm strip of tendinous stuff cut from the tapering
part of Leviathan’s tail: it averages an inch in thickness, and for the
rest, is about the size of the iron part of a hoe. Edgewise moved along
the oily deck, it operates like a leathern squilgee; and by nameless
blandishments, as of magic, allures along with it all impurities.

But to learn all about these recondite matters, your best way is at
once to descend into the blubber-room, and have a long talk with its
inmates. This place has previously been mentioned as the receptacle for
the blanket-pieces, when stript and hoisted from the whale. When the
proper time arrives for cutting up its contents, this apartment is a
scene of terror to all tyros, especially by night. On one side, lit by
a dull lantern, a space has been left clear for the workmen. They
generally go in pairs,—a pike-and-gaffman and a spade-man. The
whaling-pike is similar to a frigate’s boarding-weapon of the same
name. The gaff is something like a boat-hook. With his gaff, the
gaffman hooks on to a sheet of blubber, and strives to hold it from
slipping, as the ship pitches and lurches about. Meanwhile, the
spade-man stands on the sheet itself, perpendicularly chopping it into
the portable horse-pieces. This spade is sharp as hone can make it; the
spademan’s feet are shoeless; the thing he stands on will sometimes
irresistibly slide away from him, like a sledge. If he cuts off one of
his own toes, or one of his assistants’, would you be very much
astonished? Toes are scarce among veteran blubber-room men.


CHAPTER 95. The Cassock.

Had you stepped on board the Pequod at a certain juncture of this
post-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the
windlass, pretty sure am I that you would have scanned with no small
curiosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen
there, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers. Not the wondrous
cistern in the whale’s huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower
jaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so
surprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone,—longer than
a Kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and
jet-black as Yojo, the ebony idol of Queequeg. And an idol, indeed, it
is; or, rather, in old times, its likeness was. Such an idol as that
found in the secret groves of Queen Maachah in Judea; and for
worshipping which, King Asa, her son, did depose her, and destroyed the
idol, and burnt it for an abomination at the brook Kedron, as darkly
set forth in the 15th chapter of the First Book of Kings.

Look at the sailor, called the mincer, who now comes along, and
assisted by two allies, heavily backs the grandissimus, as the mariners
call it, and with bowed shoulders, staggers off with it as if he were a
grenadier carrying a dead comrade from the field. Extending it upon the
forecastle deck, he now proceeds cylindrically to remove its dark pelt,
as an African hunter the pelt of a boa. This done he turns the pelt
inside out, like a pantaloon leg; gives it a good stretching, so as
almost to double its diameter; and at last hangs it, well spread, in
the rigging, to dry. Ere long, it is taken down; when removing some
three feet of it, towards the pointed extremity, and then cutting two
slits for arm-holes at the other end, he lengthwise slips himself
bodily into it. The mincer now stands before you invested in the full
canonicals of his calling. Immemorial to all his order, this
investiture alone will adequately protect him, while employed in the
peculiar functions of his office.

That office consists in mincing the horse-pieces of blubber for the
pots; an operation which is conducted at a curious wooden horse,
planted endwise against the bulwarks, and with a capacious tub beneath
it, into which the minced pieces drop, fast as the sheets from a rapt
orator’s desk. Arrayed in decent black; occupying a conspicuous pulpit;
intent on bible leaves; what a candidate for an archbishopric, what a
lad for a Pope were this mincer!*

*Bible leaves! Bible leaves! This is the invariable cry from the mates
to the mincer. It enjoins him to be careful, and cut his work into as
thin slices as possible, inasmuch as by so doing the business of
boiling out the oil is much accelerated, and its quantity considerably
increased, besides perhaps improving it in quality.


CHAPTER 96. The Try-Works.

Besides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly
distinguished by her try-works. She presents the curious anomaly of the
most solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the
completed ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were
transported to her planks.

The try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most
roomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength,
fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and
mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The
foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly
secured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all
sides, and screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased
with wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened
hatchway. Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in
number, and each of several barrels’ capacity. When not in use, they
are kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone
and sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls. During the
night-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil
themselves away there for a nap. While employed in polishing them—one
man in each pot, side by side—many confidential communications are
carried on, over the iron lips. It is a place also for profound
mathematical meditation. It was in the left hand try-pot of the Pequod,
with the soapstone diligently circling round me, that I was first
indirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies
gliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from
any point in precisely the same time.

Removing the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare
masonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of
the furnaces, directly underneath the pots. These mouths are fitted
with heavy doors of iron. The intense heat of the fire is prevented
from communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir
extending under the entire inclosed surface of the works. By a tunnel
inserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as
fast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; they open direct
from the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.

It was about nine o’clock at night that the Pequod’s try-works were
first started on this present voyage. It belonged to Stubb to oversee
the business.

“All ready there? Off hatch, then, and start her. You cook, fire the
works.” This was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting
his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. Here be it said
that in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed
for a time with wood. After that no wood is used, except as a means of
quick ignition to the staple fuel. In a word, after being tried out,
the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still
contains considerable of its unctuous properties. These fritters feed
the flames. Like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming
misanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by
his own body. Would that he consumed his own smoke! for his smoke is
horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you
must live in it for the time. It has an unspeakable, wild, Hindoo odor
about it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres. It smells
like the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the
pit.

By midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the
carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean
darkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce
flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and
illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek
fire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to
some vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the
bold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad
sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and
folded them in conflagrations.

The hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide
hearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of
the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship’s stokers. With huge
pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding
pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted,
curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled
away in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of
the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces.
Opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden
hearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here lounged the
watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the
fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their tawny
features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards,
and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were
strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they
narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror
told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards
out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their
front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged
forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the
ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further
and further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully
champed the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on
all sides; then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden
with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of
darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander’s
soul.

So seemed it to me, as I stood at her helm, and for long hours silently
guided the way of this fire-ship on the sea. Wrapped, for that
interval, in darkness myself, I but the better saw the redness, the
madness, the ghastliness of others. The continual sight of the fiend
shapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at
last begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as I began to yield to
that unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a
midnight helm.

But that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable)
thing occurred to me. Starting from a brief standing sleep, I was
horribly conscious of something fatally wrong. The jaw-bone tiller
smote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of
sails, just beginning to shake in the wind; I thought my eyes were
open; I was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and
mechanically stretching them still further apart. But, spite of all
this, I could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed
but a minute since I had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle
lamp illuminating it. Nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and
then made ghastly by flashes of redness. Uppermost was the impression,
that whatever swift, rushing thing I stood on was not so much bound to
any haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern. A stark, bewildered
feeling, as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the
tiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in
some enchanted way, inverted. My God! what is the matter with me?
thought I. Lo! in my brief sleep I had turned myself about, and was
fronting the ship’s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass. In
an instant I faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying
up into the wind, and very probably capsizing her. How glad and how
grateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and
the fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!

Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy
hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first
hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its
redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun,
the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking
flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the
glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s
accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of
deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean,
which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this
earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow
in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With
books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the
truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered
steel of woe. “All is vanity.” ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold
of unchristian Solomon’s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and
jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of
operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils
all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais
as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit
down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably
wondrous Solomon.

But even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of
understanding shall remain” (_i.e._, even while living) “in the
congregation of the dead.” Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it
invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom
that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a
Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest
gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny
spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is
in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle
is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.


CHAPTER 97. The Lamp.

Had you descended from the Pequod’s try-works to the Pequod’s
forecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single
moment you would have almost thought you were standing in some
illuminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors. There they lay
in their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a
score of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.

In merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of
queens. To dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in
darkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he
seeks the food of light, so he lives in light. He makes his berth an
Aladdin’s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night
the ship’s black hull still houses an illumination.

See with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of
lamps—often but old bottles and vials, though—to the copper cooler at
the try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat. He
burns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore,
unvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral
contrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He
goes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and
genuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own
supper of game.


CHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.

Already has it been related how the great leviathan is afar off
descried from the mast-head; how he is chased over the watery moors,
and slaughtered in the valleys of the deep; how he is then towed
alongside and beheaded; and how (on the principle which entitled the
headsman of old to the garments in which the beheaded was killed) his
great padded surtout becomes the property of his executioner; how, in
due time, he is condemned to the pots, and, like Shadrach, Meshach, and
Abednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bone pass unscathed through the
fire;—but now it remains to conclude the last chapter of this part of
the description by rehearsing—singing, if I may—the romantic proceeding
of decanting off his oil into the casks and striking them down into the
hold, where once again leviathan returns to his native profundities,
sliding along beneath the surface as before; but, alas! never more to
rise and blow.

While still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is received into the
six-barrel casks; and while, perhaps, the ship is pitching and rolling
this way and that in the midnight sea, the enormous casks are slewed
round and headed over, end for end, and sometimes perilously scoot
across the slippery deck, like so many land slides, till at last
man-handled and stayed in their course; and all round the hoops, rap,
rap, go as many hammers as can play upon them, for now, _ex officio_,
every sailor is a cooper.

At length, when the last pint is casked, and all is cool, then the
great hatchways are unsealed, the bowels of the ship are thrown open,
and down go the casks to their final rest in the sea. This done, the
hatches are replaced, and hermetically closed, like a closet walled up.

In the sperm fishery, this is perhaps one of the most remarkable
incidents in all the business of whaling. One day the planks stream
with freshets of blood and oil; on the sacred quarter-deck enormous
masses of the whale’s head are profanely piled; great rusty casks lie
about, as in a brewery yard; the smoke from the try-works has besooted
all the bulwarks; the mariners go about suffused with unctuousness; the
entire ship seems great leviathan himself; while on all hands the din
is deafening.

But a day or two after, you look about you, and prick your ears in this
self-same ship; and were it not for the tell-tale boats and try-works,
you would all but swear you trod some silent merchant vessel, with a
most scrupulously neat commander. The unmanufactured sperm oil
possesses a singularly cleansing virtue. This is the reason why the
decks never look so white as just after what they call an affair of
oil. Besides, from the ashes of the burned scraps of the whale, a
potent lye is readily made; and whenever any adhesiveness from the back
of the whale remains clinging to the side, that lye quickly
exterminates it. Hands go diligently along the bulwarks, and with
buckets of water and rags restore them to their full tidiness. The soot
is brushed from the lower rigging. All the numerous implements which
have been in use are likewise faithfully cleansed and put away. The
great hatch is scrubbed and placed upon the try-works, completely
hiding the pots; every cask is out of sight; all tackles are coiled in
unseen nooks; and when by the combined and simultaneous industry of
almost the entire ship’s company, the whole of this conscientious duty
is at last concluded, then the crew themselves proceed to their own
ablutions; shift themselves from top to toe; and finally issue to the
immaculate deck, fresh and all aglow, as bridegrooms new-leaped from
out the daintiest Holland.

Now, with elated step, they pace the planks in twos and threes, and
humorously discourse of parlors, sofas, carpets, and fine cambrics;
propose to mat the deck; think of having hanging to the top; object not
to taking tea by moonlight on the piazza of the forecastle. To hint to
such musked mariners of oil, and bone, and blubber, were little short
of audacity. They know not the thing you distantly allude to. Away, and
bring us napkins!

But mark: aloft there, at the three mast heads, stand three men intent
on spying out more whales, which, if caught, infallibly will again soil
the old oaken furniture, and drop at least one small grease-spot
somewhere. Yes; and many is the time, when, after the severest
uninterrupted labors, which know no night; continuing straight through
for ninety-six hours; when from the boat, where they have swelled their
wrists with all day rowing on the Line,—they only step to the deck to
carry vast chains, and heave the heavy windlass, and cut and slash,
yea, and in their very sweatings to be smoked and burned anew by the
combined fires of the equatorial sun and the equatorial try-works;
when, on the heel of all this, they have finally bestirred themselves
to cleanse the ship, and make a spotless dairy room of it; many is the
time the poor fellows, just buttoning the necks of their clean frocks,
are startled by the cry of “There she blows!” and away they fly to
fight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again. Oh! my
friends, but this is man-killing! Yet this is life. For hardly have we
mortals by long toilings extracted from this world’s vast bulk its
small but valuable sperm; and then, with weary patience, cleansed
ourselves from its defilements, and learned to live here in clean
tabernacles of the soul; hardly is this done, when—_There she
blows!_—the ghost is spouted up, and away we sail to fight some other
world, and go through young life’s old routine again.

Oh! the metempsychosis! Oh! Pythagoras, that in bright Greece, two
thousand years ago, did die, so good, so wise, so mild; I sailed with
thee along the Peruvian coast last voyage—and, foolish as I am, taught
thee, a green simple boy, how to splice a rope!


CHAPTER 99. The Doubloon.

Ere now it has been related how Ahab was wont to pace his quarter-deck,
taking regular turns at either limit, the binnacle and mainmast; but in
the multiplicity of other things requiring narration it has not been
added how that sometimes in these walks, when most plunged in his mood,
he was wont to pause in turn at each spot, and stand there strangely
eyeing the particular object before him. When he halted before the
binnacle, with his glance fastened on the pointed needle in the
compass, that glance shot like a javelin with the pointed intensity of
his purpose; and when resuming his walk he again paused before the
mainmast, then, as the same riveted glance fastened upon the riveted
gold coin there, he still wore the same aspect of nailed firmness, only
dashed with a certain wild longing, if not hopefulness.

But one morning, turning to pass the doubloon, he seemed to be newly
attracted by the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as
though now for the first time beginning to interpret for himself in
some monomaniac way whatever significance might lurk in them. And some
certain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little
worth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell
by the cartload, as they do hills about Boston, to fill up some morass
in the Milky Way.

Now this doubloon was of purest, virgin gold, raked somewhere out of
the heart of gorgeous hills, whence, east and west, over golden sands,
the head-waters of many a Pactolus flows. And though now nailed amidst
all the rustiness of iron bolts and the verdigris of copper spikes,
yet, untouchable and immaculate to any foulness, it still preserved its
Quito glow. Nor, though placed amongst a ruthless crew and every hour
passed by ruthless hands, and through the livelong nights shrouded with
thick darkness which might cover any pilfering approach, nevertheless
every sunrise found the doubloon where the sunset left it last. For it
was set apart and sanctified to one awe-striking end; and however
wanton in their sailor ways, one and all, the mariners revered it as
the white whale’s talisman. Sometimes they talked it over in the weary
watch by night, wondering whose it was to be at last, and whether he
would ever live to spend it.

Now those noble golden coins of South America are as medals of the sun
and tropic token-pieces. Here palms, alpacas, and volcanoes; sun’s
disks and stars; ecliptics, horns-of-plenty, and rich banners waving,
are in luxuriant profusion stamped; so that the precious gold seems
almost to derive an added preciousness and enhancing glories, by
passing through those fancy mints, so Spanishly poetic.

It so chanced that the doubloon of the Pequod was a most wealthy
example of these things. On its round border it bore the letters,
REPUBLICA DEL ECUADOR: QUITO. So this bright coin came from a country
planted in the middle of the world, and beneath the great equator, and
named after it; and it had been cast midway up the Andes, in the
unwaning clime that knows no autumn. Zoned by those letters you saw the
likeness of three Andes’ summits; from one a flame; a tower on another;
on the third a crowing cock; while arching over all was a segment of
the partitioned zodiac, the signs all marked with their usual
cabalistics, and the keystone sun entering the equinoctial point at
Libra.

Before this equatorial coin, Ahab, not unobserved by others, was now
pausing.

“There’s something ever egotistical in mountain-tops and towers, and
all other grand and lofty things; look here,—three peaks as proud as
Lucifer. The firm tower, that is Ahab; the volcano, that is Ahab; the
courageous, the undaunted, and victorious fowl, that, too, is Ahab; all
are Ahab; and this round gold is but the image of the rounder globe,
which, like a magician’s glass, to each and every man in turn but
mirrors back his own mysterious self. Great pains, small gains for
those who ask the world to solve them; it cannot solve itself. Methinks
now this coined sun wears a ruddy face; but see! aye, he enters the
sign of storms, the equinox! and but six months before he wheeled out
of a former equinox at Aries! From storm to storm! So be it, then. Born
in throes, ’tis fit that man should live in pains and die in pangs! So
be it, then! Here’s stout stuff for woe to work on. So be it, then.”

“No fairy fingers can have pressed the gold, but devil’s claws must
have left their mouldings there since yesterday,” murmured Starbuck to
himself, leaning against the bulwarks. “The old man seems to read
Belshazzar’s awful writing. I have never marked the coin inspectingly.
He goes below; let me read. A dark valley between three mighty,
heaven-abiding peaks, that almost seem the Trinity, in some faint
earthly symbol. So in this vale of Death, God girds us round; and over
all our gloom, the sun of Righteousness still shines a beacon and a
hope. If we bend down our eyes, the dark vale shows her mouldy soil;
but if we lift them, the bright sun meets our glance half way, to
cheer. Yet, oh, the great sun is no fixture; and if, at midnight, we
would fain snatch some sweet solace from him, we gaze for him in vain!
This coin speaks wisely, mildly, truly, but still sadly to me. I will
quit it, lest Truth shake me falsely.”

“There now’s the old Mogul,” soliloquized Stubb by the try-works, “he’s
been twigging it; and there goes Starbuck from the same, and both with
faces which I should say might be somewhere within nine fathoms long.
And all from looking at a piece of gold, which did I have it now on
Negro Hill or in Corlaer’s Hook, I’d not look at it very long ere
spending it. Humph! in my poor, insignificant opinion, I regard this as
queer. I have seen doubloons before now in my voyagings; your doubloons
of old Spain, your doubloons of Peru, your doubloons of Chili, your
doubloons of Bolivia, your doubloons of Popayan; with plenty of gold
moidores and pistoles, and joes, and half joes, and quarter joes. What
then should there be in this doubloon of the Equator that is so killing
wonderful? By Golconda! let me read it once. Halloa! here’s signs and
wonders truly! That, now, is what old Bowditch in his Epitome calls the
zodiac, and what my almanac below calls ditto. I’ll get the almanac and
as I have heard devils can be raised with Daboll’s arithmetic, I’ll try
my hand at raising a meaning out of these queer curvicues here with the
Massachusetts calendar. Here’s the book. Let’s see now. Signs and
wonders; and the sun, he’s always among ’em. Hem, hem, hem; here they
are—here they go—all alive:—Aries, or the Ram; Taurus, or the Bull and
Jimimi! here’s Gemini himself, or the Twins. Well; the sun he wheels
among ’em. Aye, here on the coin he’s just crossing the threshold
between two of twelve sitting-rooms all in a ring. Book! you lie there;
the fact is, you books must know your places. You’ll do to give us the
bare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts. That’s my
small experience, so far as the Massachusetts calendar, and Bowditch’s
navigator, and Daboll’s arithmetic go. Signs and wonders, eh? Pity if
there is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders!
There’s a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist—hark! By Jove, I have it!
Look you, Doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round
chapter; and now I’ll read it off, straight out of the book. Come,
Almanack! To begin: there’s Aries, or the Ram—lecherous dog, he begets
us; then, Taurus, or the Bull—he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini,
or the Twins—that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo!
comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue,
Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path—he gives a few fierce bites and
surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that’s
our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes
Libra, or the Scales—happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we
are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the
Scorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang
come the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing
himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here’s the
battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing,
and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the Water-bearer, pours
out his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with Pisces, or the
Fishes, we sleep. There’s a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the
sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and
hearty. Jollily he, aloft there, wheels through toil and trouble; and
so, alow here, does jolly Stubb. Oh, jolly’s the word for aye! Adieu,
Doubloon! But stop; here comes little King-Post; dodge round the
try-works, now, and let’s hear what he’ll have to say. There; he’s
before it; he’ll out with something presently. So, so; he’s beginning.”

“I see nothing here, but a round thing made of gold, and whoever raises
a certain whale, this round thing belongs to him. So, what’s all this
staring been about? It is worth sixteen dollars, that’s true; and at
two cents the cigar, that’s nine hundred and sixty cigars. I won’t
smoke dirty pipes like Stubb, but I like cigars, and here’s nine
hundred and sixty of them; so here goes Flask aloft to spy ’em out.”

“Shall I call that wise or foolish, now; if it be really wise it has a
foolish look to it; yet, if it be really foolish, then has it a sort of
wiseish look to it. But, avast; here comes our old Manxman—the old
hearse-driver, he must have been, that is, before he took to the sea.
He luffs up before the doubloon; halloa, and goes round on the other
side of the mast; why, there’s a horse-shoe nailed on that side; and
now he’s back again; what does that mean? Hark! he’s muttering—voice
like an old worn-out coffee-mill. Prick ears, and listen!”

“If the White Whale be raised, it must be in a month and a day, when
the sun stands in some one of these signs. I’ve studied signs, and know
their marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch
in Copenhagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then be? The horse-shoe
sign; for there it is, right opposite the gold. And what’s the
horse-shoe sign? The lion is the horse-shoe sign—the roaring and
devouring lion. Ship, old ship! my old head shakes to think of thee.”

“There’s another rendering now; but still one text. All sorts of men in
one kind of world, you see. Dodge again! here comes Queequeg—all
tattooing—looks like the signs of the Zodiac himself. What says the
Cannibal? As I live he’s comparing notes; looking at his thigh bone;
thinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the bowels, I
suppose, as the old women talk Surgeon’s Astronomy in the back country.
And by Jove, he’s found something there in the vicinity of his thigh—I
guess it’s Sagittarius, or the Archer. No: he don’t know what to make
of the doubloon; he takes it for an old button off some king’s
trowsers. But, aside again! here comes that ghost-devil, Fedallah; tail
coiled out of sight as usual, oakum in the toes of his pumps as usual.
What does he say, with that look of his? Ah, only makes a sign to the
sign and bows himself; there is a sun on the coin—fire worshipper,
depend upon it. Ho! more and more. This way comes Pip—poor boy! would
he had died, or I; he’s half horrible to me. He too has been watching
all of these interpreters—myself included—and look now, he comes to
read, with that unearthly idiot face. Stand away again and hear him.
Hark!”

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Upon my soul, he’s been studying Murray’s Grammar! Improving his mind,
poor fellow! But what’s that he says now—hist!”

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Why, he’s getting it by heart—hist! again.”

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Well, that’s funny.”

“And I, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and I’m a
crow, especially when I stand a’top of this pine tree here. Caw! caw!
caw! caw! caw! caw! Ain’t I a crow? And where’s the scare-crow? There
he stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two more
poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.”

“Wonder if he means me?—complimentary!—poor lad!—I could go hang
myself. Any way, for the present, I’ll quit Pip’s vicinity. I can stand
the rest, for they have plain wits; but he’s too crazy-witty for my
sanity. So, so, I leave him muttering.”

“Here’s the ship’s navel, this doubloon here, and they are all on fire
to unscrew it. But, unscrew your navel, and what’s the consequence?
Then again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for when aught’s
nailed to the mast it’s a sign that things grow desperate. Ha, ha! old
Ahab! the White Whale; he’ll nail ye! This is a pine tree. My father,
in old Tolland county, cut down a pine tree once, and found a silver
ring grown over in it; some old darkey’s wedding ring. How did it get
there? And so they’ll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish
up this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters
for the shaggy bark. Oh, the gold! the precious, precious, gold! the
green miser’ll hoard ye soon! Hish! hish! God goes ’mong the worlds
blackberrying. Cook! ho, cook! and cook us! Jenny! hey, hey, hey, hey,
hey, Jenny, Jenny! and get your hoe-cake done!”


CHAPTER 100. Leg and Arm.

The Pequod, of Nantucket, Meets the Samuel Enderby, of London.

“Ship, ahoy! Hast seen the White Whale?”

So cried Ahab, once more hailing a ship showing English colours,
bearing down under the stern. Trumpet to mouth, the old man was
standing in his hoisted quarter-boat, his ivory leg plainly revealed to
the stranger captain, who was carelessly reclining in his own boat’s
bow. He was a darkly-tanned, burly, good-natured, fine-looking man, of
sixty or thereabouts, dressed in a spacious roundabout, that hung round
him in festoons of blue pilot-cloth; and one empty arm of this jacket
streamed behind him like the broidered arm of a hussar’s surcoat.

“Hast seen the White Whale?”

“See you this?” and withdrawing it from the folds that had hidden it,
he held up a white arm of sperm whale bone, terminating in a wooden
head like a mallet.

“Man my boat!” cried Ahab, impetuously, and tossing about the oars near
him—“Stand by to lower!”

In less than a minute, without quitting his little craft, he and his
crew were dropped to the water, and were soon alongside of the
stranger. But here a curious difficulty presented itself. In the
excitement of the moment, Ahab had forgotten that since the loss of his
leg he had never once stepped on board of any vessel at sea but his
own, and then it was always by an ingenious and very handy mechanical
contrivance peculiar to the Pequod, and a thing not to be rigged and
shipped in any other vessel at a moment’s warning. Now, it is no very
easy matter for anybody—except those who are almost hourly used to it,
like whalemen—to clamber up a ship’s side from a boat on the open sea;
for the great swells now lift the boat high up towards the bulwarks,
and then instantaneously drop it half way down to the kelson. So,
deprived of one leg, and the strange ship of course being altogether
unsupplied with the kindly invention, Ahab now found himself abjectly
reduced to a clumsy landsman again; hopelessly eyeing the uncertain
changeful height he could hardly hope to attain.

It has before been hinted, perhaps, that every little untoward
circumstance that befell him, and which indirectly sprang from his
luckless mishap, almost invariably irritated or exasperated Ahab. And
in the present instance, all this was heightened by the sight of the
two officers of the strange ship, leaning over the side, by the
perpendicular ladder of nailed cleets there, and swinging towards him a
pair of tastefully-ornamented man-ropes; for at first they did not seem
to bethink them that a one-legged man must be too much of a cripple to
use their sea bannisters. But this awkwardness only lasted a minute,
because the strange captain, observing at a glance how affairs stood,
cried out, “I see, I see!—avast heaving there! Jump, boys, and swing
over the cutting-tackle.”

As good luck would have it, they had had a whale alongside a day or two
previous, and the great tackles were still aloft, and the massive
curved blubber-hook, now clean and dry, was still attached to the end.
This was quickly lowered to Ahab, who at once comprehending it all,
slid his solitary thigh into the curve of the hook (it was like sitting
in the fluke of an anchor, or the crotch of an apple tree), and then
giving the word, held himself fast, and at the same time also helped to
hoist his own weight, by pulling hand-over-hand upon one of the running
parts of the tackle. Soon he was carefully swung inside the high
bulwarks, and gently landed upon the capstan head. With his ivory arm
frankly thrust forth in welcome, the other captain advanced, and Ahab,
putting out his ivory leg, and crossing the ivory arm (like two
sword-fish blades) cried out in his walrus way, “Aye, aye, hearty! let
us shake bones together!—an arm and a leg!—an arm that never can
shrink, d’ye see; and a leg that never can run. Where did’st thou see
the White Whale?—how long ago?”

“The White Whale,” said the Englishman, pointing his ivory arm towards
the East, and taking a rueful sight along it, as if it had been a
telescope; “there I saw him, on the Line, last season.”

“And he took that arm off, did he?” asked Ahab, now sliding down from
the capstan, and resting on the Englishman’s shoulder, as he did so.

“Aye, he was the cause of it, at least; and that leg, too?”

“Spin me the yarn,” said Ahab; “how was it?”

“It was the first time in my life that I ever cruised on the Line,”
began the Englishman. “I was ignorant of the White Whale at that time.
Well, one day we lowered for a pod of four or five whales, and my boat
fastened to one of them; a regular circus horse he was, too, that went
milling and milling round so, that my boat’s crew could only trim dish,
by sitting all their sterns on the outer gunwale. Presently up breaches
from the bottom of the sea a bouncing great whale, with a milky-white
head and hump, all crows’ feet and wrinkles.”

“It was he, it was he!” cried Ahab, suddenly letting out his suspended
breath.

“And harpoons sticking in near his starboard fin.”

“Aye, aye—they were mine—_my_ irons,” cried Ahab, exultingly—“but on!”

“Give me a chance, then,” said the Englishman, good-humoredly. “Well,
this old great-grandfather, with the white head and hump, runs all
afoam into the pod, and goes to snapping furiously at my fast-line!

“Aye, I see!—wanted to part it; free the fast-fish—an old trick—I know
him.”

“How it was exactly,” continued the one-armed commander, “I do not
know; but in biting the line, it got foul of his teeth, caught there
somehow; but we didn’t know it then; so that when we afterwards pulled
on the line, bounce we came plump on to his hump! instead of the other
whale’s; that went off to windward, all fluking. Seeing how matters
stood, and what a noble great whale it was—the noblest and biggest I
ever saw, sir, in my life—I resolved to capture him, spite of the
boiling rage he seemed to be in. And thinking the hap-hazard line would
get loose, or the tooth it was tangled to might draw (for I have a
devil of a boat’s crew for a pull on a whale-line); seeing all this, I
say, I jumped into my first mate’s boat—Mr. Mounttop’s here (by the
way, Captain—Mounttop; Mounttop—the captain);—as I was saying, I jumped
into Mounttop’s boat, which, d’ye see, was gunwale and gunwale with
mine, then; and snatching the first harpoon, let this old
great-grandfather have it. But, Lord, look you, sir—hearts and souls
alive, man—the next instant, in a jiff, I was blind as a bat—both eyes
out—all befogged and bedeadened with black foam—the whale’s tail
looming straight up out of it, perpendicular in the air, like a marble
steeple. No use sterning all, then; but as I was groping at midday,
with a blinding sun, all crown-jewels; as I was groping, I say, after
the second iron, to toss it overboard—down comes the tail like a Lima
tower, cutting my boat in two, leaving each half in splinters; and,
flukes first, the white hump backed through the wreck, as though it was
all chips. We all struck out. To escape his terrible flailings, I
seized hold of my harpoon-pole sticking in him, and for a moment clung
to that like a sucking fish. But a combing sea dashed me off, and at
the same instant, the fish, taking one good dart forwards, went down
like a flash; and the barb of that cursed second iron towing along near
me caught me here” (clapping his hand just below his shoulder); “yes,
caught me just here, I say, and bore me down to Hell’s flames, I was
thinking; when, when, all of a sudden, thank the good God, the barb
ript its way along the flesh—clear along the whole length of my
arm—came out nigh my wrist, and up I floated;—and that gentleman there
will tell you the rest (by the way, captain—Dr. Bunger, ship’s surgeon:
Bunger, my lad,—the captain). Now, Bunger boy, spin your part of the
yarn.”

The professional gentleman thus familiarly pointed out, had been all
the time standing near them, with nothing specific visible, to denote
his gentlemanly rank on board. His face was an exceedingly round but
sober one; he was dressed in a faded blue woollen frock or shirt, and
patched trowsers; and had thus far been dividing his attention between
a marlingspike he held in one hand, and a pill-box held in the other,
occasionally casting a critical glance at the ivory limbs of the two
crippled captains. But, at his superior’s introduction of him to Ahab,
he politely bowed, and straightway went on to do his captain’s bidding.

“It was a shocking bad wound,” began the whale-surgeon; “and, taking my
advice, Captain Boomer here, stood our old Sammy—”

“Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship,” interrupted the one-armed
captain, addressing Ahab; “go on, boy.”

“Stood our old Sammy off to the northward, to get out of the blazing
hot weather there on the Line. But it was no use—I did all I could; sat
up with him nights; was very severe with him in the matter of diet—”

“Oh, very severe!” chimed in the patient himself; then suddenly
altering his voice, “Drinking hot rum toddies with me every night, till
he couldn’t see to put on the bandages; and sending me to bed, half
seas over, about three o’clock in the morning. Oh, ye stars! he sat up
with me indeed, and was very severe in my diet. Oh! a great watcher,
and very dietetically severe, is Dr. Bunger. (Bunger, you dog, laugh
out! why don’t ye? You know you’re a precious jolly rascal.) But, heave
ahead, boy, I’d rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other
man.”

“My captain, you must have ere this perceived, respected sir”—said the
imperturbable godly-looking Bunger, slightly bowing to Ahab—“is apt to
be facetious at times; he spins us many clever things of that sort. But
I may as well say—en passant, as the French remark—that I myself—that
is to say, Jack Bunger, late of the reverend clergy—am a strict total
abstinence man; I never drink—”

“Water!” cried the captain; “he never drinks it; it’s a sort of fits to
him; fresh water throws him into the hydrophobia; but go on—go on with
the arm story.”

“Yes, I may as well,” said the surgeon, coolly. “I was about observing,
sir, before Captain Boomer’s facetious interruption, that spite of my
best and severest endeavors, the wound kept getting worse and worse;
the truth was, sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw;
more than two feet and several inches long. I measured it with the lead
line. In short, it grew black; I knew what was threatened, and off it
came. But I had no hand in shipping that ivory arm there; that thing is
against all rule”—pointing at it with the marlingspike—“that is the
captain’s work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he had
that club-hammer there put to the end, to knock some one’s brains out
with, I suppose, as he tried mine once. He flies into diabolical
passions sometimes. Do ye see this dent, sir”—removing his hat, and
brushing aside his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull,
but which bore not the slightest scarry trace, or any token of ever
having been a wound—“Well, the captain there will tell you how that
came here; he knows.”

“No, I don’t,” said the captain, “but his mother did; he was born with
it. Oh, you solemn rogue, you—you Bunger! was there ever such another
Bunger in the watery world? Bunger, when you die, you ought to die in
pickle, you dog; you should be preserved to future ages, you rascal.”

“What became of the White Whale?” now cried Ahab, who thus far had been
impatiently listening to this by-play between the two Englishmen.

“Oh!” cried the one-armed captain, “oh, yes! Well; after he sounded, we
didn’t see him again for some time; in fact, as I before hinted, I
didn’t then know what whale it was that had served me such a trick,
till some time afterwards, when coming back to the Line, we heard about
Moby Dick—as some call him—and then I knew it was he.”

“Did’st thou cross his wake again?”

“Twice.”

“But could not fasten?”

“Didn’t want to try to: ain’t one limb enough? What should I do without
this other arm? And I’m thinking Moby Dick doesn’t bite so much as he
swallows.”

“Well, then,” interrupted Bunger, “give him your left arm for bait to
get the right. Do you know, gentlemen”—very gravely and mathematically
bowing to each Captain in succession—“Do you know, gentlemen, that the
digestive organs of the whale are so inscrutably constructed by Divine
Providence, that it is quite impossible for him to completely digest
even a man’s arm? And he knows it too. So that what you take for the
White Whale’s malice is only his awkwardness. For he never means to
swallow a single limb; he only thinks to terrify by feints. But
sometimes he is like the old juggling fellow, formerly a patient of
mine in Ceylon, that making believe swallow jack-knives, once upon a
time let one drop into him in good earnest, and there it stayed for a
twelvemonth or more; when I gave him an emetic, and he heaved it up in
small tacks, d’ye see. No possible way for him to digest that
jack-knife, and fully incorporate it into his general bodily system.
Yes, Captain Boomer, if you are quick enough about it, and have a mind
to pawn one arm for the sake of the privilege of giving decent burial
to the other, why in that case the arm is yours; only let the whale
have another chance at you shortly, that’s all.”

“No, thank ye, Bunger,” said the English Captain, “he’s welcome to the
arm he has, since I can’t help it, and didn’t know him then; but not to
another one. No more White Whales for me; I’ve lowered for him once,
and that has satisfied me. There would be great glory in killing him, I
know that; and there is a ship-load of precious sperm in him, but, hark
ye, he’s best let alone; don’t you think so, Captain?”—glancing at the
ivory leg.

“He is. But he will still be hunted, for all that. What is best let
alone, that accursed thing is not always what least allures. He’s all a
magnet! How long since thou saw’st him last? Which way heading?”

“Bless my soul, and curse the foul fiend’s,” cried Bunger, stoopingly
walking round Ahab, and like a dog, strangely snuffing; “this man’s
blood—bring the thermometer!—it’s at the boiling point!—his pulse makes
these planks beat!—sir!”—taking a lancet from his pocket, and drawing
near to Ahab’s arm.

“Avast!” roared Ahab, dashing him against the bulwarks—“Man the boat!
Which way heading?”

“Good God!” cried the English Captain, to whom the question was put.
“What’s the matter? He was heading east, I think.—Is your Captain
crazy?” whispering Fedallah.

But Fedallah, putting a finger on his lip, slid over the bulwarks to
take the boat’s steering oar, and Ahab, swinging the cutting-tackle
towards him, commanded the ship’s sailors to stand by to lower.

In a moment he was standing in the boat’s stern, and the Manilla men
were springing to their oars. In vain the English Captain hailed him.
With back to the stranger ship, and face set like a flint to his own,
Ahab stood upright till alongside of the Pequod.


CHAPTER 101. The Decanter.

Ere the English ship fades from sight, be it set down here, that she
hailed from London, and was named after the late Samuel Enderby,
merchant of that city, the original of the famous whaling house of
Enderby & Sons; a house which in my poor whaleman’s opinion, comes not
far behind the united royal houses of the Tudors and Bourbons, in point
of real historical interest. How long, prior to the year of our Lord
1775, this great whaling house was in existence, my numerous
fish-documents do not make plain; but in that year (1775) it fitted out
the first English ships that ever regularly hunted the Sperm Whale;
though for some score of years previous (ever since 1726) our valiant
Coffins and Maceys of Nantucket and the Vineyard had in large fleets
pursued that Leviathan, but only in the North and South Atlantic: not
elsewhere. Be it distinctly recorded here, that the Nantucketers were
the first among mankind to harpoon with civilized steel the great Sperm
Whale; and that for half a century they were the only people of the
whole globe who so harpooned him.

In 1778, a fine ship, the Amelia, fitted out for the express purpose,
and at the sole charge of the vigorous Enderbys, boldly rounded Cape
Horn, and was the first among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any
sort in the great South Sea. The voyage was a skilful and lucky one;
and returning to her berth with her hold full of the precious sperm,
the Amelia’s example was soon followed by other ships, English and
American, and thus the vast Sperm Whale grounds of the Pacific were
thrown open. But not content with this good deed, the indefatigable
house again bestirred itself: Samuel and all his Sons—how many, their
mother only knows—and under their immediate auspices, and partly, I
think, at their expense, the British government was induced to send the
sloop-of-war Rattler on a whaling voyage of discovery into the South
Sea. Commanded by a naval Post-Captain, the Rattler made a rattling
voyage of it, and did some service; how much does not appear. But this
is not all. In 1819, the same house fitted out a discovery whale ship
of their own, to go on a tasting cruise to the remote waters of Japan.
That ship—well called the “Syren”—made a noble experimental cruise; and
it was thus that the great Japanese Whaling Ground first became
generally known. The Syren in this famous voyage was commanded by a
Captain Coffin, a Nantucketer.

All honor to the Enderbies, therefore, whose house, I think, exists to
the present day; though doubtless the original Samuel must long ago
have slipped his cable for the great South Sea of the other world.

The ship named after him was worthy of the honor, being a very fast
sailer and a noble craft every way. I boarded her once at midnight
somewhere off the Patagonian coast, and drank good flip down in the
forecastle. It was a fine gam we had, and they were all trumps—every
soul on board. A short life to them, and a jolly death. And that fine
gam I had—long, very long after old Ahab touched her planks with his
ivory heel—it minds me of the noble, solid, Saxon hospitality of that
ship; and may my parson forget me, and the devil remember me, if I ever
lose sight of it. Flip? Did I say we had flip? Yes, and we flipped it
at the rate of ten gallons the hour; and when the squall came (for it’s
squally off there by Patagonia), and all hands—visitors and all—were
called to reef topsails, we were so top-heavy that we had to swing each
other aloft in bowlines; and we ignorantly furled the skirts of our
jackets into the sails, so that we hung there, reefed fast in the
howling gale, a warning example to all drunken tars. However, the masts
did not go overboard; and by and by we scrambled down, so sober, that
we had to pass the flip again, though the savage salt spray bursting
down the forecastle scuttle, rather too much diluted and pickled it to
my taste.

The beef was fine—tough, but with body in it. They said it was
bull-beef; others, that it was dromedary beef; but I do not know, for
certain, how that was. They had dumplings too; small, but substantial,
symmetrically globular, and indestructible dumplings. I fancied that
you could feel them, and roll them about in you after they were
swallowed. If you stooped over too far forward, you risked their
pitching out of you like billiard-balls. The bread—but that couldn’t be
helped; besides, it was an anti-scorbutic; in short, the bread
contained the only fresh fare they had. But the forecastle was not very
light, and it was very easy to step over into a dark corner when you
ate it. But all in all, taking her from truck to helm, considering the
dimensions of the cook’s boilers, including his own live parchment
boilers; fore and aft, I say, the Samuel Enderby was a jolly ship; of
good fare and plenty; fine flip and strong; crack fellows all, and
capital from boot heels to hat-band.

But why was it, think ye, that the Samuel Enderby, and some other
English whalers I know of—not all though—were such famous, hospitable
ships; that passed round the beef, and the bread, and the can, and the
joke; and were not soon weary of eating, and drinking, and laughing? I
will tell you. The abounding good cheer of these English whalers is
matter for historical research. Nor have I been at all sparing of
historical whale research, when it has seemed needed.

The English were preceded in the whale fishery by the Hollanders,
Zealanders, and Danes; from whom they derived many terms still extant
in the fishery; and what is yet more, their fat old fashions, touching
plenty to eat and drink. For, as a general thing, the English
merchant-ship scrimps her crew; but not so the English whaler. Hence,
in the English, this thing of whaling good cheer is not normal and
natural, but incidental and particular; and, therefore, must have some
special origin, which is here pointed out, and will be still further
elucidated.

During my researches in the Leviathanic histories, I stumbled upon an
ancient Dutch volume, which, by the musty whaling smell of it, I knew
must be about whalers. The title was, “Dan Coopman,” wherefore I
concluded that this must be the invaluable memoirs of some Amsterdam
cooper in the fishery, as every whale ship must carry its cooper. I was
reinforced in this opinion by seeing that it was the production of one
“Fitz Swackhammer.” But my friend Dr. Snodhead, a very learned man,
professor of Low Dutch and High German in the college of Santa Claus
and St. Pott’s, to whom I handed the work for translation, giving him a
box of sperm candles for his trouble—this same Dr. Snodhead, so soon as
he spied the book, assured me that “Dan Coopman” did not mean “The
Cooper,” but “The Merchant.” In short, this ancient and learned Low
Dutch book treated of the commerce of Holland; and, among other
subjects, contained a very interesting account of its whale fishery.
And in this chapter it was, headed, “Smeer,” or “Fat,” that I found a
long detailed list of the outfits for the larders and cellars of 180
sail of Dutch whalemen; from which list, as translated by Dr. Snodhead,
I transcribe the following:

400,000 lbs. of beef. 60,000 lbs. Friesland pork. 150,000 lbs. of stock
fish. 550,000 lbs. of biscuit. 72,000 lbs. of soft bread. 2,800 firkins
of butter. 20,000 lbs. Texel & Leyden cheese. 144,000 lbs. cheese
(probably an inferior article). 550 ankers of Geneva. 10,800 barrels of
beer.

Most statistical tables are parchingly dry in the reading; not so in
the present case, however, where the reader is flooded with whole
pipes, barrels, quarts, and gills of good gin and good cheer.

At the time, I devoted three days to the studious digesting of all this
beer, beef, and bread, during which many profound thoughts were
incidentally suggested to me, capable of a transcendental and Platonic
application; and, furthermore, I compiled supplementary tables of my
own, touching the probable quantity of stock-fish, etc., consumed by
every Low Dutch harpooneer in that ancient Greenland and Spitzbergen
whale fishery. In the first place, the amount of butter, and Texel and
Leyden cheese consumed, seems amazing. I impute it, though, to their
naturally unctuous natures, being rendered still more unctuous by the
nature of their vocation, and especially by their pursuing their game
in those frigid Polar Seas, on the very coasts of that Esquimaux
country where the convivial natives pledge each other in bumpers of
train oil.

The quantity of beer, too, is very large, 10,800 barrels. Now, as those
polar fisheries could only be prosecuted in the short summer of that
climate, so that the whole cruise of one of these Dutch whalemen,
including the short voyage to and from the Spitzbergen sea, did not
much exceed three months, say, and reckoning 30 men to each of their
fleet of 180 sail, we have 5,400 Low Dutch seamen in all; therefore, I
say, we have precisely two barrels of beer per man, for a twelve weeks’
allowance, exclusive of his fair proportion of that 550 ankers of gin.
Now, whether these gin and beer harpooneers, so fuddled as one might
fancy them to have been, were the right sort of men to stand up in a
boat’s head, and take good aim at flying whales; this would seem
somewhat improbable. Yet they did aim at them, and hit them too. But
this was very far North, be it remembered, where beer agrees well with
the constitution; upon the Equator, in our southern fishery, beer would
be apt to make the harpooneer sleepy at the mast-head and boozy in his
boat; and grievous loss might ensue to Nantucket and New Bedford.

But no more; enough has been said to show that the old Dutch whalers of
two or three centuries ago were high livers; and that the English
whalers have not neglected so excellent an example. For, say they, when
cruising in an empty ship, if you can get nothing better out of the
world, get a good dinner out of it, at least. And this empties the
decanter.


CHAPTER 102. A Bower in the Arsacides.

Hitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly
dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail
upon some few interior structural features. But to a large and thorough
sweeping comprehension of him, it behooves me now to unbutton him still
further, and untagging the points of his hose, unbuckling his garters,
and casting loose the hooks and the eyes of the joints of his innermost
bones, set him before you in his ultimatum; that is to say, in his
unconditional skeleton.

But how now, Ishmael? How is it, that you, a mere oarsman in the
fishery, pretend to know aught about the subterranean parts of the
whale? Did erudite Stubb, mounted upon your capstan, deliver lectures
on the anatomy of the Cetacea; and by help of the windlass, hold up a
specimen rib for exhibition? Explain thyself, Ishmael. Can you land a
full-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook dishes a
roast-pig? Surely not. A veritable witness have you hitherto been,
Ishmael; but have a care how you seize the privilege of Jonah alone;
the privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters,
ridge-pole, sleepers, and under-pinnings, making up the frame-work of
leviathan; and belike of the tallow-vats, dairy-rooms, butteries, and
cheeseries in his bowels.

I confess, that since Jonah, few whalemen have penetrated very far
beneath the skin of the adult whale; nevertheless, I have been blessed
with an opportunity to dissect him in miniature. In a ship I belonged
to, a small cub Sperm Whale was once bodily hoisted to the deck for his
poke or bag, to make sheaths for the barbs of the harpoons, and for the
heads of the lances. Think you I let that chance go, without using my
boat-hatchet and jack-knife, and breaking the seal and reading all the
contents of that young cub?

And as for my exact knowledge of the bones of the leviathan in their
gigantic, full grown development, for that rare knowledge I am indebted
to my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque, one of the Arsacides.
For being at Tranque, years ago, when attached to the trading-ship Dey
of Algiers, I was invited to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays with
the lord of Tranque, at his retired palm villa at Pupella; a sea-side
glen not very far distant from what our sailors called Bamboo-Town, his
capital.

Among many other fine qualities, my royal friend Tranquo, being gifted
with a devout love for all matters of barbaric vertu, had brought
together in Pupella whatever rare things the more ingenious of his
people could invent; chiefly carved woods of wonderful devices,
chiselled shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, aromatic canoes; and
all these distributed among whatever natural wonders, the
wonder-freighted, tribute-rendering waves had cast upon his shores.

Chief among these latter was a great Sperm Whale, which, after an
unusually long raging gale, had been found dead and stranded, with his
head against a cocoa-nut tree, whose plumage-like, tufted droopings
seemed his verdant jet. When the vast body had at last been stripped of
its fathom-deep enfoldings, and the bones become dust dry in the sun,
then the skeleton was carefully transported up the Pupella glen, where
a grand temple of lordly palms now sheltered it.

The ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebræ were carved with
Arsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull, the priests
kept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic head again
sent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from a bough, the
terrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees, like the hair-hung
sword that so affrighted Damocles.

It was a wondrous sight. The wood was green as mosses of the Icy Glen;
the trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap; the
industrious earth beneath was as a weaver’s loom, with a gorgeous
carpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils formed the warp and
woof, and the living flowers the figures. All the trees, with all their
laden branches; all the shrubs, and ferns, and grasses; the
message-carrying air; all these unceasingly were active. Through the
lacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving
the unwearied verdure. Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver!—pause!—one
word!—whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck? wherefore all
these ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver!—stay thy hand!—but one single
word with thee! Nay—the shuttle flies—the figures float from forth the
loom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god,
he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal
voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened;
and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak
through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken
words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words
are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened
casements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be
heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy
subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.

Now, amid the green, life-restless loom of that Arsacidean wood, the
great, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging—a gigantic idler! Yet,
as the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around
him, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over
with the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but
himself a skeleton. Life folded Death; Death trellised Life; the grim
god wived with youthful Life, and begat him curly-headed glories.

Now, when with royal Tranquo I visited this wondrous whale, and saw the
skull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real
jet had issued, I marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an
object of vertu. He laughed. But more I marvelled that the priests
should swear that smoky jet of his was genuine. To and fro I paced
before this skeleton—brushed the vines aside—broke through the ribs—and
with a ball of Arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many
winding, shaded colonnades and arbours. But soon my line was out; and
following it back, I emerged from the opening where I entered. I saw no
living thing within; naught was there but bones.

Cutting me a green measuring-rod, I once more dived within the
skeleton. From their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me
taking the altitude of the final rib, “How now!” they shouted; “Dar’st
thou measure this our god! That’s for us.” “Aye, priests—well, how long
do ye make him, then?” But hereupon a fierce contest rose among them,
concerning feet and inches; they cracked each other’s sconces with
their yard-sticks—the great skull echoed—and seizing that lucky chance,
I quickly concluded my own admeasurements.

These admeasurements I now propose to set before you. But first, be it
recorded, that, in this matter, I am not free to utter any fancied
measurement I please. Because there are skeleton authorities you can
refer to, to test my accuracy. There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell
me, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where
they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise,
I have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they
have what the proprietors call “the only perfect specimen of a
Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Moreover, at a place in
Yorkshire, England, Burton Constable by name, a certain Sir Clifford
Constable has in his possession the skeleton of a Sperm Whale, but of
moderate size, by no means of the full-grown magnitude of my friend
King Tranquo’s.

In both cases, the stranded whales to which these two skeletons
belonged, were originally claimed by their proprietors upon similar
grounds. King Tranquo seizing his because he wanted it; and Sir
Clifford, because he was lord of the seignories of those parts. Sir
Clifford’s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great
chest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony
cavities—spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan—and swing all day upon
his lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and
shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of
keys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep
at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the
echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled
view from his forehead.

The skeleton dimensions I shall now proceed to set down are copied
verbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild
wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving
such valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished
the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then
composing—at least, what untattooed parts might remain—I did not
trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all
enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.


CHAPTER 103. Measurement of The Whale’s Skeleton.

In the first place, I wish to lay before you a particular, plain
statement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton
we are briefly to exhibit. Such a statement may prove useful here.

According to a careful calculation I have made, and which I partly base
upon Captain Scoresby’s estimate, of seventy tons for the largest sized
Greenland whale of sixty feet in length; according to my careful
calculation, I say, a Sperm Whale of the largest magnitude, between
eighty-five and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty
feet in its fullest circumference, such a whale will weigh at least
ninety tons; so that, reckoning thirteen men to a ton, he would
considerably outweigh the combined population of a whole village of one
thousand one hundred inhabitants.

Think you not then that brains, like yoked cattle, should be put to
this leviathan, to make him at all budge to any landsman’s imagination?

Having already in various ways put before you his skull, spout-hole,
jaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and divers other parts, I shall now
simply point out what is most interesting in the general bulk of his
unobstructed bones. But as the colossal skull embraces so very large a
proportion of the entire extent of the skeleton; as it is by far the
most complicated part; and as nothing is to be repeated concerning it
in this chapter, you must not fail to carry it in your mind, or under
your arm, as we proceed, otherwise you will not gain a complete notion
of the general structure we are about to view.

In length, the Sperm Whale’s skeleton at Tranque measured seventy-two
feet; so that when fully invested and extended in life, he must have
been ninety feet long; for in the whale, the skeleton loses about one
fifth in length compared with the living body. Of this seventy-two
feet, his skull and jaw comprised some twenty feet, leaving some fifty
feet of plain back-bone. Attached to this back-bone, for something less
than a third of its length, was the mighty circular basket of ribs
which once enclosed his vitals.

To me this vast ivory-ribbed chest, with the long, unrelieved spine,
extending far away from it in a straight line, not a little resembled
the hull of a great ship new-laid upon the stocks, when only some
twenty of her naked bow-ribs are inserted, and the keel is otherwise,
for the time, but a long, disconnected timber.

The ribs were ten on a side. The first, to begin from the neck, was
nearly six feet long; the second, third, and fourth were each
successively longer, till you came to the climax of the fifth, or one
of the middle ribs, which measured eight feet and some inches. From
that part, the remaining ribs diminished, till the tenth and last only
spanned five feet and some inches. In general thickness, they all bore
a seemly correspondence to their length. The middle ribs were the most
arched. In some of the Arsacides they are used for beams whereon to lay
footpath bridges over small streams.

In considering these ribs, I could not but be struck anew with the
circumstance, so variously repeated in this book, that the skeleton of
the whale is by no means the mould of his invested form. The largest of
the Tranque ribs, one of the middle ones, occupied that part of the
fish which, in life, is greatest in depth. Now, the greatest depth of
the invested body of this particular whale must have been at least
sixteen feet; whereas, the corresponding rib measured but little more
than eight feet. So that this rib only conveyed half of the true notion
of the living magnitude of that part. Besides, for some way, where I
now saw but a naked spine, all that had been once wrapped round with
tons of added bulk in flesh, muscle, blood, and bowels. Still more, for
the ample fins, I here saw but a few disordered joints; and in place of
the weighty and majestic, but boneless flukes, an utter blank!

How vain and foolish, then, thought I, for timid untravelled man to try
to comprehend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his
dead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood. No. Only in
the heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his
angry flukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully
invested whale be truly and livingly found out.

But the spine. For that, the best way we can consider it is, with a
crane, to pile its bones high up on end. No speedy enterprise. But now
it’s done, it looks much like Pompey’s Pillar.

There are forty and odd vertebræ in all, which in the skeleton are not
locked together. They mostly lie like the great knobbed blocks on a
Gothic spire, forming solid courses of heavy masonry. The largest, a
middle one, is in width something less than three feet, and in depth
more than four. The smallest, where the spine tapers away into the
tail, is only two inches in width, and looks something like a white
billiard-ball. I was told that there were still smaller ones, but they
had been lost by some little cannibal urchins, the priest’s children,
who had stolen them to play marbles with. Thus we see how that the
spine of even the hugest of living things tapers off at last into
simple child’s play.


CHAPTER 104. The Fossil Whale.

From his mighty bulk the whale affords a most congenial theme whereon
to enlarge, amplify, and generally expatiate. Would you, you could not
compress him. By good rights he should only be treated of in imperial
folio. Not to tell over again his furlongs from spiracle to tail, and
the yards he measures about the waist; only think of the gigantic
involutions of his intestines, where they lie in him like great cables
and hawsers coiled away in the subterranean orlop-deck of a
line-of-battle-ship.

Since I have undertaken to manhandle this Leviathan, it behooves me to
approve myself omnisciently exhaustive in the enterprise; not
overlooking the minutest seminal germs of his blood, and spinning him
out to the uttermost coil of his bowels. Having already described him
in most of his present habitatory and anatomical peculiarities, it now
remains to magnify him in an archæological, fossiliferous, and
antediluvian point of view. Applied to any other creature than the
Leviathan—to an ant or a flea—such portly terms might justly be deemed
unwarrantably grandiloquent. But when Leviathan is the text, the case
is altered. Fain am I to stagger to this emprise under the weightiest
words of the dictionary. And here be it said, that whenever it has been
convenient to consult one in the course of these dissertations, I have
invariably used a huge quarto edition of Johnson, expressly purchased
for that purpose; because that famous lexicographer’s uncommon personal
bulk more fitted him to compile a lexicon to be used by a whale author
like me.

One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject,
though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of
this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard
capitals. Give me a condor’s quill! Give me Vesuvius’ crater for an
inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my
thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their
outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole
circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and
mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas
of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding
its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and
liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you
must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be
written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.

Ere entering upon the subject of Fossil Whales, I present my
credentials as a geologist, by stating that in my miscellaneous time I
have been a stone-mason, and also a great digger of ditches, canals and
wells, wine-vaults, cellars, and cisterns of all sorts. Likewise, by
way of preliminary, I desire to remind the reader, that while in the
earlier geological strata there are found the fossils of monsters now
almost completely extinct; the subsequent relics discovered in what are
called the Tertiary formations seem the connecting, or at any rate
intercepted links, between the antichronical creatures, and those whose
remote posterity are said to have entered the Ark; all the Fossil
Whales hitherto discovered belong to the Tertiary period, which is the
last preceding the superficial formations. And though none of them
precisely answer to any known species of the present time, they are yet
sufficiently akin to them in general respects, to justify their taking
rank as Cetacean fossils.

Detached broken fossils of pre-adamite whales, fragments of their bones
and skeletons, have within thirty years past, at various intervals,
been found at the base of the Alps, in Lombardy, in France, in England,
in Scotland, and in the States of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.
Among the more curious of such remains is part of a skull, which in the
year 1779 was disinterred in the Rue Dauphine in Paris, a short street
opening almost directly upon the palace of the Tuileries; and bones
disinterred in excavating the great docks of Antwerp, in Napoleon’s
time. Cuvier pronounced these fragments to have belonged to some
utterly unknown Leviathanic species.

But by far the most wonderful of all Cetacean relics was the almost
complete vast skeleton of an extinct monster, found in the year 1842,
on the plantation of Judge Creagh, in Alabama. The awe-stricken
credulous slaves in the vicinity took it for the bones of one of the
fallen angels. The Alabama doctors declared it a huge reptile, and
bestowed upon it the name of Basilosaurus. But some specimen bones of
it being taken across the sea to Owen, the English Anatomist, it turned
out that this alleged reptile was a whale, though of a departed
species. A significant illustration of the fact, again and again
repeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale furnishes but
little clue to the shape of his fully invested body. So Owen
rechristened the monster Zeuglodon; and in his paper read before the
London Geological Society, pronounced it, in substance, one of the most
extraordinary creatures which the mutations of the globe have blotted
out of existence.

When I stand among these mighty Leviathan skeletons, skulls, tusks,
jaws, ribs, and vertebræ, all characterized by partial resemblances to
the existing breeds of sea-monsters; but at the same time bearing on
the other hand similar affinities to the annihilated antichronical
Leviathans, their incalculable seniors; I am, by a flood, borne back to
that wondrous period, ere time itself can be said to have begun; for
time began with man. Here Saturn’s grey chaos rolls over me, and I
obtain dim, shuddering glimpses into those Polar eternities; when
wedged bastions of ice pressed hard upon what are now the Tropics; and
in all the 25,000 miles of this world’s circumference, not an
inhabitable hand’s breadth of land was visible. Then the whole world
was the whale’s; and, king of creation, he left his wake along the
present lines of the Andes and the Himmalehs. Who can show a pedigree
like Leviathan? Ahab’s harpoon had shed older blood than the Pharaoh’s.
Methuselah seems a school-boy. I look round to shake hands with Shem. I
am horror-struck at this antemosaic, unsourced existence of the
unspeakable terrors of the whale, which, having been before all time,
must needs exist after all humane ages are over.

But not alone has this Leviathan left his pre-adamite traces in the
stereotype plates of nature, and in limestone and marl bequeathed his
ancient bust; but upon Egyptian tablets, whose antiquity seems to claim
for them an almost fossiliferous character, we find the unmistakable
print of his fin. In an apartment of the great temple of Denderah, some
fifty years ago, there was discovered upon the granite ceiling a
sculptured and painted planisphere, abounding in centaurs, griffins,
and dolphins, similar to the grotesque figures on the celestial globe
of the moderns. Gliding among them, old Leviathan swam as of yore; was
there swimming in that planisphere, centuries before Solomon was
cradled.

Nor must there be omitted another strange attestation of the antiquity
of the whale, in his own osseous post-diluvian reality, as set down by
the venerable John Leo, the old Barbary traveller.

“Not far from the Sea-side, they have a Temple, the Rafters and Beams
of which are made of Whale-Bones; for Whales of a monstrous size are
oftentimes cast up dead upon that shore. The Common People imagine,
that by a secret Power bestowed by God upon the Temple, no Whale can
pass it without immediate death. But the truth of the Matter is, that
on either side of the Temple, there are Rocks that shoot two Miles into
the Sea, and wound the Whales when they light upon ’em. They keep a
Whale’s Rib of an incredible length for a Miracle, which lying upon the
Ground with its convex part uppermost, makes an Arch, the Head of which
cannot be reached by a Man upon a Camel’s Back. This Rib (says John
Leo) is said to have layn there a hundred Years before I saw it. Their
Historians affirm, that a Prophet who prophesy’d of Mahomet, came from
this Temple, and some do not stand to assert, that the Prophet Jonas
was cast forth by the Whale at the Base of the Temple.”

In this Afric Temple of the Whale I leave you, reader, and if you be a
Nantucketer, and a whaleman, you will silently worship there.


CHAPTER 105. Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?—Will He Perish?

Inasmuch, then, as this Leviathan comes floundering down upon us from
the head-waters of the Eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether,
in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the
original bulk of his sires.

But upon investigation we find, that not only are the whales of the
present day superior in magnitude to those whose fossil remains are
found in the Tertiary system (embracing a distinct geological period
prior to man), but of the whales found in that Tertiary system, those
belonging to its latter formations exceed in size those of its earlier
ones.

Of all the pre-adamite whales yet exhumed, by far the largest is the
Alabama one mentioned in the last chapter, and that was less than
seventy feet in length in the skeleton. Whereas, we have already seen,
that the tape-measure gives seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a
large sized modern whale. And I have heard, on whalemen’s authority,
that Sperm Whales have been captured near a hundred feet long at the
time of capture.

But may it not be, that while the whales of the present hour are an
advance in magnitude upon those of all previous geological periods; may
it not be, that since Adam’s time they have degenerated?

Assuredly, we must conclude so, if we are to credit the accounts of
such gentlemen as Pliny, and the ancient naturalists generally. For
Pliny tells us of whales that embraced acres of living bulk, and
Aldrovandus of others which measured eight hundred feet in length—Rope
Walks and Thames Tunnels of Whales! And even in the days of Banks and
Solander, Cooke’s naturalists, we find a Danish member of the Academy
of Sciences setting down certain Iceland Whales (reydan-siskur, or
Wrinkled Bellies) at one hundred and twenty yards; that is, three
hundred and sixty feet. And Lacépède, the French naturalist, in his
elaborate history of whales, in the very beginning of his work (page
3), sets down the Right Whale at one hundred metres, three hundred and
twenty-eight feet. And this work was published so late as A.D. 1825.

But will any whaleman believe these stories? No. The whale of to-day is
as big as his ancestors in Pliny’s time. And if ever I go where Pliny
is, I, a whaleman (more than he was), will make bold to tell him so.
Because I cannot understand how it is, that while the Egyptian mummies
that were buried thousands of years before even Pliny was born, do not
measure so much in their coffins as a modern Kentuckian in his socks;
and while the cattle and other animals sculptured on the oldest
Egyptian and Nineveh tablets, by the relative proportions in which they
are drawn, just as plainly prove that the high-bred, stall-fed, prize
cattle of Smithfield, not only equal, but far exceed in magnitude the
fattest of Pharaoh’s fat kine; in the face of all this, I will not
admit that of all animals the whale alone should have degenerated.

But still another inquiry remains; one often agitated by the more
recondite Nantucketers. Whether owing to the almost omniscient
look-outs at the mast-heads of the whale-ships, now penetrating even
through Behring’s straits, and into the remotest secret drawers and
lockers of the world; and the thousand harpoons and lances darted along
all continental coasts; the moot point is, whether Leviathan can long
endure so wide a chase, and so remorseless a havoc; whether he must not
at last be exterminated from the waters, and the last whale, like the
last man, smoke his last pipe, and then himself evaporate in the final
puff.

Comparing the humped herds of whales with the humped herds of buffalo,
which, not forty years ago, overspread by tens of thousands the
prairies of Illinois and Missouri, and shook their iron manes and
scowled with their thunder-clotted brows upon the sites of populous
river-capitals, where now the polite broker sells you land at a dollar
an inch; in such a comparison an irresistible argument would seem
furnished, to show that the hunted whale cannot now escape speedy
extinction.

But you must look at this matter in every light. Though so short a
period ago—not a good lifetime—the census of the buffalo in Illinois
exceeded the census of men now in London, and though at the present day
not one horn or hoof of them remains in all that region; and though the
cause of this wondrous extermination was the spear of man; yet the far
different nature of the whale-hunt peremptorily forbids so inglorious
an end to the Leviathan. Forty men in one ship hunting the Sperm Whales
for forty-eight months think they have done extremely well, and thank
God, if at last they carry home the oil of forty fish. Whereas, in the
days of the old Canadian and Indian hunters and trappers of the West,
when the far west (in whose sunset suns still rise) was a wilderness
and a virgin, the same number of moccasined men, for the same number of
months, mounted on horse instead of sailing in ships, would have slain
not forty, but forty thousand and more buffaloes; a fact that, if need
were, could be statistically stated.

Nor, considered aright, does it seem any argument in favour of the
gradual extinction of the Sperm Whale, for example, that in former
years (the latter part of the last century, say) these Leviathans, in
small pods, were encountered much oftener than at present, and, in
consequence, the voyages were not so prolonged, and were also much more
remunerative. Because, as has been elsewhere noticed, those whales,
influenced by some views to safety, now swim the seas in immense
caravans, so that to a large degree the scattered solitaries, yokes,
and pods, and schools of other days are now aggregated into vast but
widely separated, unfrequent armies. That is all. And equally
fallacious seems the conceit, that because the so-called whale-bone
whales no longer haunt many grounds in former years abounding with
them, hence that species also is declining. For they are only being
driven from promontory to cape; and if one coast is no longer enlivened
with their jets, then, be sure, some other and remoter strand has been
very recently startled by the unfamiliar spectacle.

Furthermore: concerning these last mentioned Leviathans, they have two
firm fortresses, which, in all human probability, will for ever remain
impregnable. And as upon the invasion of their valleys, the frosty
Swiss have retreated to their mountains; so, hunted from the savannas
and glades of the middle seas, the whale-bone whales can at last resort
to their Polar citadels, and diving under the ultimate glassy barriers
and walls there, come up among icy fields and floes; and in a charmed
circle of everlasting December, bid defiance to all pursuit from man.

But as perhaps fifty of these whale-bone whales are harpooned for one
cachalot, some philosophers of the forecastle have concluded that this
positive havoc has already very seriously diminished their battalions.
But though for some time past a number of these whales, not less than
13,000, have been annually slain on the nor’ west coast by the
Americans alone; yet there are considerations which render even this
circumstance of little or no account as an opposing argument in this
matter.

Natural as it is to be somewhat incredulous concerning the populousness
of the more enormous creatures of the globe, yet what shall we say to
Harto, the historian of Goa, when he tells us that at one hunting the
King of Siam took 4,000 elephants; that in those regions elephants are
numerous as droves of cattle in the temperate climes. And there seems
no reason to doubt that if these elephants, which have now been hunted
for thousands of years, by Semiramis, by Porus, by Hannibal, and by all
the successive monarchs of the East—if they still survive there in
great numbers, much more may the great whale outlast all hunting, since
he has a pasture to expatiate in, which is precisely twice as large as
all Asia, both Americas, Europe and Africa, New Holland, and all the
Isles of the sea combined.

Moreover: we are to consider, that from the presumed great longevity of
whales, their probably attaining the age of a century and more,
therefore at any one period of time, several distinct adult generations
must be contemporary. And what that is, we may soon gain some idea of,
by imagining all the grave-yards, cemeteries, and family vaults of
creation yielding up the live bodies of all the men, women, and
children who were alive seventy-five years ago; and adding this
countless host to the present human population of the globe.

Wherefore, for all these things, we account the whale immortal in his
species, however perishable in his individuality. He swam the seas
before the continents broke water; he once swam over the site of the
Tuileries, and Windsor Castle, and the Kremlin. In Noah’s flood he
despised Noah’s Ark; and if ever the world is to be again flooded, like
the Netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will
still survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial
flood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies.


CHAPTER 106. Ahab’s Leg.

The precipitating manner in which Captain Ahab had quitted the Samuel
Enderby of London, had not been unattended with some small violence to
his own person. He had lighted with such energy upon a thwart of his
boat that his ivory leg had received a half-splintering shock. And when
after gaining his own deck, and his own pivot-hole there, he so
vehemently wheeled round with an urgent command to the steersman (it
was, as ever, something about his not steering inflexibly enough);
then, the already shaken ivory received such an additional twist and
wrench, that though it still remained entire, and to all appearances
lusty, yet Ahab did not deem it entirely trustworthy.

And, indeed, it seemed small matter for wonder, that for all his
pervading, mad recklessness, Ahab did at times give careful heed to the
condition of that dead bone upon which he partly stood. For it had not
been very long prior to the Pequod’s sailing from Nantucket, that he
had been found one night lying prone upon the ground, and insensible;
by some unknown, and seemingly inexplicable, unimaginable casualty, his
ivory limb having been so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise
smitten, and all but pierced his groin; nor was it without extreme
difficulty that the agonizing wound was entirely cured.

Nor, at the time, had it failed to enter his monomaniac mind, that all
the anguish of that then present suffering was but the direct issue of
a former woe; and he too plainly seemed to see, that as the most
poisonous reptile of the marsh perpetuates his kind as inevitably as
the sweetest songster of the grove; so, equally with every felicity,
all miserable events do naturally beget their like. Yea, more than
equally, thought Ahab; since both the ancestry and posterity of Grief
go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. For, not to hint of
this: that it is an inference from certain canonic teachings, that
while some natural enjoyments here shall have no children born to them
for the other world, but, on the contrary, shall be followed by the
joy-childlessness of all hell’s despair; whereas, some guilty mortal
miseries shall still fertilely beget to themselves an eternally
progressive progeny of griefs beyond the grave; not at all to hint of
this, there still seems an inequality in the deeper analysis of the
thing. For, thought Ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities
ever have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in them, but, at
bottom, all heartwoes, a mystic significance, and, in some men, an
archangelic grandeur; so do their diligent tracings-out not belie the
obvious deduction. To trail the genealogies of these high mortal
miseries, carries us at last among the sourceless primogenitures of the
gods; so that, in the face of all the glad, hay-making suns, and soft
cymballing, round harvest-moons, we must needs give in to this: that
the gods themselves are not for ever glad. The ineffaceable, sad
birth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the
signers.

Unwittingly here a secret has been divulged, which perhaps might more
properly, in set way, have been disclosed before. With many other
particulars concerning Ahab, always had it remained a mystery to some,
why it was, that for a certain period, both before and after the
sailing of the Pequod, he had hidden himself away with such
Grand-Lama-like exclusiveness; and, for that one interval, sought
speechless refuge, as it were, among the marble senate of the dead.
Captain Peleg’s bruited reason for this thing appeared by no means
adequate; though, indeed, as touching all Ahab’s deeper part, every
revelation partook more of significant darkness than of explanatory
light. But, in the end, it all came out; this one matter did, at least.
That direful mishap was at the bottom of his temporary recluseness. And
not only this, but to that ever-contracting, dropping circle ashore,
who, for any reason, possessed the privilege of a less banned approach
to him; to that timid circle the above hinted casualty—remaining, as it
did, moodily unaccounted for by Ahab—invested itself with terrors, not
entirely underived from the land of spirits and of wails. So that,
through their zeal for him, they had all conspired, so far as in them
lay, to muffle up the knowledge of this thing from others; and hence it
was, that not till a considerable interval had elapsed, did it
transpire upon the Pequod’s decks.

But be all this as it may; let the unseen, ambiguous synod in the air,
or the vindictive princes and potentates of fire, have to do or not
with earthly Ahab, yet, in this present matter of his leg, he took
plain practical procedures;—he called the carpenter.

And when that functionary appeared before him, he bade him without
delay set about making a new leg, and directed the mates to see him
supplied with all the studs and joists of jaw-ivory (Sperm Whale) which
had thus far been accumulated on the voyage, in order that a careful
selection of the stoutest, clearest-grained stuff might be secured.
This done, the carpenter received orders to have the leg completed that
night; and to provide all the fittings for it, independent of those
pertaining to the distrusted one in use. Moreover, the ship’s forge was
ordered to be hoisted out of its temporary idleness in the hold; and,
to accelerate the affair, the blacksmith was commanded to proceed at
once to the forging of whatever iron contrivances might be needed.


CHAPTER 107. The Carpenter.

Seat thyself sultanically among the moons of Saturn, and take high
abstracted man alone; and he seems a wonder, a grandeur, and a woe. But
from the same point, take mankind in mass, and for the most part, they
seem a mob of unnecessary duplicates, both contemporary and hereditary.
But most humble though he was, and far from furnishing an example of
the high, humane abstraction; the Pequod’s carpenter was no duplicate;
hence, he now comes in person on this stage.

Like all sea-going ship carpenters, and more especially those belonging
to whaling vessels, he was, to a certain off-handed, practical extent,
alike experienced in numerous trades and callings collateral to his
own; the carpenter’s pursuit being the ancient and outbranching trunk
of all those numerous handicrafts which more or less have to do with
wood as an auxiliary material. But, besides the application to him of
the generic remark above, this carpenter of the Pequod was singularly
efficient in those thousand nameless mechanical emergencies continually
recurring in a large ship, upon a three or four years’ voyage, in
uncivilized and far-distant seas. For not to speak of his readiness in
ordinary duties:—repairing stove boats, sprung spars, reforming the
shape of clumsy-bladed oars, inserting bull’s eyes in the deck, or new
tree-nails in the side planks, and other miscellaneous matters more
directly pertaining to his special business; he was moreover
unhesitatingly expert in all manner of conflicting aptitudes, both
useful and capricious.

The one grand stage where he enacted all his various parts so manifold,
was his vice-bench; a long rude ponderous table furnished with several
vices, of different sizes, and both of iron and of wood. At all times
except when whales were alongside, this bench was securely lashed
athwartships against the rear of the Try-works.

A belaying pin is found too large to be easily inserted into its hole:
the carpenter claps it into one of his ever-ready vices, and
straightway files it smaller. A lost land-bird of strange plumage
strays on board, and is made a captive: out of clean shaved rods of
right-whale bone, and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter
makes a pagoda-looking cage for it. An oarsman sprains his wrist: the
carpenter concocts a soothing lotion. Stubb longed for vermillion stars
to be painted upon the blade of his every oar; screwing each oar in his
big vice of wood, the carpenter symmetrically supplies the
constellation. A sailor takes a fancy to wear shark-bone ear-rings: the
carpenter drills his ears. Another has the toothache: the carpenter out
pincers, and clapping one hand upon his bench bids him be seated there;
but the poor fellow unmanageably winces under the unconcluded
operation; whirling round the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter
signs him to clap his jaw in that, if he would have him draw the tooth.

Thus, this carpenter was prepared at all points, and alike indifferent
and without respect in all. Teeth he accounted bits of ivory; heads he
deemed but top-blocks; men themselves he lightly held for capstans. But
while now upon so wide a field thus variously accomplished and with
such liveliness of expertness in him, too; all this would seem to argue
some uncommon vivacity of intelligence. But not precisely so. For
nothing was this man more remarkable, than for a certain impersonal
stolidity as it were; impersonal, I say; for it so shaded off into the
surrounding infinite of things, that it seemed one with the general
stolidity discernible in the whole visible world; which while
pauselessly active in uncounted modes, still eternally holds its peace,
and ignores you, though you dig foundations for cathedrals. Yet was
this half-horrible stolidity in him, involving, too, as it appeared, an
all-ramifying heartlessness;—yet was it oddly dashed at times, with an
old, crutch-like, antediluvian, wheezing humorousness, not unstreaked
now and then with a certain grizzled wittiness; such as might have
served to pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded
forecastle of Noah’s ark. Was it that this old carpenter had been a
life-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had
gathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small
outward clingings might have originally pertained to him? He was a
stript abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born
babe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next.
You might almost say, that this strange uncompromisedness in him
involved a sort of unintelligence; for in his numerous trades, he did
not seem to work so much by reason or by instinct, or simply because he
had been tutored to it, or by any intermixture of all these, even or
uneven; but merely by a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous literal
process. He was a pure manipulator; his brain, if he had ever had one,
must have early oozed along into the muscles of his fingers. He was
like one of those unreasoning but still highly useful, _multum in
parvo_, Sheffield contrivances, assuming the exterior—though a little
swelled—of a common pocket knife; but containing, not only blades of
various sizes, but also screw-drivers, cork-screws, tweezers, awls,
pens, rulers, nail-filers, countersinkers. So, if his superiors wanted
to use the carpenter for a screw-driver, all they had to do was to open
that part of him, and the screw was fast: or if for tweezers, take him
up by the legs, and there they were.

Yet, as previously hinted, this omnitooled, open-and-shut carpenter,
was, after all, no mere machine of an automaton. If he did not have a
common soul in him, he had a subtle something that somehow anomalously
did its duty. What that was, whether essence of quicksilver, or a few
drops of hartshorn, there is no telling. But there it was; and there it
had abided for now some sixty years or more. And this it was, this same
unaccountable, cunning life-principle in him; this it was, that kept
him a great part of the time soliloquizing; but only like an
unreasoning wheel, which also hummingly soliloquizes; or rather, his
body was a sentry-box and this soliloquizer on guard there, and talking
all the time to keep himself awake.


CHAPTER 108. Ahab and the Carpenter.

The Deck—First Night Watch.

(_Carpenter standing before his vice-bench, and by the light of two
lanterns busily filing the ivory joist for the leg, which joist is
firmly fixed in the vice. Slabs of ivory, leather straps, pads, screws,
and various tools of all sorts lying about the bench. Forward, the red
flame of the forge is seen, where the blacksmith is at work._)

Drat the file, and drat the bone! That is hard which should be soft,
and that is soft which should be hard. So we go, who file old jaws and
shinbones. Let’s try another. Aye, now, this works better (_sneezes_).
Halloa, this bone dust is (_sneezes_)—why it’s (_sneezes_)—yes it’s
(_sneezes_)—bless my soul, it won’t let me speak! This is what an old
fellow gets now for working in dead lumber. Saw a live tree, and you
don’t get this dust; amputate a live bone, and you don’t get it
(_sneezes_). Come, come, you old Smut, there, bear a hand, and let’s
have that ferule and buckle-screw; I’ll be ready for them presently.
Lucky now (_sneezes_) there’s no knee-joint to make; that might puzzle
a little; but a mere shinbone—why it’s easy as making hop-poles; only I
should like to put a good finish on. Time, time; if I but only had the
time, I could turn him out as neat a leg now as ever (_sneezes_)
scraped to a lady in a parlor. Those buckskin legs and calves of legs
I’ve seen in shop windows wouldn’t compare at all. They soak water,
they do; and of course get rheumatic, and have to be doctored
(_sneezes_) with washes and lotions, just like live legs. There; before
I saw it off, now, I must call his old Mogulship, and see whether the
length will be all right; too short, if anything, I guess. Ha! that’s
the heel; we are in luck; here he comes, or it’s somebody else, that’s
certain.

AHAB (_advancing_). (_During the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues
sneezing at times._)

Well, manmaker!

Just in time, sir. If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length.
Let me measure, sir.

Measured for a leg! good. Well, it’s not the first time. About it!
There; keep thy finger on it. This is a cogent vice thou hast here,
carpenter; let me feel its grip once. So, so; it does pinch some.

Oh, sir, it will break bones—beware, beware!

No fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery
world that can hold, man. What’s Prometheus about there?—the
blacksmith, I mean—what’s he about?

He must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.

Right. It’s a partnership; he supplies the muscle part. He makes a
fierce red flame there!

Aye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.

Um-m. So he must. I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old
Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a
blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what’s made in fire must
properly belong to fire; and so hell’s probable. How the soot flies!
This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of. Carpenter,
when he’s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel
shoulder-blades; there’s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.

Sir?

Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I’ll order a complete man after a
desirable pattern. Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest
modelled after the Thames Tunnel; then, legs with roots to ’em, to stay
in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all,
brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let
me see—shall I order eyes to see outwards? No, but put a sky-light on
top of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away.

Now, what’s he speaking about, and who’s he speaking to, I should like
to know? Shall I keep standing here? (_aside_).

’Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here’s one. No,
no, no; I must have a lantern.

Ho, ho! That’s it, hey? Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.

What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man?
Thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.

I thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.

Carpenter? why that’s—but no;—a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely
gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;—or would’st
thou rather work in clay?

Sir?—Clay? clay, sir? That’s mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.

The fellow’s impious! What art thou sneezing about?

Bone is rather dusty, sir.

Take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under
living people’s noses.

Sir?—oh! ah!—I guess so;—yes—oh, dear!

Look ye, carpenter, I dare say thou callest thyself a right good
workmanlike workman, eh? Well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for
thy work, if, when I come to mount this leg thou makest, I shall
nevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that
is, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, I mean. Canst
thou not drive that old Adam away?

Truly, sir, I begin to understand somewhat now. Yes, I have heard
something curious on that score, sir; how that a dismasted man never
entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still
pricking him at times. May I humbly ask if it be really so, sir?

It is, man. Look, put thy live leg here in the place where mine once
was; so, now, here is only one distinct leg to the eye, yet two to the
soul. Where thou feelest tingling life; there, exactly there, there to
a hair, do I. Is’t a riddle?

I should humbly call it a poser, sir.

Hist, then. How dost thou know that some entire, living, thinking thing
may not be invisibly and uninterpenetratingly standing precisely where
thou now standest; aye, and standing there in thy spite? In thy most
solitary hours, then, dost thou not fear eavesdroppers? Hold, don’t
speak! And if I still feel the smart of my crushed leg, though it be
now so long dissolved; then, why mayst not thou, carpenter, feel the
fiery pains of hell for ever, and without a body? Hah!

Good Lord! Truly, sir, if it comes to that, I must calculate over
again; I think I didn’t carry a small figure, sir.

Look ye, pudding-heads should never grant premises.—How long before the
leg is done?

Perhaps an hour, sir.

Bungle away at it then, and bring it to me (_turns to go_). Oh, Life!
Here I am, proud as Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this
blockhead for a bone to stand on! Cursed be that mortal
inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free
as air; and I’m down in the whole world’s books. I am so rich, I could
have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Prætorians at the auction of
the Roman empire (which was the world’s); and yet I owe for the flesh
in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I’ll get a crucible, and into
it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.

CARPENTER (_resuming his work_).

Well, well, well! Stubb knows him best of all, and Stubb always says
he’s queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer;
he’s queer, says Stubb; he’s queer—queer, queer; and keeps dinning it
into Mr. Starbuck all the time—queer—sir—queer, queer, very queer. And
here’s his leg! Yes, now that I think of it, here’s his bedfellow! has
a stick of whale’s jaw-bone for a wife! And this is his leg; he’ll
stand on this. What was that now about one leg standing in three
places, and all three places standing in one hell—how was that? Oh! I
don’t wonder he looked so scornful at me! I’m a sort of
strange-thoughted sometimes, they say; but that’s only haphazard-like.
Then, a short, little old body like me, should never undertake to wade
out into deep waters with tall, heron-built captains; the water chucks
you under the chin pretty quick, and there’s a great cry for
life-boats. And here’s the heron’s leg! long and slim, sure enough!
Now, for most folks one pair of legs lasts a lifetime, and that must be
because they use them mercifully, as a tender-hearted old lady uses her
roly-poly old coach-horses. But Ahab; oh he’s a hard driver. Look,
driven one leg to death, and spavined the other for life, and now wears
out bone legs by the cord. Halloa, there, you Smut! bear a hand there
with those screws, and let’s finish it before the resurrection fellow
comes a-calling with his horn for all legs, true or false, as
brewery-men go round collecting old beer barrels, to fill ’em up again.
What a leg this is! It looks like a real live leg, filed down to
nothing but the core; he’ll be standing on this to-morrow; he’ll be
taking altitudes on it. Halloa! I almost forgot the little oval slate,
smoothed ivory, where he figures up the latitude. So, so; chisel, file,
and sand-paper, now!


CHAPTER 109. Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin.

According to usage they were pumping the ship next morning; and lo! no
inconsiderable oil came up with the water; the casks below must have
sprung a bad leak. Much concern was shown; and Starbuck went down into
the cabin to report this unfavourable affair.*

*In Sperm-whalemen with any considerable quantity of oil on board, it
is a regular semi-weekly duty to conduct a hose into the hold, and
drench the casks with sea-water; which afterwards, at varying
intervals, is removed by the ship’s pumps. Hereby the casks are sought
to be kept damply tight; while by the changed character of the
withdrawn water, the mariners readily detect any serious leakage in the
precious cargo.

Now, from the South and West the Pequod was drawing nigh to Formosa and
the Bashee Isles, between which lies one of the tropical outlets from
the China waters into the Pacific. And so Starbuck found Ahab with a
general chart of the oriental archipelagoes spread before him; and
another separate one representing the long eastern coasts of the
Japanese islands—Niphon, Matsmai, and Sikoke. With his snow-white new
ivory leg braced against the screwed leg of his table, and with a long
pruning-hook of a jack-knife in his hand, the wondrous old man, with
his back to the gangway door, was wrinkling his brow, and tracing his
old courses again.

“Who’s there?” hearing the footstep at the door, but not turning round
to it. “On deck! Begone!”

“Captain Ahab mistakes; it is I. The oil in the hold is leaking, sir.
We must up Burtons and break out.”

“Up Burtons and break out? Now that we are nearing Japan; heave-to here
for a week to tinker a parcel of old hoops?”

“Either do that, sir, or waste in one day more oil than we may make
good in a year. What we come twenty thousand miles to get is worth
saving, sir.”

“So it is, so it is; if we get it.”

“I was speaking of the oil in the hold, sir.”

“And I was not speaking or thinking of that at all. Begone! Let it
leak! I’m all aleak myself. Aye! leaks in leaks! not only full of leaky
casks, but those leaky casks are in a leaky ship; and that’s a far
worse plight than the Pequod’s, man. Yet I don’t stop to plug my leak;
for who can find it in the deep-loaded hull; or how hope to plug it,
even if found, in this life’s howling gale? Starbuck! I’ll not have the
Burtons hoisted.”

“What will the owners say, sir?”

“Let the owners stand on Nantucket beach and outyell the Typhoons. What
cares Ahab? Owners, owners? Thou art always prating to me, Starbuck,
about those miserly owners, as if the owners were my conscience. But
look ye, the only real owner of anything is its commander; and hark ye,
my conscience is in this ship’s keel.—On deck!”

“Captain Ahab,” said the reddening mate, moving further into the cabin,
with a daring so strangely respectful and cautious that it almost
seemed not only every way seeking to avoid the slightest outward
manifestation of itself, but within also seemed more than half
distrustful of itself; “A better man than I might well pass over in
thee what he would quickly enough resent in a younger man; aye, and in
a happier, Captain Ahab.”

“Devils! Dost thou then so much as dare to critically think of me?—On
deck!”

“Nay, sir, not yet; I do entreat. And I do dare, sir—to be forbearing!
Shall we not understand each other better than hitherto, Captain Ahab?”

Ahab seized a loaded musket from the rack (forming part of most
South-Sea-men’s cabin furniture), and pointing it towards Starbuck,
exclaimed: “There is one God that is Lord over the earth, and one
Captain that is lord over the Pequod.—On deck!”

For an instant in the flashing eyes of the mate, and his fiery cheeks,
you would have almost thought that he had really received the blaze of
the levelled tube. But, mastering his emotion, he half calmly rose, and
as he quitted the cabin, paused for an instant and said: “Thou hast
outraged, not insulted me, sir; but for that I ask thee not to beware
of Starbuck; thou wouldst but laugh; but let Ahab beware of Ahab;
beware of thyself, old man.”

“He waxes brave, but nevertheless obeys; most careful bravery that!”
murmured Ahab, as Starbuck disappeared. “What’s that he said—Ahab
beware of Ahab—there’s something there!” Then unconsciously using the
musket for a staff, with an iron brow he paced to and fro in the little
cabin; but presently the thick plaits of his forehead relaxed, and
returning the gun to the rack, he went to the deck.

“Thou art but too good a fellow, Starbuck,” he said lowly to the mate;
then raising his voice to the crew: “Furl the t’gallant-sails, and
close-reef the top-sails, fore and aft; back the main-yard; up Burton,
and break out in the main-hold.”

It were perhaps vain to surmise exactly why it was, that as respecting
Starbuck, Ahab thus acted. It may have been a flash of honesty in him;
or mere prudential policy which, under the circumstance, imperiously
forbade the slightest symptom of open disaffection, however transient,
in the important chief officer of his ship. However it was, his orders
were executed; and the Burtons were hoisted.


CHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.

Upon searching, it was found that the casks last struck into the hold
were perfectly sound, and that the leak must be further off. So, it
being calm weather, they broke out deeper and deeper, disturbing the
slumbers of the huge ground-tier butts; and from that black midnight
sending those gigantic moles into the daylight above. So deep did they
go; and so ancient, and corroded, and weedy the aspect of the lowermost
puncheons, that you almost looked next for some mouldy corner-stone
cask containing coins of Captain Noah, with copies of the posted
placards, vainly warning the infatuated old world from the flood.
Tierce after tierce, too, of water, and bread, and beef, and shooks of
staves, and iron bundles of hoops, were hoisted out, till at last the
piled decks were hard to get about; and the hollow hull echoed under
foot, as if you were treading over empty catacombs, and reeled and
rolled in the sea like an air-freighted demijohn. Top-heavy was the
ship as a dinnerless student with all Aristotle in his head. Well was
it that the Typhoons did not visit them then.

Now, at this time it was that my poor pagan companion, and fast
bosom-friend, Queequeg, was seized with a fever, which brought him nigh
to his endless end.

Be it said, that in this vocation of whaling, sinecures are unknown;
dignity and danger go hand in hand; till you get to be Captain, the
higher you rise the harder you toil. So with poor Queequeg, who, as
harpooneer, must not only face all the rage of the living whale, but—as
we have elsewhere seen—mount his dead back in a rolling sea; and
finally descend into the gloom of the hold, and bitterly sweating all
day in that subterraneous confinement, resolutely manhandle the
clumsiest casks and see to their stowage. To be short, among whalemen,
the harpooneers are the holders, so called.

Poor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should
have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where,
stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about
amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom
of a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor
pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he
caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after
some days’ suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill
of the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few
long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his
frame and tattooing. But as all else in him thinned, and his
cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller
and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but
deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony
to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And
like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his
eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe
that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of
this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any
beheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly
wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And
the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all
with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could
adequately tell. So that—let us say it again—no dying Chaldee or Greek
had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you
saw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his
swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his
final rest, and the ocean’s invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and
higher towards his destined heaven.

Not a man of the crew but gave him up; and, as for Queequeg himself,
what he thought of his case was forcibly shown by a curious favour he
asked. He called one to him in the grey morning watch, when the day was
just breaking, and taking his hand, said that while in Nantucket he had
chanced to see certain little canoes of dark wood, like the rich
war-wood of his native isle; and upon inquiry, he had learned that all
whalemen who died in Nantucket, were laid in those same dark canoes,
and that the fancy of being so laid had much pleased him; for it was
not unlike the custom of his own race, who, after embalming a dead
warrior, stretched him out in his canoe, and so left him to be floated
away to the starry archipelagoes; for not only do they believe that the
stars are isles, but that far beyond all visible horizons, their own
mild, uncontinented seas, interflow with the blue heavens; and so form
the white breakers of the milky way. He added, that he shuddered at the
thought of being buried in his hammock, according to the usual
sea-custom, tossed like something vile to the death-devouring sharks.
No: he desired a canoe like those of Nantucket, all the more congenial
to him, being a whaleman, that like a whale-boat these coffin-canoes
were without a keel; though that involved but uncertain steering, and
much lee-way adown the dim ages.

Now, when this strange circumstance was made known aft, the carpenter
was at once commanded to do Queequeg’s bidding, whatever it might
include. There was some heathenish, coffin-coloured old lumber aboard,
which, upon a long previous voyage, had been cut from the aboriginal
groves of the Lackaday islands, and from these dark planks the coffin
was recommended to be made. No sooner was the carpenter apprised of the
order, than taking his rule, he forthwith with all the indifferent
promptitude of his character, proceeded into the forecastle and took
Queequeg’s measure with great accuracy, regularly chalking Queequeg’s
person as he shifted the rule.

“Ah! poor fellow! he’ll have to die now,” ejaculated the Long Island
sailor.

Going to his vice-bench, the carpenter for convenience sake and general
reference, now transferringly measured on it the exact length the
coffin was to be, and then made the transfer permanent by cutting two
notches at its extremities. This done, he marshalled the planks and his
tools, and to work.

When the last nail was driven, and the lid duly planed and fitted, he
lightly shouldered the coffin and went forward with it, inquiring
whether they were ready for it yet in that direction.

Overhearing the indignant but half-humorous cries with which the people
on deck began to drive the coffin away, Queequeg, to every one’s
consternation, commanded that the thing should be instantly brought to
him, nor was there any denying him; seeing that, of all mortals, some
dying men are the most tyrannical; and certainly, since they will
shortly trouble us so little for evermore, the poor fellows ought to be
indulged.

Leaning over in his hammock, Queequeg long regarded the coffin with an
attentive eye. He then called for his harpoon, had the wooden stock
drawn from it, and then had the iron part placed in the coffin along
with one of the paddles of his boat. All by his own request, also,
biscuits were then ranged round the sides within: a flask of fresh
water was placed at the head, and a small bag of woody earth scraped up
in the hold at the foot; and a piece of sail-cloth being rolled up for
a pillow, Queequeg now entreated to be lifted into his final bed, that
he might make trial of its comforts, if any it had. He lay without
moving a few minutes, then told one to go to his bag and bring out his
little god, Yojo. Then crossing his arms on his breast with Yojo
between, he called for the coffin lid (hatch he called it) to be placed
over him. The head part turned over with a leather hinge, and there lay
Queequeg in his coffin with little but his composed countenance in
view. “Rarmai” (it will do; it is easy), he murmured at last, and
signed to be replaced in his hammock.

But ere this was done, Pip, who had been slily hovering near by all
this while, drew nigh to him where he lay, and with soft sobbings, took
him by the hand; in the other, holding his tambourine.

“Poor rover! will ye never have done with all this weary roving? where
go ye now? But if the currents carry ye to those sweet Antilles where
the beaches are only beat with water-lilies, will ye do one little
errand for me? Seek out one Pip, who’s now been missing long: I think
he’s in those far Antilles. If ye find him, then comfort him; for he
must be very sad; for look! he’s left his tambourine behind;—I found
it. Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! Now, Queequeg, die; and I’ll beat ye your
dying march.”

“I have heard,” murmured Starbuck, gazing down the scuttle, “that in
violent fevers, men, all ignorance, have talked in ancient tongues; and
that when the mystery is probed, it turns out always that in their
wholly forgotten childhood those ancient tongues had been really spoken
in their hearing by some lofty scholars. So, to my fond faith, poor
Pip, in this strange sweetness of his lunacy, brings heavenly vouchers
of all our heavenly homes. Where learned he that, but there?—Hark! he
speaks again: but more wildly now.”

“Form two and two! Let’s make a General of him! Ho, where’s his
harpoon? Lay it across here.—Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! huzza! Oh for a game
cock now to sit upon his head and crow! Queequeg dies game!—mind ye
that; Queequeg dies game!—take ye good heed of that; Queequeg dies
game! I say; game, game, game! but base little Pip, he died a coward;
died all a’shiver;—out upon Pip! Hark ye; if ye find Pip, tell all the
Antilles he’s a runaway; a coward, a coward, a coward! Tell them he
jumped from a whale-boat! I’d never beat my tambourine over base Pip,
and hail him General, if he were once more dying here. No, no! shame
upon all cowards—shame upon them! Let ’em go drown like Pip, that
jumped from a whale-boat. Shame! shame!”

During all this, Queequeg lay with closed eyes, as if in a dream. Pip
was led away, and the sick man was replaced in his hammock.

But now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now
that his coffin was proved a good fit, Queequeg suddenly rallied; soon
there seemed no need of the carpenter’s box: and thereupon, when some
expressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the
cause of his sudden convalescence was this;—at a critical moment, he
had just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone;
and therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet,
he averred. They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter
of his own sovereign will and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a
word, it was Queequeg’s conceit, that if a man made up his mind to
live, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale,
or some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.

Now, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized;
that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing,
generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day.
So, in good time my Queequeg gained strength; and at length after
sitting on the windlass for a few indolent days (but eating with a
vigorous appetite) he suddenly leaped to his feet, threw out his arms
and legs, gave himself a good stretching, yawned a little bit, and then
springing into the head of his hoisted boat, and poising a harpoon,
pronounced himself fit for a fight.

With a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest; and
emptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there.
Many spare hours he spent, in carving the lid with all manner of
grotesque figures and drawings; and it seemed that hereby he was
striving, in his rude way, to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on
his body. And this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet
and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written
out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a
mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in
his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one
volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own
live heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore
destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon
they were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last. And this thought
it must have been which suggested to Ahab that wild exclamation of his,
when one morning turning away from surveying poor Queequeg—“Oh,
devilish tantalization of the gods!”


CHAPTER 111. The Pacific.

When gliding by the Bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great
South Sea; were it not for other things, I could have greeted my dear
Pacific with uncounted thanks, for now the long supplication of my
youth was answered; that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a
thousand leagues of blue.

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently
awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those
fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St.
John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery
prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should
rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of
mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all
that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing
like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by
their restlessness.

To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must
ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of
the world, the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms. The same
waves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns, but yesterday
planted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still
gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between
float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown
Archipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine
Pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to
it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth. Lifted by those eternal
swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.

But few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab’s brain, as standing like an iron
statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one
nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles
(in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other
consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in
which the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. Launched at
length upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the Japanese
cruising-ground, the old man’s purpose intensified itself. His firm
lips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead’s veins
swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran
through the vaulted hull, “Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick
blood!”


CHAPTER 112. The Blacksmith.

Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in
these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits
shortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old
blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after
concluding his contributory work for Ahab’s leg, but still retained it
on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost
incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do
some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their
various weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an
eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades,
pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every
sooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man’s was a
patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no
petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over
still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil
were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating
of his heart. And so it was.—Most miserable!

A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing
yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the
curiosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted
questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every
one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.

Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter’s midnight, on the road
running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt
the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning,
dilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both
feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four
acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied
fifth act of the grief of his life’s drama.

He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly
encountered that thing in sorrow’s technicals called ruin. He had been
an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house
and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three
blithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church,
planted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further
concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into
his happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to
tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into
his family’s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of
that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now,
for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith’s shop was
in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so
that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no
unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing
of her young-armed old husband’s hammer; whose reverberations, muffled
by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly,
in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor’s iron lullaby, the blacksmith’s
infants were rocked to slumber.

Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely?
Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came
upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her
orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after
years; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked
down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely
hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than
useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him
easier to harvest.

Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew
more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the
last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes,
glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows
fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother
dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed
her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a
vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to
flaxen curls!

Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death
is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but
the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the
Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of
such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions
against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean
alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking
terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of
infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them—“Come hither,
broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate
death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come
hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and
abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. Come hither! put
up _thy_ gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till
we marry thee!”

Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by
fall of eve, the blacksmith’s soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth
went a-whaling.


CHAPTER 113. The Forge.

With matted beard, and swathed in a bristling shark-skin apron, about
mid-day, Perth was standing between his forge and anvil, the latter
placed upon an iron-wood log, with one hand holding a pike-head in the
coals, and with the other at his forge’s lungs, when Captain Ahab came
along, carrying in his hand a small rusty-looking leathern bag. While
yet a little distance from the forge, moody Ahab paused; till at last,
Perth, withdrawing his iron from the fire, began hammering it upon the
anvil—the red mass sending off the sparks in thick hovering flights,
some of which flew close to Ahab.

“Are these thy Mother Carey’s chickens, Perth? they are always flying
in thy wake; birds of good omen, too, but not to all;—look here, they
burn; but thou—thou liv’st among them without a scorch.”

“Because I am scorched all over, Captain Ahab,” answered Perth, resting
for a moment on his hammer; “I am past scorching; not easily can’st
thou scorch a scar.”

“Well, well; no more. Thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woeful
to me. In no Paradise myself, I am impatient of all misery in others
that is not mad. Thou should’st go mad, blacksmith; say, why dost thou
not go mad? How can’st thou endure without being mad? Do the heavens
yet hate thee, that thou can’st not go mad?—What wert thou making
there?”

“Welding an old pike-head, sir; there were seams and dents in it.”

“And can’st thou make it all smooth again, blacksmith, after such hard
usage as it had?”

“I think so, sir.”

“And I suppose thou can’st smoothe almost any seams and dents; never
mind how hard the metal, blacksmith?”

“Aye, sir, I think I can; all seams and dents but one.”

“Look ye here, then,” cried Ahab, passionately advancing, and leaning
with both hands on Perth’s shoulders; “look ye here—_here_—can ye
smoothe out a seam like this, blacksmith,” sweeping one hand across his
ribbed brow; “if thou could’st, blacksmith, glad enough would I lay my
head upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes.
Answer! Can’st thou smoothe this seam?”

“Oh! that is the one, sir! Said I not all seams and dents but one?”

“Aye, blacksmith, it is the one; aye, man, it is unsmoothable; for
though thou only see’st it here in my flesh, it has worked down into
the bone of my skull—_that_ is all wrinkles! But, away with child’s
play; no more gaffs and pikes to-day. Look ye here!” jingling the
leathern bag, as if it were full of gold coins. “I, too, want a harpoon
made; one that a thousand yoke of fiends could not part, Perth;
something that will stick in a whale like his own fin-bone. There’s the
stuff,” flinging the pouch upon the anvil. “Look ye, blacksmith, these
are the gathered nail-stubbs of the steel shoes of racing horses.”

“Horse-shoe stubbs, sir? Why, Captain Ahab, thou hast here, then, the
best and stubbornest stuff we blacksmiths ever work.”

“I know it, old man; these stubbs will weld together like glue from the
melted bones of murderers. Quick! forge me the harpoon. And forge me
first, twelve rods for its shank; then wind, and twist, and hammer
these twelve together like the yarns and strands of a tow-line. Quick!
I’ll blow the fire.”

When at last the twelve rods were made, Ahab tried them, one by one, by
spiralling them, with his own hand, round a long, heavy iron bolt. “A
flaw!” rejecting the last one. “Work that over again, Perth.”

This done, Perth was about to begin welding the twelve into one, when
Ahab stayed his hand, and said he would weld his own iron. As, then,
with regular, gasping hems, he hammered on the anvil, Perth passing to
him the glowing rods, one after the other, and the hard pressed forge
shooting up its intense straight flame, the Parsee passed silently, and
bowing over his head towards the fire, seemed invoking some curse or
some blessing on the toil. But, as Ahab looked up, he slid aside.

“What’s that bunch of lucifers dodging about there for?” muttered
Stubb, looking on from the forecastle. “That Parsee smells fire like a
fusee; and smells of it himself, like a hot musket’s powder-pan.”

At last the shank, in one complete rod, received its final heat; and as
Perth, to temper it, plunged it all hissing into the cask of water near
by, the scalding steam shot up into Ahab’s bent face.

“Would’st thou brand me, Perth?” wincing for a moment with the pain;
“have I been but forging my own branding-iron, then?”

“Pray God, not that; yet I fear something, Captain Ahab. Is not this
harpoon for the White Whale?”

“For the white fiend! But now for the barbs; thou must make them
thyself, man. Here are my razors—the best of steel; here, and make the
barbs sharp as the needle-sleet of the Icy Sea.”

For a moment, the old blacksmith eyed the razors as though he would
fain not use them.

“Take them, man, I have no need for them; for I now neither shave, sup,
nor pray till—but here—to work!”

Fashioned at last into an arrowy shape, and welded by Perth to the
shank, the steel soon pointed the end of the iron; and as the
blacksmith was about giving the barbs their final heat, prior to
tempering them, he cried to Ahab to place the water-cask near.

“No, no—no water for that; I want it of the true death-temper. Ahoy,
there! Tashtego, Queequeg, Daggoo! What say ye, pagans! Will ye give me
as much blood as will cover this barb?” holding it high up. A cluster
of dark nods replied, Yes. Three punctures were made in the heathen
flesh, and the White Whale’s barbs were then tempered.

“Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli!”
deliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the
baptismal blood.

Now, mustering the spare poles from below, and selecting one of
hickory, with the bark still investing it, Ahab fitted the end to the
socket of the iron. A coil of new tow-line was then unwound, and some
fathoms of it taken to the windlass, and stretched to a great tension.
Pressing his foot upon it, till the rope hummed like a harp-string,
then eagerly bending over it, and seeing no strandings, Ahab exclaimed,
“Good! and now for the seizings.”

At one extremity the rope was unstranded, and the separate spread yarns
were all braided and woven round the socket of the harpoon; the pole
was then driven hard up into the socket; from the lower end the rope
was traced half-way along the pole’s length, and firmly secured so,
with intertwistings of twine. This done, pole, iron, and rope—like the
Three Fates—remained inseparable, and Ahab moodily stalked away with
the weapon; the sound of his ivory leg, and the sound of the hickory
pole, both hollowly ringing along every plank. But ere he entered his
cabin, light, unnatural, half-bantering, yet most piteous sound was
heard. Oh, Pip! thy wretched laugh, thy idle but unresting eye; all thy
strange mummeries not unmeaningly blended with the black tragedy of the
melancholy ship, and mocked it!


CHAPTER 114. The Gilder.

Penetrating further and further into the heart of the Japanese cruising
ground, the Pequod was soon all astir in the fishery. Often, in mild,
pleasant weather, for twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on
the stretch, they were engaged in the boats, steadily pulling, or
sailing, or paddling after the whales, or for an interlude of sixty or
seventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising; though with but small
success for their pains.

At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow
heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so
sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone
cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy
quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the
ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and
would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a
remorseless fang.

These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a
certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he
regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing
only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high
rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when
the western emigrants’ horses only show their erected ears, while their
hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.

The long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these
there steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied
children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time, when
the flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most
mystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate,
and form one seamless whole.

Nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as
temporary an effect on Ahab. But if these secret golden keys did seem
to open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath
upon them prove but tarnishing.

Oh, grassy glades! oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in
ye,—though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life,—in ye,
men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some
few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them.
Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling
threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a
storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this
life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one
pause:—through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless
faith, adolescence’ doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then
disbelief, resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of If. But
once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and
men, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor
no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will
never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like
those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of
our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat’s side into that
same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:—

“Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s
eye!—Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping
cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep
down and do believe.”

And Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same
golden light:—

“I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that
he has always been jolly!”


CHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.

And jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down
before the wind, some few weeks after Ahab’s harpoon had been welded.

It was a Nantucket ship, the Bachelor, which had just wedged in her
last cask of oil, and bolted down her bursting hatches; and now, in
glad holiday apparel, was joyously, though somewhat vain-gloriously,
sailing round among the widely-separated ships on the ground, previous
to pointing her prow for home.

The three men at her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red
bunting at their hats; from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended,
bottom down; and hanging captive from the bowsprit was seen the long
lower jaw of the last whale they had slain. Signals, ensigns, and jacks
of all colours were flying from her rigging, on every side. Sideways
lashed in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm;
above which, in her top-mast cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of
the same precious fluid; and nailed to her main truck was a brazen
lamp.

As was afterwards learned, the Bachelor had met with the most
surprising success; all the more wonderful, for that while cruising in
the same seas numerous other vessels had gone entire months without
securing a single fish. Not only had barrels of beef and bread been
given away to make room for the far more valuable sperm, but additional
supplemental casks had been bartered for, from the ships she had met;
and these were stowed along the deck, and in the captain’s and
officers’ state-rooms. Even the cabin table itself had been knocked
into kindling-wood; and the cabin mess dined off the broad head of an
oil-butt, lashed down to the floor for a centrepiece. In the
forecastle, the sailors had actually caulked and pitched their chests,
and filled them; it was humorously added, that the cook had clapped a
head on his largest boiler, and filled it; that the steward had plugged
his spare coffee-pot and filled it; that the harpooneers had headed the
sockets of their irons and filled them; that indeed everything was
filled with sperm, except the captain’s pantaloons pockets, and those
he reserved to thrust his hands into, in self-complacent testimony of
his entire satisfaction.

As this glad ship of good luck bore down upon the moody Pequod, the
barbarian sound of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing
still nearer, a crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge
try-pots, which, covered with the parchment-like _poke_ or stomach skin
of the black fish, gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the
clenched hands of the crew. On the quarter-deck, the mates and
harpooneers were dancing with the olive-hued girls who had eloped with
them from the Polynesian Isles; while suspended in an ornamented boat,
firmly secured aloft between the foremast and mainmast, three Long
Island negroes, with glittering fiddle-bows of whale ivory, were
presiding over the hilarious jig. Meanwhile, others of the ship’s
company were tumultuously busy at the masonry of the try-works, from
which the huge pots had been removed. You would have almost thought
they were pulling down the cursed Bastille, such wild cries they
raised, as the now useless brick and mortar were being hurled into the
sea.

Lord and master over all this scene, the captain stood erect on the
ship’s elevated quarter-deck, so that the whole rejoicing drama was
full before him, and seemed merely contrived for his own individual
diversion.

And Ahab, he too was standing on his quarter-deck, shaggy and black,
with a stubborn gloom; and as the two ships crossed each other’s
wakes—one all jubilations for things passed, the other all forebodings
as to things to come—their two captains in themselves impersonated the
whole striking contrast of the scene.

“Come aboard, come aboard!” cried the gay Bachelor’s commander, lifting
a glass and a bottle in the air.

“Hast seen the White Whale?” gritted Ahab in reply.

“No; only heard of him; but don’t believe in him at all,” said the
other good-humoredly. “Come aboard!”

“Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on. Hast lost any men?”

“Not enough to speak of—two islanders, that’s all;—but come aboard, old
hearty, come along. I’ll soon take that black from your brow. Come
along, will ye (merry’s the play); a full ship and homeward-bound.”

“How wondrous familiar is a fool!” muttered Ahab; then aloud, “Thou art
a full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then, call me an
empty ship, and outward-bound. So go thy ways, and I will mine. Forward
there! Set all sail, and keep her to the wind!”

And thus, while the one ship went cheerily before the breeze, the other
stubbornly fought against it; and so the two vessels parted; the crew
of the Pequod looking with grave, lingering glances towards the
receding Bachelor; but the Bachelor’s men never heeding their gaze for
the lively revelry they were in. And as Ahab, leaning over the
taffrail, eyed the homeward-bound craft, he took from his pocket a
small vial of sand, and then looking from the ship to the vial, seemed
thereby bringing two remote associations together, for that vial was
filled with Nantucket soundings.


CHAPTER 116. The Dying Whale.

Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favourites
sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the
rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed
it with the Pequod. For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor,
whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.

It was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the
crimson fight were done: and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky,
sun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and
such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy
air, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent
valleys of the Manilla isles, the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned
sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.

Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned
off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the
now tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm
whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring—that
strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab
conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.

“He turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly, his
homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too
worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—Oh
that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights.
Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in
these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks
furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still
rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the
Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith;
but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it
heads some other way.

“Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded
thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas;
thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the
wide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor
has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round
again, without a lesson to me.

“Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring,
rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In
vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening
sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou,
darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy
unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of
once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.

“Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild
fowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though
hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!”


CHAPTER 117. The Whale Watch.

The four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to
windward; one, less distant, to leeward; one ahead; one astern. These
last three were brought alongside ere nightfall; but the windward one
could not be reached till morning; and the boat that had killed it lay
by its side all night; and that boat was Ahab’s.

The waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale’s spout-hole; and
the lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon
the black, glossy back, and far out upon the midnight waves, which
gently chafed the whale’s broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.

Ahab and all his boat’s crew seemed asleep but the Parsee; who
crouching in the bow, sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played
round the whale, and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails. A
sound like the moaning in squadrons over Asphaltites of unforgiven
ghosts of Gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.

Started from his slumbers, Ahab, face to face, saw the Parsee; and
hooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a
flooded world. “I have dreamed it again,” said he.

“Of the hearses? Have I not said, old man, that neither hearse nor
coffin can be thine?”

“And who are hearsed that die on the sea?”

“But I said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage, two
hearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by
mortal hands; and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in
America.”

“Aye, aye! a strange sight that, Parsee:—a hearse and its plumes
floating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers. Ha! Such a
sight we shall not soon see.”

“Believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man.”

“And what was that saying about thyself?”

“Though it come to the last, I shall still go before thee thy pilot.”

“And when thou art so gone before—if that ever befall—then ere I can
follow, thou must still appear to me, to pilot me still?—Was it not so?
Well, then, did I believe all ye say, oh my pilot! I have here two
pledges that I shall yet slay Moby Dick and survive it.”

“Take another pledge, old man,” said the Parsee, as his eyes lighted up
like fire-flies in the gloom—“Hemp only can kill thee.”

“The gallows, ye mean.—I am immortal then, on land and on sea,” cried
Ahab, with a laugh of derision;—“Immortal on land and on sea!”

Both were silent again, as one man. The grey dawn came on, and the
slumbering crew arose from the boat’s bottom, and ere noon the dead
whale was brought to the ship.


CHAPTER 118. The Quadrant.

The season for the Line at length drew near; and every day when Ahab,
coming from his cabin, cast his eyes aloft, the vigilant helmsman would
ostentatiously handle his spokes, and the eager mariners quickly run to
the braces, and would stand there with all their eyes centrally fixed
on the nailed doubloon; impatient for the order to point the ship’s
prow for the equator. In good time the order came. It was hard upon
high noon; and Ahab, seated in the bows of his high-hoisted boat, was
about taking his wonted daily observation of the sun to determine his
latitude.

Now, in that Japanese sea, the days in summer are as freshets of
effulgences. That unblinkingly vivid Japanese sun seems the blazing
focus of the glassy ocean’s immeasurable burning-glass. The sky looks
lacquered; clouds there are none; the horizon floats; and this
nakedness of unrelieved radiance is as the insufferable splendors of
God’s throne. Well that Ahab’s quadrant was furnished with coloured
glasses, through which to take sight of that solar fire. So, swinging
his seated form to the roll of the ship, and with his
astrological-looking instrument placed to his eye, he remained in that
posture for some moments to catch the precise instant when the sun
should gain its precise meridian. Meantime while his whole attention
was absorbed, the Parsee was kneeling beneath him on the ship’s deck,
and with face thrown up like Ahab’s, was eyeing the same sun with him;
only the lids of his eyes half hooded their orbs, and his wild face was
subdued to an earthly passionlessness. At length the desired
observation was taken; and with his pencil upon his ivory leg, Ahab
soon calculated what his latitude must be at that precise instant. Then
falling into a moment’s revery, he again looked up towards the sun and
murmured to himself: “Thou sea-mark! thou high and mighty Pilot! thou
tellest me truly where I _am_—but canst thou cast the least hint where
I _shall_ be? Or canst thou tell where some other thing besides me is
this moment living? Where is Moby Dick? This instant thou must be
eyeing him. These eyes of mine look into the very eye that is even now
beholding him; aye, and into the eye that is even now equally beholding
the objects on the unknown, thither side of thee, thou sun!”

Then gazing at his quadrant, and handling, one after the other, its
numerous cabalistical contrivances, he pondered again, and muttered:
“Foolish toy! babies’ plaything of haughty Admirals, and Commodores,
and Captains; the world brags of thee, of thy cunning and might; but
what after all canst thou do, but tell the poor, pitiful point, where
thou thyself happenest to be on this wide planet, and the hand that
holds thee: no! not one jot more! Thou canst not tell where one drop of
water or one grain of sand will be to-morrow noon; and yet with thy
impotence thou insultest the sun! Science! Curse thee, thou vain toy;
and cursed be all the things that cast man’s eyes aloft to that heaven,
whose live vividness but scorches him, as these old eyes are even now
scorched with thy light, O sun! Level by nature to this earth’s horizon
are the glances of man’s eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as
if God had meant him to gaze on his firmament. Curse thee, thou
quadrant!” dashing it to the deck, “no longer will I guide my earthly
way by thee; the level ship’s compass, and the level dead-reckoning, by
log and by line; _these_ shall conduct me, and show me my place on the
sea. Aye,” lighting from the boat to the deck, “thus I trample on thee,
thou paltry thing that feebly pointest on high; thus I split and
destroy thee!”

As the frantic old man thus spoke and thus trampled with his live and
dead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed meant for Ahab, and a
fatalistic despair that seemed meant for himself—these passed over the
mute, motionless Parsee’s face. Unobserved he rose and glided away;
while, awestruck by the aspect of their commander, the seamen clustered
together on the forecastle, till Ahab, troubledly pacing the deck,
shouted out—“To the braces! Up helm!—square in!”

In an instant the yards swung round; and as the ship half-wheeled upon
her heel, her three firm-seated graceful masts erectly poised upon her
long, ribbed hull, seemed as the three Horatii pirouetting on one
sufficient steed.

Standing between the knight-heads, Starbuck watched the Pequod’s
tumultuous way, and Ahab’s also, as he went lurching along the deck.

“I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full
of its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down,
down, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! of all this fiery life of
thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!”

“Aye,” cried Stubb, “but sea-coal ashes—mind ye that, Mr.
Starbuck—sea-coal, not your common charcoal. Well, well; I heard Ahab
mutter, ‘Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of
mine; swears that I must play them, and no others.’ And damn me, Ahab,
but thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it!”


CHAPTER 119. The Candles.

Warmest climes but nurse the cruellest fangs: the tiger of Bengal
crouches in spiced groves of ceaseless verdure. Skies the most
effulgent but basket the deadliest thunders: gorgeous Cuba knows
tornadoes that never swept tame northern lands. So, too, it is, that in
these resplendent Japanese seas the mariner encounters the direst of
all storms, the Typhoon. It will sometimes burst from out that
cloudless sky, like an exploding bomb upon a dazed and sleepy town.

Towards evening of that day, the Pequod was torn of her canvas, and
bare-poled was left to fight a Typhoon which had struck her directly
ahead. When darkness came on, sky and sea roared and split with the
thunder, and blazed with the lightning, that showed the disabled masts
fluttering here and there with the rags which the first fury of the
tempest had left for its after sport.

Holding by a shroud, Starbuck was standing on the quarter-deck; at
every flash of the lightning glancing aloft, to see what additional
disaster might have befallen the intricate hamper there; while Stubb
and Flask were directing the men in the higher hoisting and firmer
lashing of the boats. But all their pains seemed naught. Though lifted
to the very top of the cranes, the windward quarter boat (Ahab’s) did
not escape. A great rolling sea, dashing high up against the reeling
ship’s high teetering side, stove in the boat’s bottom at the stern,
and left it again, all dripping through like a sieve.

“Bad work, bad work! Mr. Starbuck,” said Stubb, regarding the wreck,
“but the sea will have its way. Stubb, for one, can’t fight it. You
see, Mr. Starbuck, a wave has such a great long start before it leaps,
all round the world it runs, and then comes the spring! But as for me,
all the start I have to meet it, is just across the deck here. But
never mind; it’s all in fun: so the old song says;”—(_sings_.)


  Oh! jolly is the gale, And a joker is the whale, A’ flourishin’ his
  tail,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the
  Ocean, oh!

  The scud all a flyin’, That’s his flip only foamin’; When he stirs in
  the spicin’,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,
  is the Ocean, oh!

  Thunder splits the ships, But he only smacks his lips, A tastin’ of
  this flip,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,
  is the Ocean, oh!



“Avast Stubb,” cried Starbuck, “let the Typhoon sing, and strike his
harp here in our rigging; but if thou art a brave man thou wilt hold
thy peace.”

“But I am not a brave man; never said I was a brave man; I am a coward;
and I sing to keep up my spirits. And I tell you what it is, Mr.
Starbuck, there’s no way to stop my singing in this world but to cut my
throat. And when that’s done, ten to one I sing ye the doxology for a
wind-up.”

“Madman! look through my eyes if thou hast none of thine own.”

“What! how can you see better of a dark night than anybody else, never
mind how foolish?”

“Here!” cried Starbuck, seizing Stubb by the shoulder, and pointing his
hand towards the weather bow, “markest thou not that the gale comes
from the eastward, the very course Ahab is to run for Moby Dick? the
very course he swung to this day noon? now mark his boat there; where
is that stove? In the stern-sheets, man; where he is wont to stand—his
stand-point is stove, man! Now jump overboard, and sing away, if thou
must!

“I don’t half understand ye: what’s in the wind?”

“Yes, yes, round the Cape of Good Hope is the shortest way to
Nantucket,” soliloquized Starbuck suddenly, heedless of Stubb’s
question. “The gale that now hammers at us to stave us, we can turn it
into a fair wind that will drive us towards home. Yonder, to windward,
all is blackness of doom; but to leeward, homeward—I see it lightens up
there; but not with the lightning.”

At that moment in one of the intervals of profound darkness, following
the flashes, a voice was heard at his side; and almost at the same
instant a volley of thunder peals rolled overhead.

“Who’s there?”

“Old Thunder!” said Ahab, groping his way along the bulwarks to his
pivot-hole; but suddenly finding his path made plain to him by elbowed
lances of fire.

Now, as the lightning rod to a spire on shore is intended to carry off
the perilous fluid into the soil; so the kindred rod which at sea some
ships carry to each mast, is intended to conduct it into the water. But
as this conductor must descend to considerable depth, that its end may
avoid all contact with the hull; and as moreover, if kept constantly
towing there, it would be liable to many mishaps, besides interfering
not a little with some of the rigging, and more or less impeding the
vessel’s way in the water; because of all this, the lower parts of a
ship’s lightning-rods are not always overboard; but are generally made
in long slender links, so as to be the more readily hauled up into the
chains outside, or thrown down into the sea, as occasion may require.

“The rods! the rods!” cried Starbuck to the crew, suddenly admonished
to vigilance by the vivid lightning that had just been darting
flambeaux, to light Ahab to his post. “Are they overboard? drop them
over, fore and aft. Quick!”

“Avast!” cried Ahab; “let’s have fair play here, though we be the
weaker side. Yet I’ll contribute to raise rods on the Himmalehs and
Andes, that all the world may be secured; but out on privileges! Let
them be, sir.”

“Look aloft!” cried Starbuck. “The corpusants! the corpusants!”

All the yard-arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each
tri-pointed lightning-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of
the three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like
three gigantic wax tapers before an altar.

“Blast the boat! let it go!” cried Stubb at this instant, as a swashing
sea heaved up under his own little craft, so that its gunwale violently
jammed his hand, as he was passing a lashing. “Blast it!”—but slipping
backward on the deck, his uplifted eyes caught the flames; and
immediately shifting his tone he cried—“The corpusants have mercy on us
all!”

To sailors, oaths are household words; they will swear in the trance of
the calm, and in the teeth of the tempest; they will imprecate curses
from the topsail-yard-arms, when most they teeter over to a seething
sea; but in all my voyagings, seldom have I heard a common oath when
God’s burning finger has been laid on the ship; when His “Mene, Mene,
Tekel Upharsin” has been woven into the shrouds and the cordage.

While this pallidness was burning aloft, few words were heard from the
enchanted crew; who in one thick cluster stood on the forecastle, all
their eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away
constellation of stars. Relieved against the ghostly light, the
gigantic jet negro, Daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and
seemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come. The parted
mouth of Tashtego revealed his shark-white teeth, which strangely
gleamed as if they too had been tipped by corpusants; while lit up by
the preternatural light, Queequeg’s tattooing burned like Satanic blue
flames on his body.

The tableau all waned at last with the pallidness aloft; and once more
the Pequod and every soul on her decks were wrapped in a pall. A moment
or two passed, when Starbuck, going forward, pushed against some one.
It was Stubb. “What thinkest thou now, man; I heard thy cry; it was not
the same in the song.”

“No, no, it wasn’t; I said the corpusants have mercy on us all; and I
hope they will, still. But do they only have mercy on long faces?—have
they no bowels for a laugh? And look ye, Mr. Starbuck—but it’s too dark
to look. Hear me, then: I take that mast-head flame we saw for a sign
of good luck; for those masts are rooted in a hold that is going to be
chock a’ block with sperm-oil, d’ye see; and so, all that sperm will
work up into the masts, like sap in a tree. Yes, our three masts will
yet be as three spermaceti candles—that’s the good promise we saw.”

At that moment Starbuck caught sight of Stubb’s face slowly beginning
to glimmer into sight. Glancing upwards, he cried: “See! see!” and once
more the high tapering flames were beheld with what seemed redoubled
supernaturalness in their pallor.

“The corpusants have mercy on us all,” cried Stubb, again.

At the base of the mainmast, full beneath the doubloon and the flame,
the Parsee was kneeling in Ahab’s front, but with his head bowed away
from him; while near by, from the arched and overhanging rigging, where
they had just been engaged securing a spar, a number of the seamen,
arrested by the glare, now cohered together, and hung pendulous, like a
knot of numbed wasps from a drooping, orchard twig. In various
enchanted attitudes, like the standing, or stepping, or running
skeletons in Herculaneum, others remained rooted to the deck; but all
their eyes upcast.

“Aye, aye, men!” cried Ahab. “Look up at it; mark it well; the white
flame but lights the way to the White Whale! Hand me those mainmast
links there; I would fain feel this pulse, and let mine beat against
it; blood against fire! So.”

Then turning—the last link held fast in his left hand, he put his foot
upon the Parsee; and with fixed upward eye, and high-flung right arm,
he stood erect before the lofty tri-pointed trinity of flames.

“Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, whom on these seas I as Persian
once did worship, till in the sacramental act so burned by thee, that
to this hour I bear the scar; I now know thee, thou clear spirit, and I
now know that thy right worship is defiance. To neither love nor
reverence wilt thou be kind; and e’en for hate thou canst but kill; and
all are killed. No fearless fool now fronts thee. I own thy speechless,
placeless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will
dispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me. In the midst of
the personified impersonal, a personality stands here. Though but a
point at best; whencesoe’er I came; wheresoe’er I go; yet while I
earthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal
rights. But war is pain, and hate is woe. Come in thy lowest form of
love, and I will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere
supernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted
worlds, there’s that in here that still remains indifferent. Oh, thou
clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of
fire, I breathe it back to thee.”

[_Sudden, repeated flashes of lightning; the nine flames leap
lengthwise to thrice their previous height; Ahab, with the rest, closes
his eyes, his right hand pressed hard upon them._]

“I own thy speechless, placeless power; said I not so? Nor was it wrung
from me; nor do I now drop these links. Thou canst blind; but I can
then grope. Thou canst consume; but I can then be ashes. Take the
homage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands. I would not take it. The
lightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my
whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning
ground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I talk to thee. Light though
thou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but I am darkness leaping out of
light, leaping out of thee! The javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not?
There burn the flames! Oh, thou magnanimous! now I do glory in my
genealogy. But thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, I know
not. Oh, cruel! what hast thou done with her? There lies my puzzle; but
thine is greater. Thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself
unbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself
unbegun. I know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou
omnipotent. There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear
spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness
mechanical. Through thee, thy flaming self, my scorched eyes do dimly
see it. Oh, thou foundling fire, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast
thy incommunicable riddle, thy unparticipated grief. Here again with
haughty agony, I read my sire. Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap
with thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly
I worship thee!”

“The boat! the boat!” cried Starbuck, “look at thy boat, old man!”

Ahab’s harpoon, the one forged at Perth’s fire, remained firmly lashed
in its conspicuous crotch, so that it projected beyond his whale-boat’s
bow; but the sea that had stove its bottom had caused the loose leather
sheath to drop off; and from the keen steel barb there now came a
levelled flame of pale, forked fire. As the silent harpoon burned there
like a serpent’s tongue, Starbuck grasped Ahab by the arm—“God, God is
against thee, old man; forbear! ’tis an ill voyage! ill begun, ill
continued; let me square the yards, while we may, old man, and make a
fair wind of it homewards, to go on a better voyage than this.”

Overhearing Starbuck, the panic-stricken crew instantly ran to the
braces—though not a sail was left aloft. For the moment all the aghast
mate’s thoughts seemed theirs; they raised a half mutinous cry. But
dashing the rattling lightning links to the deck, and snatching the
burning harpoon, Ahab waved it like a torch among them; swearing to
transfix with it the first sailor that but cast loose a rope’s end.
Petrified by his aspect, and still more shrinking from the fiery dart
that he held, the men fell back in dismay, and Ahab again spoke:—

“All your oaths to hunt the White Whale are as binding as mine; and
heart, soul, and body, lungs and life, old Ahab is bound. And that ye
may know to what tune this heart beats; look ye here; thus I blow out
the last fear!” And with one blast of his breath he extinguished the
flame.

As in the hurricane that sweeps the plain, men fly the neighborhood of
some lone, gigantic elm, whose very height and strength but render it
so much the more unsafe, because so much the more a mark for
thunderbolts; so at those last words of Ahab’s many of the mariners did
run from him in a terror of dismay.


CHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.

_Ahab standing by the helm. Starbuck approaching him._

“We must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir. The band is working
loose and the lee lift is half-stranded. Shall I strike it, sir?”

“Strike nothing; lash it. If I had sky-sail poles, I’d sway them up
now.”

“Sir!—in God’s name!—sir?”

“Well.”

“The anchors are working, sir. Shall I get them inboard?”

“Strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything. The wind rises,
but it has not got up to my table-lands yet. Quick, and see to it.—By
masts and keels! he takes me for the hunch-backed skipper of some
coasting smack. Send down my main-top-sail yard! Ho, gluepots! Loftiest
trucks were made for wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now
sails amid the cloud-scud. Shall I strike that? Oh, none but cowards
send down their brain-trucks in tempest time. What a hooroosh aloft
there! I would e’en take it for sublime, did I not know that the colic
is a noisy malady. Oh, take medicine, take medicine!”


CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.

_Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over
the anchors there hanging._

“No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but
you will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how
long ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn’t you once say
that whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra
on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder
barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn’t you say
so?”

“Well, suppose I did? What then? I’ve part changed my flesh since that
time, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we _are_ loaded with powder
barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get
afire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty
red hair, but you couldn’t get afire now. Shake yourself; you’re
Aquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat
collar. Don’t you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine
Insurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask.
But hark, again, and I’ll answer ye the other thing. First take your
leg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the
rope; now listen. What’s the mighty difference between holding a mast’s
lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn’t
got any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don’t you see, you
timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the
mast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in
a hundred carries rods, and Ahab,—aye, man, and all of us,—were in no
more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten
thousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose
you would have every man in the world go about with a small
lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia
officer’s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why
don’t ye be sensible, Flask? it’s easy to be sensible; why don’t ye,
then? any man with half an eye can be sensible.”

“I don’t know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard.”

“Yes, when a fellow’s soaked through, it’s hard to be sensible, that’s
a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the
turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors
now as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two
anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man’s hands behind him. And
what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron
fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the
world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long
cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we’ve done. So; next
to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say,
just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at
long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always
to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way,
serve to carry off the water, d’ye see. Same with cocked hats; the
cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and
tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a
beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord,
Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly!
This is a nasty night, lad.”


CHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft.—Thunder and Lightning.

_The main-top-sail yard_.—_Tashtego passing new lashings around it_.

“Um, um, um. Stop that thunder! Plenty too much thunder up here. What’s
the use of thunder? Um, um, um. We don’t want thunder; we want rum;
give us a glass of rum. Um, um, um!”


CHAPTER 123. The Musket.

During the most violent shocks of the Typhoon, the man at the Pequod’s
jaw-bone tiller had several times been reelingly hurled to the deck by
its spasmodic motions, even though preventer tackles had been attached
to it—for they were slack—because some play to the tiller was
indispensable.

In a severe gale like this, while the ship is but a tossed shuttlecock
to the blast, it is by no means uncommon to see the needles in the
compasses, at intervals, go round and round. It was thus with the
Pequod’s; at almost every shock the helmsman had not failed to notice
the whirling velocity with which they revolved upon the cards; it is a
sight that hardly anyone can behold without some sort of unwonted
emotion.

Some hours after midnight, the Typhoon abated so much, that through the
strenuous exertions of Starbuck and Stubb—one engaged forward and the
other aft—the shivered remnants of the jib and fore and main-top-sails
were cut adrift from the spars, and went eddying away to leeward, like
the feathers of an albatross, which sometimes are cast to the winds
when that storm-tossed bird is on the wing.

The three corresponding new sails were now bent and reefed, and a
storm-trysail was set further aft; so that the ship soon went through
the water with some precision again; and the course—for the present,
East-south-east—which he was to steer, if practicable, was once more
given to the helmsman. For during the violence of the gale, he had only
steered according to its vicissitudes. But as he was now bringing the
ship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile,
lo! a good sign! the wind seemed coming round astern; aye, the foul
breeze became fair!

Instantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of “_Ho! the fair
wind! oh-ye-ho, cheerly men!_” the crew singing for joy, that so
promising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents
preceding it.

In compliance with the standing order of his commander—to report
immediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided
change in the affairs of the deck,—Starbuck had no sooner trimmed the
yards to the breeze—however reluctantly and gloomily,—than he
mechanically went below to apprise Captain Ahab of the circumstance.

Ere knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a
moment. The cabin lamp—taking long swings this way and that—was burning
fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man’s bolted door,—a
thin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels. The
isolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence
to reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the
elements. The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as
they stood upright against the forward bulkhead. Starbuck was an
honest, upright man; but out of Starbuck’s heart, at that instant when
he saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so
blent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he
hardly knew it for itself.

“He would have shot me once,” he murmured, “yes, there’s the very
musket that he pointed at me;—that one with the studded stock; let me
touch it—lift it. Strange, that I, who have handled so many deadly
lances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye,
aye; and powder in the pan;—that’s not good. Best spill it?—wait. I’ll
cure myself of this. I’ll hold the musket boldly while I think.—I come
to report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and
doom,—_that’s_ fair for Moby Dick. It’s a fair wind that’s only fair
for that accursed fish.—The very tube he pointed at me!—the very one;
_this_ one—I hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing
I handle now.—Aye and he would fain kill all his crew. Does he not say
he will not strike his spars to any gale? Has he not dashed his
heavenly quadrant? and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his
way by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log? and in this very
Typhoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods? But
shall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship’s
company down to doom with him?—Yes, it would make him the wilful
murderer of thirty men and more, if this ship come to any deadly harm;
and come to deadly harm, my soul swears this ship will, if Ahab have
his way. If, then, he were this instant—put aside, that crime would not
be his. Ha! is he muttering in his sleep? Yes, just there,—in there,
he’s sleeping. Sleeping? aye, but still alive, and soon awake again. I
can’t withstand thee, then, old man. Not reasoning; not remonstrance;
not entreaty wilt thou hearken to; all this thou scornest. Flat
obedience to thy own flat commands, this is all thou breathest. Aye,
and say’st the men have vow’d thy vow; say’st all of us are Ahabs.
Great God forbid!—But is there no other way? no lawful way?—Make him a
prisoner to be taken home? What! hope to wrest this old man’s living
power from his own living hands? Only a fool would try it. Say he were
pinioned even; knotted all over with ropes and hawsers; chained down to
ring-bolts on this cabin floor; he would be more hideous than a caged
tiger, then. I could not endure the sight; could not possibly fly his
howlings; all comfort, sleep itself, inestimable reason would leave me
on the long intolerable voyage. What, then, remains? The land is
hundreds of leagues away, and locked Japan the nearest. I stand alone
here upon an open sea, with two oceans and a whole continent between me
and law.—Aye, aye, ’tis so.—Is heaven a murderer when its lightning
strikes a would-be murderer in his bed, tindering sheets and skin
together?—And would I be a murderer, then, if”—and slowly, stealthily,
and half sideways looking, he placed the loaded musket’s end against
the door.

“On this level, Ahab’s hammock swings within; his head this way. A
touch, and Starbuck may survive to hug his wife and child again.—Oh
Mary! Mary!—boy! boy! boy!—But if I wake thee not to death, old man,
who can tell to what unsounded deeps Starbuck’s body this day week may
sink, with all the crew! Great God, where art Thou? Shall I? shall
I?—The wind has gone down and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails
are reefed and set; she heads her course.”

“Stern all! Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last!”

Such were the sounds that now came hurtling from out the old man’s
tormented sleep, as if Starbuck’s voice had caused the long dumb dream
to speak.

The yet levelled musket shook like a drunkard’s arm against the panel;
Starbuck seemed wrestling with an angel; but turning from the door, he
placed the death-tube in its rack, and left the place.

“He’s too sound asleep, Mr. Stubb; go thou down, and wake him, and tell
him. I must see to the deck here. Thou know’st what to say.”


CHAPTER 124. The Needle.

Next morning the not-yet-subsided sea rolled in long slow billows of
mighty bulk, and striving in the Pequod’s gurgling track, pushed her on
like giants’ palms outspread. The strong, unstaggering breeze abounded
so, that sky and air seemed vast outbellying sails; the whole world
boomed before the wind. Muffled in the full morning light, the
invisible sun was only known by the spread intensity of his place;
where his bayonet rays moved on in stacks. Emblazonings, as of crowned
Babylonian kings and queens, reigned over everything. The sea was as a
crucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat.

Long maintaining an enchanted silence, Ahab stood apart; and every time
the tetering ship loweringly pitched down her bowsprit, he turned to
eye the bright sun’s rays produced ahead; and when she profoundly
settled by the stern, he turned behind, and saw the sun’s rearward
place, and how the same yellow rays were blending with his undeviating
wake.

“Ha, ha, my ship! thou mightest well be taken now for the sea-chariot
of the sun. Ho, ho! all ye nations before my prow, I bring the sun to
ye! Yoke on the further billows; hallo! a tandem, I drive the sea!”

But suddenly reined back by some counter thought, he hurried towards
the helm, huskily demanding how the ship was heading.

“East-sou-east, sir,” said the frightened steersman.

“Thou liest!” smiting him with his clenched fist. “Heading East at this
hour in the morning, and the sun astern?”

Upon this every soul was confounded; for the phenomenon just then
observed by Ahab had unaccountably escaped every one else; but its very
blinding palpableness must have been the cause.

Thrusting his head half way into the binnacle, Ahab caught one glimpse
of the compasses; his uplifted arm slowly fell; for a moment he almost
seemed to stagger. Standing behind him Starbuck looked, and lo! the two
compasses pointed East, and the Pequod was as infallibly going West.

But ere the first wild alarm could get out abroad among the crew, the
old man with a rigid laugh exclaimed, “I have it! It has happened
before. Mr. Starbuck, last night’s thunder turned our compasses—that’s
all. Thou hast before now heard of such a thing, I take it.”

“Aye; but never before has it happened to me, sir,” said the pale mate,
gloomily.

Here, it must needs be said, that accidents like this have in more than
one case occurred to ships in violent storms. The magnetic energy, as
developed in the mariner’s needle, is, as all know, essentially one
with the electricity beheld in heaven; hence it is not to be much
marvelled at, that such things should be. Instances where the lightning
has actually struck the vessel, so as to smite down some of the spars
and rigging, the effect upon the needle has at times been still more
fatal; all its loadstone virtue being annihilated, so that the before
magnetic steel was of no more use than an old wife’s knitting needle.
But in either case, the needle never again, of itself, recovers the
original virtue thus marred or lost; and if the binnacle compasses be
affected, the same fate reaches all the others that may be in the ship;
even were the lowermost one inserted into the kelson.

Deliberately standing before the binnacle, and eyeing the transpointed
compasses, the old man, with the sharp of his extended hand, now took
the precise bearing of the sun, and satisfied that the needles were
exactly inverted, shouted out his orders for the ship’s course to be
changed accordingly. The yards were hard up; and once more the Pequod
thrust her undaunted bows into the opposing wind, for the supposed fair
one had only been juggling her.

Meanwhile, whatever were his own secret thoughts, Starbuck said
nothing, but quietly he issued all requisite orders; while Stubb and
Flask—who in some small degree seemed then to be sharing his
feelings—likewise unmurmuringly acquiesced. As for the men, though some
of them lowly rumbled, their fear of Ahab was greater than their fear
of Fate. But as ever before, the pagan harpooneers remained almost
wholly unimpressed; or if impressed, it was only with a certain
magnetism shot into their congenial hearts from inflexible Ahab’s.

For a space the old man walked the deck in rolling reveries. But
chancing to slip with his ivory heel, he saw the crushed copper
sight-tubes of the quadrant he had the day before dashed to the deck.

“Thou poor, proud heaven-gazer and sun’s pilot! yesterday I wrecked
thee, and to-day the compasses would fain have wrecked me. So, so. But
Ahab is lord over the level loadstone yet. Mr. Starbuck—a lance without
a pole; a top-maul, and the smallest of the sail-maker’s needles.
Quick!”

Accessory, perhaps, to the impulse dictating the thing he was now about
to do, were certain prudential motives, whose object might have been to
revive the spirits of his crew by a stroke of his subtile skill, in a
matter so wondrous as that of the inverted compasses. Besides, the old
man well knew that to steer by transpointed needles, though clumsily
practicable, was not a thing to be passed over by superstitious
sailors, without some shudderings and evil portents.

“Men,” said he, steadily turning upon the crew, as the mate handed him
the things he had demanded, “my men, the thunder turned old Ahab’s
needles; but out of this bit of steel Ahab can make one of his own,
that will point as true as any.”

Abashed glances of servile wonder were exchanged by the sailors, as
this was said; and with fascinated eyes they awaited whatever magic
might follow. But Starbuck looked away.

With a blow from the top-maul Ahab knocked off the steel head of the
lance, and then handing to the mate the long iron rod remaining, bade
him hold it upright, without its touching the deck. Then, with the
maul, after repeatedly smiting the upper end of this iron rod, he
placed the blunted needle endwise on the top of it, and less strongly
hammered that, several times, the mate still holding the rod as before.
Then going through some small strange motions with it—whether
indispensable to the magnetizing of the steel, or merely intended to
augment the awe of the crew, is uncertain—he called for linen thread;
and moving to the binnacle, slipped out the two reversed needles there,
and horizontally suspended the sail-needle by its middle, over one of
the compass-cards. At first, the steel went round and round, quivering
and vibrating at either end; but at last it settled to its place, when
Ahab, who had been intently watching for this result, stepped frankly
back from the binnacle, and pointing his stretched arm towards it,
exclaimed,—“Look ye, for yourselves, if Ahab be not lord of the level
loadstone! The sun is East, and that compass swears it!”

One after another they peered in, for nothing but their own eyes could
persuade such ignorance as theirs, and one after another they slunk
away.

In his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw Ahab in all his
fatal pride.


CHAPTER 125. The Log and Line.

While now the fated Pequod had been so long afloat this voyage, the log
and line had but very seldom been in use. Owing to a confident reliance
upon other means of determining the vessel’s place, some merchantmen,
and many whalemen, especially when cruising, wholly neglect to heave
the log; though at the same time, and frequently more for form’s sake
than anything else, regularly putting down upon the customary slate the
course steered by the ship, as well as the presumed average rate of
progression every hour. It had been thus with the Pequod. The wooden
reel and angular log attached hung, long untouched, just beneath the
railing of the after bulwarks. Rains and spray had damped it; sun and
wind had warped it; all the elements had combined to rot a thing that
hung so idly. But heedless of all this, his mood seized Ahab, as he
happened to glance upon the reel, not many hours after the magnet
scene, and he remembered how his quadrant was no more, and recalled his
frantic oath about the level log and line. The ship was sailing
plungingly; astern the billows rolled in riots.

“Forward, there! Heave the log!”

Two seamen came. The golden-hued Tahitian and the grizzly Manxman.
“Take the reel, one of ye, I’ll heave.”

They went towards the extreme stern, on the ship’s lee side, where the
deck, with the oblique energy of the wind, was now almost dipping into
the creamy, sidelong-rushing sea.

The Manxman took the reel, and holding it high up, by the projecting
handle-ends of the spindle, round which the spool of line revolved, so
stood with the angular log hanging downwards, till Ahab advanced to
him.

Ahab stood before him, and was lightly unwinding some thirty or forty
turns to form a preliminary hand-coil to toss overboard, when the old
Manxman, who was intently eyeing both him and the line, made bold to
speak.

“Sir, I mistrust it; this line looks far gone, long heat and wet have
spoiled it.”

“’Twill hold, old gentleman. Long heat and wet, have they spoiled thee?
Thou seem’st to hold. Or, truer perhaps, life holds thee; not thou it.”

“I hold the spool, sir. But just as my captain says. With these grey
hairs of mine ’tis not worth while disputing, ’specially with a
superior, who’ll ne’er confess.”

“What’s that? There now’s a patched professor in Queen Nature’s
granite-founded College; but methinks he’s too subservient. Where wert
thou born?”

“In the little rocky Isle of Man, sir.”

“Excellent! Thou’st hit the world by that.”

“I know not, sir, but I was born there.”

“In the Isle of Man, hey? Well, the other way, it’s good. Here’s a man
from Man; a man born in once independent Man, and now unmanned of Man;
which is sucked in—by what? Up with the reel! The dead, blind wall
butts all inquiring heads at last. Up with it! So.”

The log was heaved. The loose coils rapidly straightened out in a long
dragging line astern, and then, instantly, the reel began to whirl. In
turn, jerkingly raised and lowered by the rolling billows, the towing
resistance of the log caused the old reelman to stagger strangely.

“Hold hard!”

Snap! the overstrained line sagged down in one long festoon; the
tugging log was gone.

“I crush the quadrant, the thunder turns the needles, and now the mad
sea parts the log-line. But Ahab can mend all. Haul in here, Tahitian;
reel up, Manxman. And look ye, let the carpenter make another log, and
mend thou the line. See to it.”

“There he goes now; to him nothing’s happened; but to me, the skewer
seems loosening out of the middle of the world. Haul in, haul in,
Tahitian! These lines run whole, and whirling out: come in broken, and
dragging slow. Ha, Pip? come to help; eh, Pip?”

“Pip? whom call ye Pip? Pip jumped from the whale-boat. Pip’s missing.
Let’s see now if ye haven’t fished him up here, fisherman. It drags
hard; I guess he’s holding on. Jerk him, Tahiti! Jerk him off; we haul
in no cowards here. Ho! there’s his arm just breaking water. A hatchet!
a hatchet! cut it off—we haul in no cowards here. Captain Ahab! sir,
sir! here’s Pip, trying to get on board again.”

“Peace, thou crazy loon,” cried the Manxman, seizing him by the arm.
“Away from the quarter-deck!”

“The greater idiot ever scolds the lesser,” muttered Ahab, advancing.
“Hands off from that holiness! Where sayest thou Pip was, boy?

“Astern there, sir, astern! Lo! lo!”

“And who art thou, boy? I see not my reflection in the vacant pupils of
thy eyes. Oh God! that man should be a thing for immortal souls to
sieve through! Who art thou, boy?”

“Bell-boy, sir; ship’s-crier; ding, dong, ding! Pip! Pip! Pip! One
hundred pounds of clay reward for Pip; five feet high—looks
cowardly—quickest known by that! Ding, dong, ding! Who’s seen Pip the
coward?”

“There can be no hearts above the snow-line. Oh, ye frozen heavens!
look down here. Ye did beget this luckless child, and have abandoned
him, ye creative libertines. Here, boy; Ahab’s cabin shall be Pip’s
home henceforth, while Ahab lives. Thou touchest my inmost centre, boy;
thou art tied to me by cords woven of my heart-strings. Come, let’s
down.”

“What’s this? here’s velvet shark-skin,” intently gazing at Ahab’s
hand, and feeling it. “Ah, now, had poor Pip but felt so kind a thing
as this, perhaps he had ne’er been lost! This seems to me, sir, as a
man-rope; something that weak souls may hold by. Oh, sir, let old Perth
now come and rivet these two hands together; the black one with the
white, for I will not let this go.”

“Oh, boy, nor will I thee, unless I should thereby drag thee to worse
horrors than are here. Come, then, to my cabin. Lo! ye believers in
gods all goodness, and in man all ill, lo you! see the omniscient gods
oblivious of suffering man; and man, though idiotic, and knowing not
what he does, yet full of the sweet things of love and gratitude. Come!
I feel prouder leading thee by thy black hand, than though I grasped an
Emperor’s!”

“There go two daft ones now,” muttered the old Manxman. “One daft with
strength, the other daft with weakness. But here’s the end of the
rotten line—all dripping, too. Mend it, eh? I think we had best have a
new line altogether. I’ll see Mr. Stubb about it.”


CHAPTER 126. The Life-Buoy.

Steering now south-eastward by Ahab’s levelled steel, and her progress
solely determined by Ahab’s level log and line; the Pequod held on her
path towards the Equator. Making so long a passage through such
unfrequented waters, descrying no ships, and ere long, sideways
impelled by unvarying trade winds, over waves monotonously mild; all
these seemed the strange calm things preluding some riotous and
desperate scene.

At last, when the ship drew near to the outskirts, as it were, of the
Equatorial fishing-ground, and in the deep darkness that goes before
the dawn, was sailing by a cluster of rocky islets; the watch—then
headed by Flask—was startled by a cry so plaintively wild and
unearthly—like half-articulated wailings of the ghosts of all Herod’s
murdered Innocents—that one and all, they started from their reveries,
and for the space of some moments stood, or sat, or leaned all
transfixedly listening, like the carved Roman slave, while that wild
cry remained within hearing. The Christian or civilized part of the
crew said it was mermaids, and shuddered; but the pagan harpooneers
remained unappalled. Yet the grey Manxman—the oldest mariner of
all—declared that the wild thrilling sounds that were heard, were the
voices of newly drowned men in the sea.

Below in his hammock, Ahab did not hear of this till grey dawn, when he
came to the deck; it was then recounted to him by Flask, not
unaccompanied with hinted dark meanings. He hollowly laughed, and thus
explained the wonder.

Those rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great
numbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or
some dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and
kept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of
wail. But this only the more affected some of them, because most
mariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not
only from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the
human look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen
peeringly uprising from the water alongside. In the sea, under certain
circumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men.

But the bodings of the crew were destined to receive a most plausible
confirmation in the fate of one of their number that morning. At
sun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore;
and whether it was that he was not yet half waked from his sleep (for
sailors sometimes go aloft in a transition state), whether it was thus
with the man, there is now no telling; but, be that as it may, he had
not been long at his perch, when a cry was heard—a cry and a
rushing—and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and
looking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the
sea.

The life-buoy—a long slender cask—was dropped from the stern, where it
always hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it,
and the sun having long beat upon this cask it had shrunken, so that it
slowly filled, and that parched wood also filled at its every pore; and
the studded iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to
yield him his pillow, though in sooth but a hard one.

And thus the first man of the Pequod that mounted the mast to look out
for the White Whale, on the White Whale’s own peculiar ground; that man
was swallowed up in the deep. But few, perhaps, thought of that at the
time. Indeed, in some sort, they were not grieved at this event, at
least as a portent; for they regarded it, not as a foreshadowing of
evil in the future, but as the fulfilment of an evil already presaged.
They declared that now they knew the reason of those wild shrieks they
had heard the night before. But again the old Manxman said nay.

The lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; Starbuck was directed to see
to it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in
the feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the
voyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly
connected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be;
therefore, they were going to leave the ship’s stern unprovided with a
buoy, when by certain strange signs and inuendoes Queequeg hinted a
hint concerning his coffin.

“A life-buoy of a coffin!” cried Starbuck, starting.

“Rather queer, that, I should say,” said Stubb.

“It will make a good enough one,” said Flask, “the carpenter here can
arrange it easily.”

“Bring it up; there’s nothing else for it,” said Starbuck, after a
melancholy pause. “Rig it, carpenter; do not look at me so—the coffin,
I mean. Dost thou hear me? Rig it.”

“And shall I nail down the lid, sir?” moving his hand as with a hammer.

“Aye.”

“And shall I caulk the seams, sir?” moving his hand as with a
caulking-iron.

“Aye.”

“And shall I then pay over the same with pitch, sir?” moving his hand
as with a pitch-pot.

“Away! what possesses thee to this? Make a life-buoy of the coffin, and
no more.—Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come forward with me.”

“He goes off in a huff. The whole he can endure; at the parts he
baulks. Now I don’t like this. I make a leg for Captain Ahab, and he
wears it like a gentleman; but I make a bandbox for Queequeg, and he
won’t put his head into it. Are all my pains to go for nothing with
that coffin? And now I’m ordered to make a life-buoy of it. It’s like
turning an old coat; going to bring the flesh on the other side now. I
don’t like this cobbling sort of business—I don’t like it at all; it’s
undignified; it’s not my place. Let tinkers’ brats do tinkerings; we
are their betters. I like to take in hand none but clean, virgin,
fair-and-square mathematical jobs, something that regularly begins at
the beginning, and is at the middle when midway, and comes to an end at
the conclusion; not a cobbler’s job, that’s at an end in the middle,
and at the beginning at the end. It’s the old woman’s tricks to be
giving cobbling jobs. Lord! what an affection all old women have for
tinkers. I know an old woman of sixty-five who ran away with a
bald-headed young tinker once. And that’s the reason I never would work
for lonely widow old women ashore, when I kept my job-shop in the
Vineyard; they might have taken it into their lonely old heads to run
off with me. But heigh-ho! there are no caps at sea but snow-caps. Let
me see. Nail down the lid; caulk the seams; pay over the same with
pitch; batten them down tight, and hang it with the snap-spring over
the ship’s stern. Were ever such things done before with a coffin? Some
superstitious old carpenters, now, would be tied up in the rigging, ere
they would do the job. But I’m made of knotty Aroostook hemlock; I
don’t budge. Cruppered with a coffin! Sailing about with a grave-yard
tray! But never mind. We workers in woods make bridal-bedsteads and
card-tables, as well as coffins and hearses. We work by the month, or
by the job, or by the profit; not for us to ask the why and wherefore
of our work, unless it be too confounded cobbling, and then we stash it
if we can. Hem! I’ll do the job, now, tenderly. I’ll have me—let’s
see—how many in the ship’s company, all told? But I’ve forgotten. Any
way, I’ll have me thirty separate, Turk’s-headed life-lines, each three
feet long hanging all round to the coffin. Then, if the hull go down,
there’ll be thirty lively fellows all fighting for one coffin, a sight
not seen very often beneath the sun! Come hammer, caulking-iron,
pitch-pot, and marling-spike! Let’s to it.”


CHAPTER 127. The Deck.

_The coffin laid upon two line-tubs, between the vice-bench and the
open hatchway; the Carpenter caulking its seams; the string of twisted
oakum slowly unwinding from a large roll of it placed in the bosom of
his frock.—Ahab comes slowly from the cabin-gangway, and hears Pip
following him._

“Back, lad; I will be with ye again presently. He goes! Not this hand
complies with my humor more genially than that boy.—Middle aisle of a
church! What’s here?”

“Life-buoy, sir. Mr. Starbuck’s orders. Oh, look, sir! Beware the
hatchway!”

“Thank ye, man. Thy coffin lies handy to the vault.”

“Sir? The hatchway? oh! So it does, sir, so it does.”

“Art not thou the leg-maker? Look, did not this stump come from thy
shop?”

“I believe it did, sir; does the ferrule stand, sir?”

“Well enough. But art thou not also the undertaker?”

“Aye, sir; I patched up this thing here as a coffin for Queequeg; but
they’ve set me now to turning it into something else.”

“Then tell me; art thou not an arrant, all-grasping, intermeddling,
monopolising, heathenish old scamp, to be one day making legs, and the
next day coffins to clap them in, and yet again life-buoys out of those
same coffins? Thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much of a
jack-of-all-trades.”

“But I do not mean anything, sir. I do as I do.”

“The gods again. Hark ye, dost thou not ever sing working about a
coffin? The Titans, they say, hummed snatches when chipping out the
craters for volcanoes; and the grave-digger in the play sings, spade in
hand. Dost thou never?”

“Sing, sir? Do I sing? Oh, I’m indifferent enough, sir, for that; but
the reason why the grave-digger made music must have been because there
was none in his spade, sir. But the caulking mallet is full of it. Hark
to it.”

“Aye, and that’s because the lid there’s a sounding-board; and what in
all things makes the sounding-board is this—there’s naught beneath. And
yet, a coffin with a body in it rings pretty much the same, Carpenter.
Hast thou ever helped carry a bier, and heard the coffin knock against
the churchyard gate, going in?

“Faith, sir, I’ve——”

“Faith? What’s that?”

“Why, faith, sir, it’s only a sort of exclamation-like—that’s all,
sir.”

“Um, um; go on.”

“I was about to say, sir, that——”

“Art thou a silk-worm? Dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thyself?
Look at thy bosom! Despatch! and get these traps out of sight.”

“He goes aft. That was sudden, now; but squalls come sudden in hot
latitudes. I’ve heard that the Isle of Albemarle, one of the
Gallipagos, is cut by the Equator right in the middle. Seems to me some
sort of Equator cuts yon old man, too, right in his middle. He’s always
under the Line—fiery hot, I tell ye! He’s looking this way—come, oakum;
quick. Here we go again. This wooden mallet is the cork, and I’m the
professor of musical glasses—tap, tap!”

(_Ahab to himself_.)

“There’s a sight! There’s a sound! The greyheaded woodpecker tapping
the hollow tree! Blind and dumb might well be envied now. See! that
thing rests on two line-tubs, full of tow-lines. A most malicious wag,
that fellow. Rat-tat! So man’s seconds tick! Oh! how immaterial are all
materials! What things real are there, but imponderable thoughts? Here
now’s the very dreaded symbol of grim death, by a mere hap, made the
expressive sign of the help and hope of most endangered life. A
life-buoy of a coffin! Does it go further? Can it be that in some
spiritual sense the coffin is, after all, but an immortality-preserver!
I’ll think of that. But no. So far gone am I in the dark side of earth,
that its other side, the theoretic bright one, seems but uncertain
twilight to me. Will ye never have done, Carpenter, with that accursed
sound? I go below; let me not see that thing here when I return again.
Now, then, Pip, we’ll talk this over; I do suck most wondrous
philosophies from thee! Some unknown conduits from the unknown worlds
must empty into thee!”


CHAPTER 128. The Pequod Meets The Rachel.

Next day, a large ship, the Rachel, was descried, bearing directly down
upon the Pequod, all her spars thickly clustering with men. At the time
the Pequod was making good speed through the water; but as the
broad-winged windward stranger shot nigh to her, the boastful sails all
fell together as blank bladders that are burst, and all life fled from
the smitten hull.

“Bad news; she brings bad news,” muttered the old Manxman. But ere her
commander, who, with trumpet to mouth, stood up in his boat; ere he
could hopefully hail, Ahab’s voice was heard.

“Hast seen the White Whale?”

“Aye, yesterday. Have ye seen a whale-boat adrift?”

Throttling his joy, Ahab negatively answered this unexpected question;
and would then have fain boarded the stranger, when the stranger
captain himself, having stopped his vessel’s way, was seen descending
her side. A few keen pulls, and his boat-hook soon clinched the
Pequod’s main-chains, and he sprang to the deck. Immediately he was
recognised by Ahab for a Nantucketer he knew. But no formal salutation
was exchanged.

“Where was he?—not killed!—not killed!” cried Ahab, closely advancing.
“How was it?”

It seemed that somewhat late on the afternoon of the day previous,
while three of the stranger’s boats were engaged with a shoal of
whales, which had led them some four or five miles from the ship; and
while they were yet in swift chase to windward, the white hump and head
of Moby Dick had suddenly loomed up out of the water, not very far to
leeward; whereupon, the fourth rigged boat—a reserved one—had been
instantly lowered in chase. After a keen sail before the wind, this
fourth boat—the swiftest keeled of all—seemed to have succeeded in
fastening—at least, as well as the man at the mast-head could tell
anything about it. In the distance he saw the diminished dotted boat;
and then a swift gleam of bubbling white water; and after that nothing
more; whence it was concluded that the stricken whale must have
indefinitely run away with his pursuers, as often happens. There was
some apprehension, but no positive alarm, as yet. The recall signals
were placed in the rigging; darkness came on; and forced to pick up her
three far to windward boats—ere going in quest of the fourth one in the
precisely opposite direction—the ship had not only been necessitated to
leave that boat to its fate till near midnight, but, for the time, to
increase her distance from it. But the rest of her crew being at last
safe aboard, she crowded all sail—stunsail on stunsail—after the
missing boat; kindling a fire in her try-pots for a beacon; and every
other man aloft on the look-out. But though when she had thus sailed a
sufficient distance to gain the presumed place of the absent ones when
last seen; though she then paused to lower her spare boats to pull all
around her; and not finding anything, had again dashed on; again
paused, and lowered her boats; and though she had thus continued doing
till daylight; yet not the least glimpse of the missing keel had been
seen.

The story told, the stranger Captain immediately went on to reveal his
object in boarding the Pequod. He desired that ship to unite with his
own in the search; by sailing over the sea some four or five miles
apart, on parallel lines, and so sweeping a double horizon, as it were.

“I will wager something now,” whispered Stubb to Flask, “that some one
in that missing boat wore off that Captain’s best coat; mayhap, his
watch—he’s so cursed anxious to get it back. Who ever heard of two
pious whale-ships cruising after one missing whale-boat in the height
of the whaling season? See, Flask, only see how pale he looks—pale in
the very buttons of his eyes—look—it wasn’t the coat—it must have been
the—”

“My boy, my own boy is among them. For God’s sake—I beg, I
conjure”—here exclaimed the stranger Captain to Ahab, who thus far had
but icily received his petition. “For eight-and-forty hours let me
charter your ship—I will gladly pay for it, and roundly pay for it—if
there be no other way—for eight-and-forty hours only—only that—you
must, oh, you must, and you _shall_ do this thing.”

“His son!” cried Stubb, “oh, it’s his son he’s lost! I take back the
coat and watch—what says Ahab? We must save that boy.”

“He’s drowned with the rest on ’em, last night,” said the old Manx
sailor standing behind them; “I heard; all of ye heard their spirits.”

Now, as it shortly turned out, what made this incident of the Rachel’s
the more melancholy, was the circumstance, that not only was one of the
Captain’s sons among the number of the missing boat’s crew; but among
the number of the other boat’s crews, at the same time, but on the
other hand, separated from the ship during the dark vicissitudes of the
chase, there had been still another son; as that for a time, the
wretched father was plunged to the bottom of the cruellest perplexity;
which was only solved for him by his chief mate’s instinctively
adopting the ordinary procedure of a whale-ship in such emergencies,
that is, when placed between jeopardized but divided boats, always to
pick up the majority first. But the captain, for some unknown
constitutional reason, had refrained from mentioning all this, and not
till forced to it by Ahab’s iciness did he allude to his one yet
missing boy; a little lad, but twelve years old, whose father with the
earnest but unmisgiving hardihood of a Nantucketer’s paternal love, had
thus early sought to initiate him in the perils and wonders of a
vocation almost immemorially the destiny of all his race. Nor does it
unfrequently occur, that Nantucket captains will send a son of such
tender age away from them, for a protracted three or four years’ voyage
in some other ship than their own; so that their first knowledge of a
whaleman’s career shall be unenervated by any chance display of a
father’s natural but untimely partiality, or undue apprehensiveness and
concern.

Meantime, now the stranger was still beseeching his poor boon of Ahab;
and Ahab still stood like an anvil, receiving every shock, but without
the least quivering of his own.

“I will not go,” said the stranger, “till you say _aye_ to me. Do to me
as you would have me do to you in the like case. For _you_ too have a
boy, Captain Ahab—though but a child, and nestling safely at home now—a
child of your old age too—Yes, yes, you relent; I see it—run, run, men,
now, and stand by to square in the yards.”

“Avast,” cried Ahab—“touch not a rope-yarn”; then in a voice that
prolongingly moulded every word—“Captain Gardiner, I will not do it.
Even now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye. God bless ye, man, and may I
forgive myself, but I must go. Mr. Starbuck, look at the binnacle
watch, and in three minutes from this present instant warn off all
strangers: then brace forward again, and let the ship sail as before.”

Hurriedly turning, with averted face, he descended into his cabin,
leaving the strange captain transfixed at this unconditional and utter
rejection of his so earnest suit. But starting from his enchantment,
Gardiner silently hurried to the side; more fell than stepped into his
boat, and returned to his ship.

Soon the two ships diverged their wakes; and long as the strange vessel
was in view, she was seen to yaw hither and thither at every dark spot,
however small, on the sea. This way and that her yards were swung
round; starboard and larboard, she continued to tack; now she beat
against a head sea; and again it pushed her before it; while all the
while, her masts and yards were thickly clustered with men, as three
tall cherry trees, when the boys are cherrying among the boughs.

But by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly
saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without
comfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were
not.


CHAPTER 129. The Cabin.

(_Ahab moving to go on deck; Pip catches him by the hand to follow._)

“Lad, lad, I tell thee thou must not follow Ahab now. The hour is
coming when Ahab would not scare thee from him, yet would not have thee
by him. There is that in thee, poor lad, which I feel too curing to my
malady. Like cures like; and for this hunt, my malady becomes my most
desired health. Do thou abide below here, where they shall serve thee,
as if thou wert the captain. Aye, lad, thou shalt sit here in my own
screwed chair; another screw to it, thou must be.”

“No, no, no! ye have not a whole body, sir; do ye but use poor me for
your one lost leg; only tread upon me, sir; I ask no more, so I remain
a part of ye.”

“Oh! spite of million villains, this makes me a bigot in the fadeless
fidelity of man!—and a black! and crazy!—but methinks like-cures-like
applies to him too; he grows so sane again.”

“They tell me, sir, that Stubb did once desert poor little Pip, whose
drowned bones now show white, for all the blackness of his living skin.
But I will never desert ye, sir, as Stubb did him. Sir, I must go with
ye.”

“If thou speakest thus to me much more, Ahab’s purpose keels up in him.
I tell thee no; it cannot be.”

“Oh good master, master, master!

“Weep so, and I will murder thee! have a care, for Ahab too is mad.
Listen, and thou wilt often hear my ivory foot upon the deck, and still
know that I am there. And now I quit thee. Thy hand!—Met! True art
thou, lad, as the circumference to its centre. So: God for ever bless
thee; and if it come to that,—God for ever save thee, let what will
befall.”

(_Ahab goes; Pip steps one step forward._)

“Here he this instant stood; I stand in his air,—but I’m alone. Now
were even poor Pip here I could endure it, but he’s missing. Pip! Pip!
Ding, dong, ding! Who’s seen Pip? He must be up here; let’s try the
door. What? neither lock, nor bolt, nor bar; and yet there’s no opening
it. It must be the spell; he told me to stay here: Aye, and told me
this screwed chair was mine. Here, then, I’ll seat me, against the
transom, in the ship’s full middle, all her keel and her three masts
before me. Here, our old sailors say, in their black seventy-fours
great admirals sometimes sit at table, and lord it over rows of
captains and lieutenants. Ha! what’s this? epaulets! epaulets! the
epaulets all come crowding! Pass round the decanters; glad to see ye;
fill up, monsieurs! What an odd feeling, now, when a black boy’s host
to white men with gold lace upon their coats!—Monsieurs, have ye seen
one Pip?—a little negro lad, five feet high, hang-dog look, and
cowardly! Jumped from a whale-boat once;—seen him? No! Well then, fill
up again, captains, and let’s drink shame upon all cowards! I name no
names. Shame upon them! Put one foot upon the table. Shame upon all
cowards.—Hist! above there, I hear ivory—Oh, master! master! I am
indeed down-hearted when you walk over me. But here I’ll stay, though
this stern strikes rocks; and they bulge through; and oysters come to
join me.”


CHAPTER 130. The Hat.

And now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a
preliminary cruise, Ahab,—all other whaling waters swept—seemed to have
chased his foe into an ocean-fold, to slay him the more securely there;
now, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude
where his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had
been spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered
Moby Dick;—and now that all his successive meetings with various ships
contrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which
the white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against;
now it was that there lurked a something in the old man’s eyes, which
it was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see. As the unsetting
polar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months’ night
sustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so Ahab’s purpose now
fixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew. It
domineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings,
fears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a
single spear or leaf.

In this foreshadowing interval too, all humor, forced or natural,
vanished. Stubb no more strove to raise a smile; Starbuck no more
strove to check one. Alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed
ground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped
mortar of Ahab’s iron soul. Like machines, they dumbly moved about the
deck, ever conscious that the old man’s despot eye was on them.

But did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours; when
he thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that
even as Ahab’s eyes so awed the crew’s, the inscrutable Parsee’s glance
awed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it.
Such an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin Fedallah
now; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious
at him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal
substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen
being’s body. And that shadow was always hovering there. For not by
night, even, had Fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go
below. He would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan
but wondrous eyes did plainly say—We two watchmen never rest.

Nor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the
deck, unless Ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole,
or exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits,—the
main-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the
cabin-scuttle,—his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step;
his hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he
stood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung
in his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never
tell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at
times; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter,
though he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and
the unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved
coat and hat. The clothes that the night had wet, the next day’s
sunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night;
he went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin
that thing he sent for.

He ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals,—breakfast and
dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly
grew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still
grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure. But
though his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the
Parsee’s mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these
two never seemed to speak—one man to the other—unless at long intervals
some passing unmomentous matter made it necessary. Though such a potent
spell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck
crew, they seemed pole-like asunder. If by day they chanced to speak
one word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the
slightest verbal interchange. At times, for longest hours, without a
single hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; Ahab in his
scuttle, the Parsee by the mainmast; but still fixedly gazing upon each
other; as if in the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in Ahab the
Parsee his abandoned substance.

And yet, somehow, did Ahab—in his own proper self, as daily, hourly,
and every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates,—Ahab
seemed an independent lord; the Parsee but his slave. Still again both
seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean
shade siding the solid rib. For be this Parsee what he may, all rib and
keel was solid Ahab.

At the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard
from aft,—“Man the mast-heads!”—and all through the day, till after
sunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking
of the helmsman’s bell, was heard—“What d’ye see?—sharp! sharp!”

But when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the
children-seeking Rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac
old man seemed distrustful of his crew’s fidelity; at least, of nearly
all except the Pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether
Stubb and Flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought. But
if these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from
verbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.

“I will have the first sight of the whale myself,”—he said. “Aye! Ahab
must have the doubloon!” and with his own hands he rigged a nest of
basketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved
block, to secure to the main-mast head, he received the two ends of the
downward-reeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared a pin
for the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail. This done, with
that end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round
upon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long
upon Daggoo, Queequeg, Tashtego; but shunning Fedallah; and then
settling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said,—“Take the
rope, sir—I give it into thy hands, Starbuck.” Then arranging his
person in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his
perch, Starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and
afterwards stood near it. And thus, with one hand clinging round the
royal mast, Ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles,—ahead,
astern, this side, and that,—within the wide expanded circle commanded
at so great a height.

When in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in
the rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is
hoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these
circumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict
charge to some one man who has the special watch of it. Because in such
a wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations
aloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at
the deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few
minutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural
fatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor
should by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all
swooping to the sea. So Ahab’s proceedings in this matter were not
unusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that Starbuck,
almost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with
anything in the slightest degree approaching to decision—one of those
too, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt
somewhat;—it was strange, that this was the very man he should select
for his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise
distrusted person’s hands.

Now, the first time Ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten
minutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly
incommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these
latitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his
head in a maze of untrackably swift circlings. Then it darted a
thousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and
went eddying again round his head.

But with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, Ahab seemed
not to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked
it much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least
heedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every
sight.

“Your hat, your hat, sir!” suddenly cried the Sicilian seaman, who
being posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind Ahab, though
somewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing
them.

But already the sable wing was before the old man’s eyes; the long
hooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with
his prize.

An eagle flew thrice round Tarquin’s head, removing his cap to replace
it, and thereupon Tanaquil, his wife, declared that Tarquin would be
king of Rome. But only by the replacing of the cap was that omen
accounted good. Ahab’s hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on
and on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared;
while from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was
dimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.


CHAPTER 131. The Pequod Meets The Delight.

The intense Pequod sailed on; the rolling waves and days went by; the
life-buoy-coffin still lightly swung; and another ship, most miserably
misnamed the Delight, was descried. As she drew nigh, all eyes were
fixed upon her broad beams, called shears, which, in some
whaling-ships, cross the quarter-deck at the height of eight or nine
feet; serving to carry the spare, unrigged, or disabled boats.

Upon the stranger’s shears were beheld the shattered, white ribs, and
some few splintered planks, of what had once been a whale-boat; but you
now saw through this wreck, as plainly as you see through the peeled,
half-unhinged, and bleaching skeleton of a horse.

“Hast seen the White Whale?”

“Look!” replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with
his trumpet he pointed to the wreck.

“Hast killed him?”

“The harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that,” answered the
other, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose
gathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together.

“Not forged!” and snatching Perth’s levelled iron from the crotch, Ahab
held it out, exclaiming—“Look ye, Nantucketer; here in this hand I hold
his death! Tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these
barbs; and I swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the
fin, where the White Whale most feels his accursed life!”

“Then God keep thee, old man—see’st thou that”—pointing to the
hammock—“I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only
yesterday; but were dead ere night. Only _that_ one I bury; the rest
were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb.” Then turning
to his crew—“Are ye ready there? place the plank then on the rail, and
lift the body; so, then—Oh! God”—advancing towards the hammock with
uplifted hands—“may the resurrection and the life——”

“Brace forward! Up helm!” cried Ahab like lightning to his men.

But the suddenly started Pequod was not quick enough to escape the
sound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not
so quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have
sprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism.

As Ahab now glided from the dejected Delight, the strange life-buoy
hanging at the Pequod’s stern came into conspicuous relief.

“Ha! yonder! look yonder, men!” cried a foreboding voice in her wake.
“In vain, oh, ye strangers, ye fly our sad burial; ye but turn us your
taffrail to show us your coffin!”


CHAPTER 132. The Symphony.

It was a clear steel-blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were
hardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air was
transparently pure and soft, with a woman’s look, and the robust and
man-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as Samson’s
chest in his sleep.

Hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small,
unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air;
but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed
mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong,
troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.

But though thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades and
shadows without; those two seemed one; it was only the sex, as it were,
that distinguished them.

Aloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle
air to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom. And at the
girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion—most seen
here at the equator—denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving
alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.

Tied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; haggardly firm
and unyielding; his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the
ashes of ruin; untottering Ahab stood forth in the clearness of the
morn; lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl’s
forehead of heaven.

Oh, immortal infancy, and innocency of the azure! Invisible winged
creatures that frolic all round us! Sweet childhood of air and sky! how
oblivious were ye of old Ahab’s close-coiled woe! But so have I seen
little Miriam and Martha, laughing-eyed elves, heedlessly gambol around
their old sire; sporting with the circle of singed locks which grew on
the marge of that burnt-out crater of his brain.

Slowly crossing the deck from the scuttle, Ahab leaned over the side
and watched how his shadow in the water sank and sank to his gaze, the
more and the more that he strove to pierce the profundity. But the
lovely aromas in that enchanted air did at last seem to dispel, for a
moment, the cankerous thing in his soul. That glad, happy air, that
winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him; the step-mother world,
so long cruel—forbidding—now threw affectionate arms round his stubborn
neck, and did seem to joyously sob over him, as if over one, that
however wilful and erring, she could yet find it in her heart to save
and to bless. From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into
the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee
drop.

Starbuck saw the old man; saw him, how he heavily leaned over the side;
and he seemed to hear in his own true heart the measureless sobbing
that stole out of the centre of the serenity around. Careful not to
touch him, or be noticed by him, he yet drew near to him, and stood
there.

Ahab turned.

“Starbuck!”

“Sir.”

“Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such
a day—very much such a sweetness as this—I struck my first whale—a
boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty—forty—forty years ago!—ago! Forty
years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and
storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab
forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors
of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not
spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the
desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a
Captain’s exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any
sympathy from the green country without—oh, weariness! heaviness!
Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!—when I think of all this;
only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before—and how for forty
years I have fed upon dry salted fare—fit emblem of the dry nourishment
of my soil!—when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily
hand, and broken the world’s fresh bread to my mouldy crusts—away,
whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and
sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage
pillow—wife? wife?—rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I
widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the
madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with
which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly
chased his prey—more a demon than a man!—aye, aye! what a forty years’
fool—fool—old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase?
why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance?
how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not
hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been
snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me,
that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some
ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel
deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering
beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!—crack my
heart!—stave my brain!—mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey
hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus
intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a
human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to
gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is
the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;
stay on board, on board!—lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives
chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with
the far away home I see in that eye!”

“Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all!
why should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us
fly these deadly waters! let us home! Wife and child, too, are
Starbuck’s—wife and child of his brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow
youth; even as thine, sir, are the wife and child of thy loving,
longing, paternal old age! Away! let us away!—this instant let me alter
the course! How cheerily, how hilariously, O my Captain, would we bowl
on our way to see old Nantucket again! I think, sir, they have some
such mild blue days, even as this, in Nantucket.”

“They have, they have. I have seen them—some summer days in the
morning. About this time—yes, it is his noon nap now—the boy
vivaciously wakes; sits up in bed; and his mother tells him of me, of
cannibal old me; how I am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back
to dance him again.”

“’Tis my Mary, my Mary herself! She promised that my boy, every
morning, should be carried to the hill to catch the first glimpse of
his father’s sail! Yes, yes! no more! it is done! we head for
Nantucket! Come, my Captain, study out the course, and let us away!
See, see! the boy’s face from the window! the boy’s hand on the hill!”

But Ahab’s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and
cast his last, cindered apple to the soil.

“What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what
cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor
commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep
pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly
making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not
so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this
arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy
in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible
power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain
think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does
that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round
in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all
the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon
Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where
do murderers go, man! Who’s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged
to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and
the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have
been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and
the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we
how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust
amid greenness; as last year’s scythes flung down, and left in the
half-cut swaths—Starbuck!”

But blanched to a corpse’s hue with despair, the Mate had stolen away.

Ahab crossed the deck to gaze over on the other side; but started at
two reflected, fixed eyes in the water there. Fedallah was motionlessly
leaning over the same rail.


CHAPTER 133. The Chase—First Day.

That night, in the mid-watch, when the old man—as his wont at
intervals—stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went
to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing
up the sea air as a sagacious ship’s dog will, in drawing nigh to some
barbarous isle. He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that
peculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living
sperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner
surprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane,
and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as
possible, Ahab rapidly ordered the ship’s course to be slightly
altered, and the sail to be shortened.

The acute policy dictating these movements was sufficiently vindicated
at daybreak, by the sight of a long sleek on the sea directly and
lengthwise ahead, smooth as oil, and resembling in the pleated watery
wrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift
tide-rip, at the mouth of a deep, rapid stream.

“Man the mast-heads! Call all hands!”

Thundering with the butts of three clubbed handspikes on the forecastle
deck, Daggoo roused the sleepers with such judgment claps that they
seemed to exhale from the scuttle, so instantaneously did they appear
with their clothes in their hands.

“What d’ye see?” cried Ahab, flattening his face to the sky.

“Nothing, nothing sir!” was the sound hailing down in reply.

“T’gallant sails!—stunsails! alow and aloft, and on both sides!”

All sail being set, he now cast loose the life-line, reserved for
swaying him to the main royal-mast head; and in a few moments they were
hoisting him thither, when, while but two thirds of the way aloft, and
while peering ahead through the horizontal vacancy between the
main-top-sail and top-gallant-sail, he raised a gull-like cry in the
air. “There she blows!—there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is
Moby Dick!”

Fired by the cry which seemed simultaneously taken up by the three
look-outs, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to behold the famous
whale they had so long been pursuing. Ahab had now gained his final
perch, some feet above the other look-outs, Tashtego standing just
beneath him on the cap of the top-gallant-mast, so that the Indian’s
head was almost on a level with Ahab’s heel. From this height the whale
was now seen some mile or so ahead, at every roll of the sea revealing
his high sparkling hump, and regularly jetting his silent spout into
the air. To the credulous mariners it seemed the same silent spout they
had so long ago beheld in the moonlit Atlantic and Indian Oceans.

“And did none of ye see it before?” cried Ahab, hailing the perched men
all around him.

“I saw him almost that same instant, sir, that Captain Ahab did, and I
cried out,” said Tashtego.

“Not the same instant; not the same—no, the doubloon is mine, Fate
reserved the doubloon for me. _I_ only; none of ye could have raised
the White Whale first. There she blows!—there she blows!—there she
blows! There again!—there again!” he cried, in long-drawn, lingering,
methodic tones, attuned to the gradual prolongings of the whale’s
visible jets. “He’s going to sound! In stunsails! Down
top-gallant-sails! Stand by three boats. Mr. Starbuck, remember, stay
on board, and keep the ship. Helm there! Luff, luff a point! So;
steady, man, steady! There go flukes! No, no; only black water! All
ready the boats there? Stand by, stand by! Lower me, Mr. Starbuck;
lower, lower,—quick, quicker!” and he slid through the air to the deck.

“He is heading straight to leeward, sir,” cried Stubb, “right away from
us; cannot have seen the ship yet.”

“Be dumb, man! Stand by the braces! Hard down the helm!—brace up!
Shiver her!—shiver her!—So; well that! Boats, boats!”

Soon all the boats but Starbuck’s were dropped; all the boat-sails
set—all the paddles plying; with rippling swiftness, shooting to
leeward; and Ahab heading the onset. A pale, death-glimmer lit up
Fedallah’s sunken eyes; a hideous motion gnawed his mouth.

Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea;
but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew
still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a
noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter
came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling
hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated
thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy,
greenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly
projecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft Turkish-rugged
waters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky
forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and
behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving
valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and
danced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of
hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their
fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull
of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected
from the white whale’s back; and at intervals one of the cloud of
soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over
the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail
feathers streaming like pennons.

A gentle joyousness—a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested
the gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with
ravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering
eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness,
rippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that
great majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so
divinely swam.

On each soft side—coincident with the parted swell, that but once
leaving him, then flowed so wide away—on each bright side, the whale
shed off enticings. No wonder there had been some among the hunters who
namelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had ventured
to assail it; but had fatally found that quietude but the vesture of
tornadoes. Yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale! thou glidest on, to all
who for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that same way
thou may’st have bejuggled and destroyed before.

And thus, through the serene tranquillities of the tropical sea, among
waves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, Moby
Dick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his
submerged trunk, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw.
But soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an
instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia’s
Natural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air,
the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight.
Hoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls
longingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left.

With oars apeak, and paddles down, the sheets of their sails adrift,
the three boats now stilly floated, awaiting Moby Dick’s reappearance.

“An hour,” said Ahab, standing rooted in his boat’s stern; and he gazed
beyond the whale’s place, towards the dim blue spaces and wide wooing
vacancies to leeward. It was only an instant; for again his eyes seemed
whirling round in his head as he swept the watery circle. The breeze
now freshened; the sea began to swell.

“The birds!—the birds!” cried Tashtego.

In long Indian file, as when herons take wing, the white birds were now
all flying towards Ahab’s boat; and when within a few yards began
fluttering over the water there, wheeling round and round, with joyous,
expectant cries. Their vision was keener than man’s; Ahab could
discover no sign in the sea. But suddenly as he peered down and down
into its depths, he profoundly saw a white living spot no bigger than a
white weasel, with wonderful celerity uprising, and magnifying as it
rose, till it turned, and then there were plainly revealed two long
crooked rows of white, glistening teeth, floating up from the
undiscoverable bottom. It was Moby Dick’s open mouth and scrolled jaw;
his vast, shadowed bulk still half blending with the blue of the sea.
The glittering mouth yawned beneath the boat like an open-doored marble
tomb; and giving one sidelong sweep with his steering oar, Ahab whirled
the craft aside from this tremendous apparition. Then, calling upon
Fedallah to change places with him, went forward to the bows, and
seizing Perth’s harpoon, commanded his crew to grasp their oars and
stand by to stern.

Now, by reason of this timely spinning round the boat upon its axis,
its bow, by anticipation, was made to face the whale’s head while yet
under water. But as if perceiving this stratagem, Moby Dick, with that
malicious intelligence ascribed to him, sidelingly transplanted
himself, as it were, in an instant, shooting his pleated head
lengthwise beneath the boat.

Through and through; through every plank and each rib, it thrilled for
an instant, the whale obliquely lying on his back, in the manner of a
biting shark, slowly and feelingly taking its bows full within his
mouth, so that the long, narrow, scrolled lower jaw curled high up into
the open air, and one of the teeth caught in a row-lock. The bluish
pearl-white of the inside of the jaw was within six inches of Ahab’s
head, and reached higher than that. In this attitude the White Whale
now shook the slight cedar as a mildly cruel cat her mouse. With
unastonished eyes Fedallah gazed, and crossed his arms; but the
tiger-yellow crew were tumbling over each other’s heads to gain the
uttermost stern.

And now, while both elastic gunwales were springing in and out, as the
whale dallied with the doomed craft in this devilish way; and from his
body being submerged beneath the boat, he could not be darted at from
the bows, for the bows were almost inside of him, as it were; and while
the other boats involuntarily paused, as before a quick crisis
impossible to withstand, then it was that monomaniac Ahab, furious with
this tantalizing vicinity of his foe, which placed him all alive and
helpless in the very jaws he hated; frenzied with all this, he seized
the long bone with his naked hands, and wildly strove to wrench it from
its gripe. As now he thus vainly strove, the jaw slipped from him; the
frail gunwales bent in, collapsed, and snapped, as both jaws, like an
enormous shears, sliding further aft, bit the craft completely in
twain, and locked themselves fast again in the sea, midway between the
two floating wrecks. These floated aside, the broken ends drooping, the
crew at the stern-wreck clinging to the gunwales, and striving to hold
fast to the oars to lash them across.

At that preluding moment, ere the boat was yet snapped, Ahab, the first
to perceive the whale’s intent, by the crafty upraising of his head, a
movement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had
made one final effort to push the boat out of the bite. But only
slipping further into the whale’s mouth, and tilting over sideways as
it slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him
out of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the
sea.

Ripplingly withdrawing from his prey, Moby Dick now lay at a little
distance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the
billows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body;
so that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose—some twenty or more feet
out of the water—the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves,
dazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray
still higher into the air.* So, in a gale, the but half baffled Channel
billows only recoil from the base of the Eddystone, triumphantly to
overleap its summit with their scud.

*This motion is peculiar to the sperm whale. It receives its
designation (pitchpoling) from its being likened to that preliminary
up-and-down poise of the whale-lance, in the exercise called
pitchpoling, previously described. By this motion the whale must best
and most comprehensively view whatever objects may be encircling him.

But soon resuming his horizontal attitude, Moby Dick swam swiftly round
and round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful
wake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly
assault. The sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the
blood of grapes and mulberries cast before Antiochus’s elephants in the
book of Maccabees. Meanwhile Ahab half smothered in the foam of the
whale’s insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim,—though he
could still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that;
helpless Ahab’s head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least
chance shock might burst. From the boat’s fragmentary stern, Fedallah
incuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other
drifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to
look to themselves. For so revolvingly appalling was the White Whale’s
aspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made,
that he seemed horizontally swooping upon them. And though the other
boats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into
the eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant
destruction of the jeopardized castaways, Ahab and all; nor in that
case could they themselves hope to escape. With straining eyes, then,
they remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had
now become the old man’s head.

Meantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship’s
mast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene;
and was now so nigh, that Ahab in the water hailed her!—“Sail on
the”—but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from Moby Dick, and
whelmed him for the time. But struggling out of it again, and chancing
to rise on a towering crest, he shouted,—“Sail on the whale!—Drive him
off!”

The Pequod’s prows were pointed; and breaking up the charmed circle,
she effectually parted the white whale from his victim. As he sullenly
swam off, the boats flew to the rescue.

Dragged into Stubb’s boat with blood-shot, blinded eyes, the white
brine caking in his wrinkles; the long tension of Ahab’s bodily
strength did crack, and helplessly he yielded to his body’s doom: for a
time, lying all crushed in the bottom of Stubb’s boat, like one trodden
under foot of herds of elephants. Far inland, nameless wails came from
him, as desolate sounds from out ravines.

But this intensity of his physical prostration did but so much the more
abbreviate it. In an instant’s compass, great hearts sometimes condense
to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused
through feebler men’s whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary
in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time
aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous
intensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures
contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls.

“The harpoon,” said Ahab, half way rising, and draggingly leaning on
one bended arm—“is it safe?”

“Aye, sir, for it was not darted; this is it,” said Stubb, showing it.

“Lay it before me;—any missing men?”

“One, two, three, four, five;—there were five oars, sir, and here are
five men.”

“That’s good.—Help me, man; I wish to stand. So, so, I see him! there!
there! going to leeward still; what a leaping spout!—Hands off from me!
The eternal sap runs up in Ahab’s bones again! Set the sail; out oars;
the helm!”

It is often the case that when a boat is stove, its crew, being picked
up by another boat, help to work that second boat; and the chase is
thus continued with what is called double-banked oars. It was thus now.
But the added power of the boat did not equal the added power of the
whale, for he seemed to have treble-banked his every fin; swimming with
a velocity which plainly showed, that if now, under these
circumstances, pushed on, the chase would prove an indefinitely
prolonged, if not a hopeless one; nor could any crew endure for so long
a period, such an unintermitted, intense straining at the oar; a thing
barely tolerable only in some one brief vicissitude. The ship itself,
then, as it sometimes happens, offered the most promising intermediate
means of overtaking the chase. Accordingly, the boats now made for her,
and were soon swayed up to their cranes—the two parts of the wrecked
boat having been previously secured by her—and then hoisting everything
to her side, and stacking her canvas high up, and sideways
outstretching it with stun-sails, like the double-jointed wings of an
albatross; the Pequod bore down in the leeward wake of Moby-Dick. At
the well known, methodic intervals, the whale’s glittering spout was
regularly announced from the manned mast-heads; and when he would be
reported as just gone down, Ahab would take the time, and then pacing
the deck, binnacle-watch in hand, so soon as the last second of the
allotted hour expired, his voice was heard.—“Whose is the doubloon now?
D’ye see him?” and if the reply was, No, sir! straightway he commanded
them to lift him to his perch. In this way the day wore on; Ahab, now
aloft and motionless; anon, unrestingly pacing the planks.

As he was thus walking, uttering no sound, except to hail the men
aloft, or to bid them hoist a sail still higher, or to spread one to a
still greater breadth—thus to and fro pacing, beneath his slouched hat,
at every turn he passed his own wrecked boat, which had been dropped
upon the quarter-deck, and lay there reversed; broken bow to shattered
stern. At last he paused before it; and as in an already over-clouded
sky fresh troops of clouds will sometimes sail across, so over the old
man’s face there now stole some such added gloom as this.

Stubb saw him pause; and perhaps intending, not vainly, though, to
evince his own unabated fortitude, and thus keep up a valiant place in
his Captain’s mind, he advanced, and eyeing the wreck exclaimed—“The
thistle the ass refused; it pricked his mouth too keenly, sir; ha! ha!”

“What soulless thing is this that laughs before a wreck? Man, man! did
I not know thee brave as fearless fire (and as mechanical) I could
swear thou wert a poltroon. Groan nor laugh should be heard before a
wreck.”

“Aye, sir,” said Starbuck drawing near, “’tis a solemn sight; an omen,
and an ill one.”

“Omen? omen?—the dictionary! If the gods think to speak outright to
man, they will honorably speak outright; not shake their heads, and
give an old wives’ darkling hint.—Begone! Ye two are the opposite poles
of one thing; Starbuck is Stubb reversed, and Stubb is Starbuck; and ye
two are all mankind; and Ahab stands alone among the millions of the
peopled earth, nor gods nor men his neighbors! Cold, cold—I shiver!—How
now? Aloft there! D’ye see him? Sing out for every spout, though he
spout ten times a second!”

The day was nearly done; only the hem of his golden robe was rustling.
Soon, it was almost dark, but the look-out men still remained unset.

“Can’t see the spout now, sir;—too dark”—cried a voice from the air.

“How heading when last seen?”

“As before, sir,—straight to leeward.”

“Good! he will travel slower now ’tis night. Down royals and
top-gallant stun-sails, Mr. Starbuck. We must not run over him before
morning; he’s making a passage now, and may heave-to a while. Helm
there! keep her full before the wind!—Aloft! come down!—Mr. Stubb, send
a fresh hand to the fore-mast head, and see it manned till
morning.”—Then advancing towards the doubloon in the main-mast—“Men,
this gold is mine, for I earned it; but I shall let it abide here till
the White Whale is dead; and then, whosoever of ye first raises him,
upon the day he shall be killed, this gold is that man’s; and if on
that day I shall again raise him, then, ten times its sum shall be
divided among all of ye! Away now!—the deck is thine, sir!”

And so saying, he placed himself half way within the scuttle, and
slouching his hat, stood there till dawn, except when at intervals
rousing himself to see how the night wore on.


CHAPTER 134. The Chase—Second Day.

At day-break, the three mast-heads were punctually manned afresh.

“D’ye see him?” cried Ahab after allowing a little space for the light
to spread.

“See nothing, sir.”

“Turn up all hands and make sail! he travels faster than I thought
for;—the top-gallant sails!—aye, they should have been kept on her all
night. But no matter—’tis but resting for the rush.”

Here be it said, that this pertinacious pursuit of one particular
whale, continued through day into night, and through night into day, is
a thing by no means unprecedented in the South sea fishery. For such is
the wonderful skill, prescience of experience, and invincible
confidence acquired by some great natural geniuses among the Nantucket
commanders; that from the simple observation of a whale when last
descried, they will, under certain given circumstances, pretty
accurately foretell both the direction in which he will continue to
swim for a time, while out of sight, as well as his probable rate of
progression during that period. And, in these cases, somewhat as a
pilot, when about losing sight of a coast, whose general trending he
well knows, and which he desires shortly to return to again, but at
some further point; like as this pilot stands by his compass, and takes
the precise bearing of the cape at present visible, in order the more
certainly to hit aright the remote, unseen headland, eventually to be
visited: so does the fisherman, at his compass, with the whale; for
after being chased, and diligently marked, through several hours of
daylight, then, when night obscures the fish, the creature’s future
wake through the darkness is almost as established to the sagacious
mind of the hunter, as the pilot’s coast is to him. So that to this
hunter’s wondrous skill, the proverbial evanescence of a thing writ in
water, a wake, is to all desired purposes well nigh as reliable as the
steadfast land. And as the mighty iron Leviathan of the modern railway
is so familiarly known in its every pace, that, with watches in their
hands, men time his rate as doctors that of a baby’s pulse; and lightly
say of it, the up train or the down train will reach such or such a
spot, at such or such an hour; even so, almost, there are occasions
when these Nantucketers time that other Leviathan of the deep,
according to the observed humor of his speed; and say to themselves, so
many hours hence this whale will have gone two hundred miles, will have
about reached this or that degree of latitude or longitude. But to
render this acuteness at all successful in the end, the wind and the
sea must be the whaleman’s allies; for of what present avail to the
becalmed or windbound mariner is the skill that assures him he is
exactly ninety-three leagues and a quarter from his port? Inferable
from these statements, are many collateral subtile matters touching the
chase of whales.

The ship tore on; leaving such a furrow in the sea as when a
cannon-ball, missent, becomes a plough-share and turns up the level
field.

“By salt and hemp!” cried Stubb, “but this swift motion of the deck
creeps up one’s legs and tingles at the heart. This ship and I are two
brave fellows!—Ha, ha! Some one take me up, and launch me, spine-wise,
on the sea,—for by live-oaks! my spine’s a keel. Ha, ha! we go the gait
that leaves no dust behind!”

“There she blows—she blows!—she blows!—right ahead!” was now the
mast-head cry.

“Aye, aye!” cried Stubb, “I knew it—ye can’t escape—blow on and split
your spout, O whale! the mad fiend himself is after ye! blow your
trump—blister your lungs!—Ahab will dam off your blood, as a miller
shuts his watergate upon the stream!”

And Stubb did but speak out for well nigh all that crew. The frenzies
of the chase had by this time worked them bubblingly up, like old wine
worked anew. Whatever pale fears and forebodings some of them might
have felt before; these were not only now kept out of sight through the
growing awe of Ahab, but they were broken up, and on all sides routed,
as timid prairie hares that scatter before the bounding bison. The hand
of Fate had snatched all their souls; and by the stirring perils of the
previous day; the rack of the past night’s suspense; the fixed,
unfearing, blind, reckless way in which their wild craft went plunging
towards its flying mark; by all these things, their hearts were bowled
along. The wind that made great bellies of their sails, and rushed the
vessel on by arms invisible as irresistible; this seemed the symbol of
that unseen agency which so enslaved them to the race.

They were one man, not thirty. For as the one ship that held them all;
though it was put together of all contrasting things—oak, and maple,
and pine wood; iron, and pitch, and hemp—yet all these ran into each
other in the one concrete hull, which shot on its way, both balanced
and directed by the long central keel; even so, all the individualities
of the crew, this man’s valor, that man’s fear; guilt and guiltiness,
all varieties were welded into oneness, and were all directed to that
fatal goal which Ahab their one lord and keel did point to.

The rigging lived. The mast-heads, like the tops of tall palms, were
outspreadingly tufted with arms and legs. Clinging to a spar with one
hand, some reached forth the other with impatient wavings; others,
shading their eyes from the vivid sunlight, sat far out on the rocking
yards; all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for
their fate. Ah! how they still strove through that infinite blueness to
seek out the thing that might destroy them!

“Why sing ye not out for him, if ye see him?” cried Ahab, when, after
the lapse of some minutes since the first cry, no more had been heard.
“Sway me up, men; ye have been deceived; not Moby Dick casts one odd
jet that way, and then disappears.”

It was even so; in their headlong eagerness, the men had mistaken some
other thing for the whale-spout, as the event itself soon proved; for
hardly had Ahab reached his perch; hardly was the rope belayed to its
pin on deck, when he struck the key-note to an orchestra, that made the
air vibrate as with the combined discharges of rifles. The triumphant
halloo of thirty buckskin lungs was heard, as—much nearer to the ship
than the place of the imaginary jet, less than a mile ahead—Moby Dick
bodily burst into view! For not by any calm and indolent spoutings; not
by the peaceable gush of that mystic fountain in his head, did the
White Whale now reveal his vicinity; but by the far more wondrous
phenomenon of breaching. Rising with his utmost velocity from the
furthest depths, the Sperm Whale thus booms his entire bulk into the
pure element of air, and piling up a mountain of dazzling foam, shows
his place to the distance of seven miles and more. In those moments,
the torn, enraged waves he shakes off, seem his mane; in some cases,
this breaching is his act of defiance.

“There she breaches! there she breaches!” was the cry, as in his
immeasurable bravadoes the White Whale tossed himself salmon-like to
Heaven. So suddenly seen in the blue plain of the sea, and relieved
against the still bluer margin of the sky, the spray that he raised,
for the moment, intolerably glittered and glared like a glacier; and
stood there gradually fading and fading away from its first sparkling
intensity, to the dim mistiness of an advancing shower in a vale.

“Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!” cried Ahab, “thy hour
and thy harpoon are at hand!—Down! down all of ye, but one man at the
fore. The boats!—stand by!”

Unmindful of the tedious rope-ladders of the shrouds, the men, like
shooting stars, slid to the deck, by the isolated backstays and
halyards; while Ahab, less dartingly, but still rapidly was dropped
from his perch.

“Lower away,” he cried, so soon as he had reached his boat—a spare one,
rigged the afternoon previous. “Mr. Starbuck, the ship is thine—keep
away from the boats, but keep near them. Lower, all!”

As if to strike a quick terror into them, by this time being the first
assailant himself, Moby Dick had turned, and was now coming for the
three crews. Ahab’s boat was central; and cheering his men, he told
them he would take the whale head-and-head,—that is, pull straight up
to his forehead,—a not uncommon thing; for when within a certain limit,
such a course excludes the coming onset from the whale’s sidelong
vision. But ere that close limit was gained, and while yet all three
boats were plain as the ship’s three masts to his eye; the White Whale
churning himself into furious speed, almost in an instant as it were,
rushing among the boats with open jaws, and a lashing tail, offered
appalling battle on every side; and heedless of the irons darted at him
from every boat, seemed only intent on annihilating each separate plank
of which those boats were made. But skilfully manœuvred, incessantly
wheeling like trained chargers in the field; the boats for a while
eluded him; though, at times, but by a plank’s breadth; while all the
time, Ahab’s unearthly slogan tore every other cry but his to shreds.

But at last in his untraceable evolutions, the White Whale so crossed
and recrossed, and in a thousand ways entangled the slack of the three
lines now fast to him, that they foreshortened, and, of themselves,
warped the devoted boats towards the planted irons in him; though now
for a moment the whale drew aside a little, as if to rally for a more
tremendous charge. Seizing that opportunity, Ahab first paid out more
line: and then was rapidly hauling and jerking in upon it again—hoping
that way to disencumber it of some snarls—when lo!—a sight more savage
than the embattled teeth of sharks!

Caught and twisted—corkscrewed in the mazes of the line, loose harpoons
and lances, with all their bristling barbs and points, came flashing
and dripping up to the chocks in the bows of Ahab’s boat. Only one
thing could be done. Seizing the boat-knife, he critically reached
within—through—and then, without—the rays of steel; dragged in the line
beyond, passed it, inboard, to the bowsman, and then, twice sundering
the rope near the chocks—dropped the intercepted fagot of steel into
the sea; and was all fast again. That instant, the White Whale made a
sudden rush among the remaining tangles of the other lines; by so
doing, irresistibly dragged the more involved boats of Stubb and Flask
towards his flukes; dashed them together like two rolling husks on a
surf-beaten beach, and then, diving down into the sea, disappeared in a
boiling maelstrom, in which, for a space, the odorous cedar chips of
the wrecks danced round and round, like the grated nutmeg in a swiftly
stirred bowl of punch.

While the two crews were yet circling in the waters, reaching out after
the revolving line-tubs, oars, and other floating furniture, while
aslope little Flask bobbed up and down like an empty vial, twitching
his legs upwards to escape the dreaded jaws of sharks; and Stubb was
lustily singing out for some one to ladle him up; and while the old
man’s line—now parting—admitted of his pulling into the creamy pool to
rescue whom he could;—in that wild simultaneousness of a thousand
concreted perils,—Ahab’s yet unstricken boat seemed drawn up towards
Heaven by invisible wires,—as, arrow-like, shooting perpendicularly
from the sea, the White Whale dashed his broad forehead against its
bottom, and sent it, turning over and over, into the air; till it fell
again—gunwale downwards—and Ahab and his men struggled out from under
it, like seals from a sea-side cave.

The first uprising momentum of the whale—modifying its direction as he
struck the surface—involuntarily launched him along it, to a little
distance from the centre of the destruction he had made; and with his
back to it, he now lay for a moment slowly feeling with his flukes from
side to side; and whenever a stray oar, bit of plank, the least chip or
crumb of the boats touched his skin, his tail swiftly drew back, and
came sideways smiting the sea. But soon, as if satisfied that his work
for that time was done, he pushed his pleated forehead through the
ocean, and trailing after him the intertangled lines, continued his
leeward way at a traveller’s methodic pace.

As before, the attentive ship having descried the whole fight, again
came bearing down to the rescue, and dropping a boat, picked up the
floating mariners, tubs, oars, and whatever else could be caught at,
and safely landed them on her decks. Some sprained shoulders, wrists,
and ankles; livid contusions; wrenched harpoons and lances;
inextricable intricacies of rope; shattered oars and planks; all these
were there; but no fatal or even serious ill seemed to have befallen
any one. As with Fedallah the day before, so Ahab was now found grimly
clinging to his boat’s broken half, which afforded a comparatively easy
float; nor did it so exhaust him as the previous day’s mishap.

But when he was helped to the deck, all eyes were fastened upon him; as
instead of standing by himself he still half-hung upon the shoulder of
Starbuck, who had thus far been the foremost to assist him. His ivory
leg had been snapped off, leaving but one short sharp splinter.

“Aye, aye, Starbuck, ’tis sweet to lean sometimes, be the leaner who he
will; and would old Ahab had leaned oftener than he has.”

“The ferrule has not stood, sir,” said the carpenter, now coming up; “I
put good work into that leg.”

“But no bones broken, sir, I hope,” said Stubb with true concern.

“Aye! and all splintered to pieces, Stubb!—d’ye see it.—But even with a
broken bone, old Ahab is untouched; and I account no living bone of
mine one jot more me, than this dead one that’s lost. Nor white whale,
nor man, nor fiend, can so much as graze old Ahab in his own proper and
inaccessible being. Can any lead touch yonder floor, any mast scrape
yonder roof?—Aloft there! which way?”

“Dead to leeward, sir.”

“Up helm, then; pile on the sail again, ship keepers! down the rest of
the spare boats and rig them—Mr. Starbuck away, and muster the boat’s
crews.”

“Let me first help thee towards the bulwarks, sir.”

“Oh, oh, oh! how this splinter gores me now! Accursed fate! that the
unconquerable captain in the soul should have such a craven mate!”

“Sir?”

“My body, man, not thee. Give me something for a cane—there, that
shivered lance will do. Muster the men. Surely I have not seen him yet.
By heaven it cannot be!—missing?—quick! call them all.”

The old man’s hinted thought was true. Upon mustering the company, the
Parsee was not there.

“The Parsee!” cried Stubb—“he must have been caught in——”

“The black vomit wrench thee!—run all of ye above, alow, cabin,
forecastle—find him—not gone—not gone!”

But quickly they returned to him with the tidings that the Parsee was
nowhere to be found.

“Aye, sir,” said Stubb—“caught among the tangles of your line—I thought
I saw him dragging under.”

“_My_ line! _my_ line? Gone?—gone? What means that little word?—What
death-knell rings in it, that old Ahab shakes as if he were the belfry.
The harpoon, too!—toss over the litter there,—d’ye see it?—the forged
iron, men, the white whale’s—no, no, no,—blistered fool! this hand did
dart it!—’tis in the fish!—Aloft there! Keep him nailed—Quick!—all
hands to the rigging of the boats—collect the oars—harpooneers! the
irons, the irons!—hoist the royals higher—a pull on all the
sheets!—helm there! steady, steady for your life! I’ll ten times girdle
the unmeasured globe; yea and dive straight through it, but I’ll slay
him yet!”

“Great God! but for one single instant show thyself,” cried Starbuck;
“never, never wilt thou capture him, old man—In Jesus’ name no more of
this, that’s worse than devil’s madness. Two days chased; twice stove
to splinters; thy very leg once more snatched from under thee; thy evil
shadow gone—all good angels mobbing thee with warnings:—what more
wouldst thou have?—Shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he
swamps the last man? Shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the
sea? Shall we be towed by him to the infernal world? Oh, oh,—Impiety
and blasphemy to hunt him more!”

“Starbuck, of late I’ve felt strangely moved to thee; ever since that
hour we both saw—thou know’st what, in one another’s eyes. But in this
matter of the whale, be the front of thy face to me as the palm of this
hand—a lipless, unfeatured blank. Ahab is for ever Ahab, man. This
whole act’s immutably decreed. ’Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion
years before this ocean rolled. Fool! I am the Fates’ lieutenant; I act
under orders. Look thou, underling! that thou obeyest mine.—Stand round
me, men. Ye see an old man cut down to the stump; leaning on a shivered
lance; propped up on a lonely foot. ’Tis Ahab—his body’s part; but
Ahab’s soul’s a centipede, that moves upon a hundred legs. I feel
strained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a
gale; and I may look so. But ere I break, ye’ll hear me crack; and till
ye hear _that_, know that Ahab’s hawser tows his purpose yet. Believe
ye, men, in the things called omens? Then laugh aloud, and cry encore!
For ere they drown, drowning things will twice rise to the surface;
then rise again, to sink for evermore. So with Moby Dick—two days he’s
floated—tomorrow will be the third. Aye, men, he’ll rise once more,—but
only to spout his last! D’ye feel brave men, brave?”

“As fearless fire,” cried Stubb.

“And as mechanical,” muttered Ahab. Then as the men went forward, he
muttered on: “The things called omens! And yesterday I talked the same
to Starbuck there, concerning my broken boat. Oh! how valiantly I seek
to drive out of others’ hearts what’s clinched so fast in mine!—The
Parsee—the Parsee!—gone, gone? and he was to go before:—but still was
to be seen again ere I could perish—How’s that?—There’s a riddle now
might baffle all the lawyers backed by the ghosts of the whole line of
judges:—like a hawk’s beak it pecks my brain. _I’ll_, _I’ll_ solve it,
though!”

When dusk descended, the whale was still in sight to leeward.

So once more the sail was shortened, and everything passed nearly as on
the previous night; only, the sound of hammers, and the hum of the
grindstone was heard till nearly daylight, as the men toiled by
lanterns in the complete and careful rigging of the spare boats and
sharpening their fresh weapons for the morrow. Meantime, of the broken
keel of Ahab’s wrecked craft the carpenter made him another leg; while
still as on the night before, slouched Ahab stood fixed within his
scuttle; his hid, heliotrope glance anticipatingly gone backward on its
dial; sat due eastward for the earliest sun.


CHAPTER 135. The Chase.—Third Day.

The morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, and once more the
solitary night-man at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the
daylight look-outs, who dotted every mast and almost every spar.

“D’ye see him?” cried Ahab; but the whale was not yet in sight.

“In his infallible wake, though; but follow that wake, that’s all. Helm
there; steady, as thou goest, and hast been going. What a lovely day
again! were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the
angels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a
fairer day could not dawn upon that world. Here’s food for thought, had
Ahab time to think; but Ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels;
_that’s_ tingling enough for mortal man! to think’s audacity. God only
has that right and privilege. Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness
and a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too
much for that. And yet, I’ve sometimes thought my brain was very
calm—frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the
contents turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing
now; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it’s like
that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy
clefts of Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava. How the wild winds blow
it; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the
tossed ship they cling to. A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this
through prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and
ventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces.
Out upon it!—it’s tainted. Were I the wind, I’d blow no more on such a
wicked, miserable world. I’d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink
there. And yet, ’tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! who ever
conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run
tilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! a coward wind that
strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow.
Even Ahab is a braver thing—a nobler thing than _that_. Would now the
wind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and
outrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as
objects, not as agents. There’s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a
most malicious difference! And yet, I say again, and swear it now, that
there’s something all glorious and gracious in the wind. These warm
Trade Winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in
strong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark,
however the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest
Mississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go
at last. And by the eternal Poles! these same Trades that so directly
blow my good ship on; these Trades, or something like them—something so
unchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along! To it!
Aloft there! What d’ye see?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing! and noon at hand! The doubloon goes a-begging! See the sun!
Aye, aye, it must be so. I’ve oversailed him. How, got the start? Aye,
he’s chasing _me_ now; not I, _him_—that’s bad; I might have known it,
too. Fool! the lines—the harpoons he’s towing. Aye, aye, I have run him
by last night. About! about! Come down, all of ye, but the regular look
outs! Man the braces!”

Steering as she had done, the wind had been somewhat on the Pequod’s
quarter, so that now being pointed in the reverse direction, the braced
ship sailed hard upon the breeze as she rechurned the cream in her own
white wake.

“Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,” murmured Starbuck to
himself, as he coiled the new-hauled main-brace upon the rail. “God
keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside
wet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I disobey my God in obeying him!”

“Stand by to sway me up!” cried Ahab, advancing to the hempen basket.
“We should meet him soon.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” and straightway Starbuck did Ahab’s bidding, and once
more Ahab swung on high.

A whole hour now passed; gold-beaten out to ages. Time itself now held
long breaths with keen suspense. But at last, some three points off the
weather bow, Ahab descried the spout again, and instantly from the
three mast-heads three shrieks went up as if the tongues of fire had
voiced it.

“Forehead to forehead I meet thee, this third time, Moby Dick! On deck
there!—brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind’s eye. He’s too far
off to lower yet, Mr. Starbuck. The sails shake! Stand over that
helmsman with a top-maul! So, so; he travels fast, and I must down. But
let me have one more good round look aloft here at the sea; there’s
time for that. An old, old sight, and yet somehow so young; aye, and
not changed a wink since I first saw it, a boy, from the sand-hills of
Nantucket! The same!—the same!—the same to Noah as to me. There’s a
soft shower to leeward. Such lovely leewardings! They must lead
somewhere—to something else than common land, more palmy than the
palms. Leeward! the white whale goes that way; look to windward, then;
the better if the bitterer quarter. But good bye, good bye, old
mast-head! What’s this?—green? aye, tiny mosses in these warped cracks.
No such green weather stains on Ahab’s head! There’s the difference now
between man’s old age and matter’s. But aye, old mast, we both grow old
together; sound in our hulls, though, are we not, my ship? Aye, minus a
leg, that’s all. By heaven this dead wood has the better of my live
flesh every way. I can’t compare with it; and I’ve known some ships
made of dead trees outlast the lives of men made of the most vital
stuff of vital fathers. What’s that he said? he should still go before
me, my pilot; and yet to be seen again? But where? Will I have eyes at
the bottom of the sea, supposing I descend those endless stairs? and
all night I’ve been sailing from him, wherever he did sink to. Aye,
aye, like many more thou told’st direful truth as touching thyself, O
Parsee; but, Ahab, there thy shot fell short. Good-bye, mast-head—keep
a good eye upon the whale, the while I’m gone. We’ll talk to-morrow,
nay, to-night, when the white whale lies down there, tied by head and
tail.”

He gave the word; and still gazing round him, was steadily lowered
through the cloven blue air to the deck.

In due time the boats were lowered; but as standing in his shallop’s
stern, Ahab just hovered upon the point of the descent, he waved to the
mate,—who held one of the tackle-ropes on deck—and bade him pause.

“Starbuck!”

“Sir?”

“For the third time my soul’s ship starts upon this voyage, Starbuck.”

“Aye, sir, thou wilt have it so.”

“Some ships sail from their ports, and ever afterwards are missing,
Starbuck!”

“Truth, sir: saddest truth.”

“Some men die at ebb tide; some at low water; some at the full of the
flood;—and I feel now like a billow that’s all one crested comb,
Starbuck. I am old;—shake hands with me, man.”

Their hands met; their eyes fastened; Starbuck’s tears the glue.

“Oh, my captain, my captain!—noble heart—go not—go not!—see, it’s a
brave man that weeps; how great the agony of the persuasion then!”

“Lower away!”—cried Ahab, tossing the mate’s arm from him. “Stand by
the crew!”

In an instant the boat was pulling round close under the stern.

“The sharks! the sharks!” cried a voice from the low cabin-window
there; “O master, my master, come back!”

But Ahab heard nothing; for his own voice was high-lifted then; and the
boat leaped on.

Yet the voice spake true; for scarce had he pushed from the ship, when
numbers of sharks, seemingly rising from out the dark waters beneath
the hull, maliciously snapped at the blades of the oars, every time
they dipped in the water; and in this way accompanied the boat with
their bites. It is a thing not uncommonly happening to the whale-boats
in those swarming seas; the sharks at times apparently following them
in the same prescient way that vultures hover over the banners of
marching regiments in the east. But these were the first sharks that
had been observed by the Pequod since the White Whale had been first
descried; and whether it was that Ahab’s crew were all such
tiger-yellow barbarians, and therefore their flesh more musky to the
senses of the sharks—a matter sometimes well known to affect
them,—however it was, they seemed to follow that one boat without
molesting the others.

“Heart of wrought steel!” murmured Starbuck gazing over the side, and
following with his eyes the receding boat—“canst thou yet ring boldly
to that sight?—lowering thy keel among ravening sharks, and followed by
them, open-mouthed to the chase; and this the critical third day?—For
when three days flow together in one continuous intense pursuit; be
sure the first is the morning, the second the noon, and the third the
evening and the end of that thing—be that end what it may. Oh! my God!
what is this that shoots through me, and leaves me so deadly calm, yet
expectant,—fixed at the top of a shudder! Future things swim before me,
as in empty outlines and skeletons; all the past is somehow grown dim.
Mary, girl! thou fadest in pale glories behind me; boy! I seem to see
but thy eyes grown wondrous blue. Strangest problems of life seem
clearing; but clouds sweep between—Is my journey’s end coming? My legs
feel faint; like his who has footed it all day. Feel thy heart,—beats
it yet? Stir thyself, Starbuck!—stave it off—move, move! speak
aloud!—Mast-head there! See ye my boy’s hand on the hill?—Crazed;—aloft
there!—keep thy keenest eye upon the boats:—mark well the whale!—Ho!
again!—drive off that hawk! see! he pecks—he tears the vane”—pointing
to the red flag flying at the main-truck—“Ha! he soars away with
it!—Where’s the old man now? see’st thou that sight, oh Ahab!—shudder,
shudder!”

The boats had not gone very far, when by a signal from the mast-heads—a
downward pointed arm, Ahab knew that the whale had sounded; but
intending to be near him at the next rising, he held on his way a
little sideways from the vessel; the becharmed crew maintaining the
profoundest silence, as the head-beat waves hammered and hammered
against the opposing bow.

“Drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves! to their uttermost heads
drive them in! ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and
no hearse can be mine:—and hemp only can kill me! Ha! ha!”

Suddenly the waters around them slowly swelled in broad circles; then
quickly upheaved, as if sideways sliding from a submerged berg of ice,
swiftly rising to the surface. A low rumbling sound was heard; a
subterraneous hum; and then all held their breaths; as bedraggled with
trailing ropes, and harpoons, and lances, a vast form shot lengthwise,
but obliquely from the sea. Shrouded in a thin drooping veil of mist,
it hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air; and then fell swamping
back into the deep. Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for
an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a shower of
flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the
marble trunk of the whale.

“Give way!” cried Ahab to the oarsmen, and the boats darted forward to
the attack; but maddened by yesterday’s fresh irons that corroded in
him, Moby Dick seemed combinedly possessed by all the angels that fell
from heaven. The wide tiers of welded tendons overspreading his broad
white forehead, beneath the transparent skin, looked knitted together;
as head on, he came churning his tail among the boats; and once more
flailed them apart; spilling out the irons and lances from the two
mates’ boats, and dashing in one side of the upper part of their bows,
but leaving Ahab’s almost without a scar.

While Daggoo and Queequeg were stopping the strained planks; and as the
whale swimming out from them, turned, and showed one entire flank as he
shot by them again; at that moment a quick cry went up. Lashed round
and round to the fish’s back; pinioned in the turns upon turns in
which, during the past night, the whale had reeled the involutions of
the lines around him, the half torn body of the Parsee was seen; his
sable raiment frayed to shreds; his distended eyes turned full upon old
Ahab.

The harpoon dropped from his hand.

“Befooled, befooled!”—drawing in a long lean breath—“Aye, Parsee! I see
thee again.—Aye, and thou goest before; and this, _this_ then is the
hearse that thou didst promise. But I hold thee to the last letter of
thy word. Where is the second hearse? Away, mates, to the ship! those
boats are useless now; repair them if ye can in time, and return to me;
if not, Ahab is enough to die—Down, men! the first thing that but
offers to jump from this boat I stand in, that thing I harpoon. Ye are
not other men, but my arms and my legs; and so obey me.—Where’s the
whale? gone down again?”

But he looked too nigh the boat; for as if bent upon escaping with the
corpse he bore, and as if the particular place of the last encounter
had been but a stage in his leeward voyage, Moby Dick was now again
steadily swimming forward; and had almost passed the ship,—which thus
far had been sailing in the contrary direction to him, though for the
present her headway had been stopped. He seemed swimming with his
utmost velocity, and now only intent upon pursuing his own straight
path in the sea.

“Oh! Ahab,” cried Starbuck, “not too late is it, even now, the third
day, to desist. See! Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that
madly seekest him!”

Setting sail to the rising wind, the lonely boat was swiftly impelled
to leeward, by both oars and canvas. And at last when Ahab was sliding
by the vessel, so near as plainly to distinguish Starbuck’s face as he
leaned over the rail, he hailed him to turn the vessel about, and
follow him, not too swiftly, at a judicious interval. Glancing upwards,
he saw Tashtego, Queequeg, and Daggoo, eagerly mounting to the three
mast-heads; while the oarsmen were rocking in the two staved boats
which had but just been hoisted to the side, and were busily at work in
repairing them. One after the other, through the port-holes, as he
sped, he also caught flying glimpses of Stubb and Flask, busying
themselves on deck among bundles of new irons and lances. As he saw all
this; as he heard the hammers in the broken boats; far other hammers
seemed driving a nail into his heart. But he rallied. And now marking
that the vane or flag was gone from the main-mast-head, he shouted to
Tashtego, who had just gained that perch, to descend again for another
flag, and a hammer and nails, and so nail it to the mast.

Whether fagged by the three days’ running chase, and the resistance to
his swimming in the knotted hamper he bore; or whether it was some
latent deceitfulness and malice in him: whichever was true, the White
Whale’s way now began to abate, as it seemed, from the boat so rapidly
nearing him once more; though indeed the whale’s last start had not
been so long a one as before. And still as Ahab glided over the waves
the unpitying sharks accompanied him; and so pertinaciously stuck to
the boat; and so continually bit at the plying oars, that the blades
became jagged and crunched, and left small splinters in the sea, at
almost every dip.

“Heed them not! those teeth but give new rowlocks to your oars. Pull
on! ’tis the better rest, the shark’s jaw than the yielding water.”

“But at every bite, sir, the thin blades grow smaller and smaller!”

“They will last long enough! pull on!—But who can tell”—he
muttered—“whether these sharks swim to feast on the whale or on
Ahab?—But pull on! Aye, all alive, now—we near him. The helm! take the
helm! let me pass,”—and so saying two of the oarsmen helped him forward
to the bows of the still flying boat.

At length as the craft was cast to one side, and ran ranging along with
the White Whale’s flank, he seemed strangely oblivious of its
advance—as the whale sometimes will—and Ahab was fairly within the
smoky mountain mist, which, thrown off from the whale’s spout, curled
round his great, Monadnock hump; he was even thus close to him; when,
with body arched back, and both arms lengthwise high-lifted to the
poise, he darted his fierce iron, and his far fiercer curse into the
hated whale. As both steel and curse sank to the socket, as if sucked
into a morass, Moby Dick sideways writhed; spasmodically rolled his
nigh flank against the bow, and, without staving a hole in it, so
suddenly canted the boat over, that had it not been for the elevated
part of the gunwale to which he then clung, Ahab would once more have
been tossed into the sea. As it was, three of the oarsmen—who foreknew
not the precise instant of the dart, and were therefore unprepared for
its effects—these were flung out; but so fell, that, in an instant two
of them clutched the gunwale again, and rising to its level on a
combing wave, hurled themselves bodily inboard again; the third man
helplessly dropping astern, but still afloat and swimming.

Almost simultaneously, with a mighty volition of ungraduated,
instantaneous swiftness, the White Whale darted through the weltering
sea. But when Ahab cried out to the steersman to take new turns with
the line, and hold it so; and commanded the crew to turn round on their
seats, and tow the boat up to the mark; the moment the treacherous line
felt that double strain and tug, it snapped in the empty air!

“What breaks in me? Some sinew cracks!—’tis whole again; oars! oars!
Burst in upon him!”

Hearing the tremendous rush of the sea-crashing boat, the whale wheeled
round to present his blank forehead at bay; but in that evolution,
catching sight of the nearing black hull of the ship; seemingly seeing
in it the source of all his persecutions; bethinking it—it may be—a
larger and nobler foe; of a sudden, he bore down upon its advancing
prow, smiting his jaws amid fiery showers of foam.

Ahab staggered; his hand smote his forehead. “I grow blind; hands!
stretch out before me that I may yet grope my way. Is’t night?”

“The whale! The ship!” cried the cringing oarsmen.

“Oars! oars! Slope downwards to thy depths, O sea, that ere it be for
ever too late, Ahab may slide this last, last time upon his mark! I
see: the ship! the ship! Dash on, my men! Will ye not save my ship?”

But as the oarsmen violently forced their boat through the
sledge-hammering seas, the before whale-smitten bow-ends of two planks
burst through, and in an instant almost, the temporarily disabled boat
lay nearly level with the waves; its half-wading, splashing crew,
trying hard to stop the gap and bale out the pouring water.

Meantime, for that one beholding instant, Tashtego’s mast-head hammer
remained suspended in his hand; and the red flag, half-wrapping him as
with a plaid, then streamed itself straight out from him, as his own
forward-flowing heart; while Starbuck and Stubb, standing upon the
bowsprit beneath, caught sight of the down-coming monster just as soon
as he.

“The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of
air, now hug me close! Let not Starbuck die, if die he must, in a
woman’s fainting fit. Up helm, I say—ye fools, the jaw! the jaw! Is
this the end of all my bursting prayers? all my life-long fidelities?
Oh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work. Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up
helm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on
towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me
now!”

“Stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now
help Stubb; for Stubb, too, sticks here. I grin at thee, thou grinning
whale! Who ever helped Stubb, or kept Stubb awake, but Stubb’s own
unwinking eye? And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattrass that is
all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood! I grin at thee,
thou grinning whale! Look ye, sun, moon, and stars! I call ye assassins
of as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost. For all that, I would
yet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup! Oh, oh! oh, oh!
thou grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of gulping soon! Why fly ye
not, O Ahab! For me, off shoes and jacket to it; let Stubb die in his
drawers! A most mouldy and over salted death, though;—cherries!
cherries! cherries! Oh, Flask, for one red cherry ere we die!”

“Cherries? I only wish that we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I hope
my poor mother’s drawn my part-pay ere this; if not, few coppers will
now come to her, for the voyage is up.”

From the ship’s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers,
bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their
hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all
their enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side
strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of
overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution,
swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of
all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead
smote the ship’s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell
flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the
harpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks. Through the breach,
they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.

“The ship! The hearse!—the second hearse!” cried Ahab from the boat;
“its wood could only be American!”

Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its
keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far
off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab’s boat, where, for a
time, he lay quiescent.

“I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy
hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel;
and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and
Pole-pointed prow,—death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and
without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest
shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel
my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your
furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone
life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll,
thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with
thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last
breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool!
and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still
chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! _Thus_, I give up
the spear!”

The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting
velocity the line ran through the grooves;—ran foul. Ahab stooped to
clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the
neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was
shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the
heavy eye-splice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark-empty
tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its
depths.

For an instant, the tranced boat’s crew stood still; then turned. “The
ship? Great God, where is the ship?” Soon they through dim, bewildering
mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous Fata
Morgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by
infatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the
pagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea.
And now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its
crew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning,
animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the
smallest chip of the Pequod out of sight.

But as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the
sunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the
erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag,
which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying
billows they almost touched;—at that instant, a red arm and a hammer
hovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the
flag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar. A sky-hawk that
tauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home
among the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding Tashtego there;
this bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between
the hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial
thrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his
hammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic
shrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive
form folded in the flag of Ahab, went down with his ship, which, like
Satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of
heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it.

Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen
white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the
great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.


Epilogue

“AND I ONLY AM ESCAPED ALONE TO TELL THEE” Job.

The drama’s done. Why then here does any one step forth?—Because one
did survive the wreck.

It so chanced, that after the Parsee’s disappearance, I was he whom the
Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab’s bowsman, when that bowsman
assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three
men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So,
floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it,
when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but
slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had
subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting
towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly
wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that
vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by
reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising
with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea,
fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost
one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The
unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths;
the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a
sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the
devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing
children, only found another orphan.



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THE PIAZZA TALES

by

HERMAN MELVILLE,

Author of "Typee," "Omoo," etc., etc., etc.





CONTENTS


   THE PIAZZA

   BARTLEBY

   BENITO CERENO

   THE LIGHTNING-ROD MAN

   THE ENCANTADAS; OR, ENCHANTED ISLANDS

   THE BELL-TOWER







THE PIAZZA.

  "With fairest flowers,
  Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele--"


When I removed into the country, it was to occupy an old-fashioned
farm-house, which had no piazza--a deficiency the more regretted,
because not only did I like piazzas, as somehow combining the coziness
of in-doors with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so pleasant to
inspect your thermometer there, but the country round about was such a
picture, that in berry time no boy climbs hill or crosses vale without
coming upon easels planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters
painting there. A very paradise of painters. The circle of the stars cut
by the circle of the mountains. At least, so looks it from the house;
though, once upon the mountains, no circle of them can you see. Had the
site been chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would not have been.

The house is old. Seventy years since, from the heart of the Hearth
Stone Hills, they quarried the Kaaba, or Holy Stone, to which, each
Thanksgiving, the social pilgrims used to come. So long ago, that, in
digging for the foundation, the workmen used both spade and axe,
fighting the Troglodytes of those subterranean parts--sturdy roots of a
sturdy wood, encamped upon what is now a long land-slide of sleeping
meadow, sloping away off from my poppy-bed. Of that knit wood, but one
survivor stands--an elm, lonely through steadfastness.

Whoever built the house, he builded better than he knew; or else Orion
in the zenith flashed down his Damocles' sword to him some starry night,
and said, "Build there." For how, otherwise, could it have entered the
builder's mind, that, upon the clearing being made, such a purple
prospect would be his?--nothing less than Greylock, with all his hills
about him, like Charlemagne among his peers.

Now, for a house, so situated in such a country, to have no piazza for
the convenience of those who might desire to feast upon the view, and
take their time and ease about it, seemed as much of an omission as if a
picture-gallery should have no bench; for what but picture-galleries are
the marble halls of these same limestone hills?--galleries hung, month
after month anew, with pictures ever fading into pictures ever fresh.
And beauty is like piety--you cannot run and read it; tranquillity and
constancy, with, now-a-days, an easy chair, are needed. For though, of
old, when reverence was in vogue, and indolence was not, the devotees of
Nature, doubtless, used to stand and adore--just as, in the cathedrals
of those ages, the worshipers of a higher Power did--yet, in these times
of failing faith and feeble knees, we have the piazza and the pew.

During the first year of my residence, the more leisurely to witness the
coronation of Charlemagne (weather permitting, they crown him every
sunrise and sunset), I chose me, on the hill-side bank near by, a royal
lounge of turf--a green velvet lounge, with long, moss-padded back;
while at the head, strangely enough, there grew (but, I suppose, for
heraldry) three tufts of blue violets in a field-argent of wild
strawberries; and a trellis, with honeysuckle, I set for canopy. Very
majestical lounge, indeed. So much so, that here, as with the reclining
majesty of Denmark in his orchard, a sly ear-ache invaded me. But, if
damps abound at times in Westminster Abbey, because it is so old, why
not within this monastery of mountains, which is older?

A piazza must be had.

The house was wide--my fortune narrow; so that, to build a panoramic
piazza, one round and round, it could not be--although, indeed,
considering the matter by rule and square, the carpenters, in the
kindest way, were anxious to gratify my furthest wishes, at I've
forgotten how much a foot.

Upon but one of the four sides would prudence grant me what I wanted.
Now, which side?

To the east, that long camp of the Hearth Stone Hills, fading far away
towards Quito; and every fall, a small white flake of something peering
suddenly, of a coolish morning, from the topmost cliff--the season's
new-dropped lamb, its earliest fleece; and then the Christmas dawn,
draping those dim highlands with red-barred plaids and tartans--goodly
sight from your piazza, that. Goodly sight; but, to the north is
Charlemagne--can't have the Hearth Stone Hills with Charlemagne.

Well, the south side. Apple-trees are there. Pleasant, of a balmy
morning, in the month of May, to sit and see that orchard, white-budded,
as for a bridal; and, in October, one green arsenal yard; such piles of
ruddy shot. Very fine, I grant; but, to the north is Charlemagne.

The west side, look. An upland pasture, alleying away into a maple wood
at top. Sweet, in opening spring, to trace upon the hill-side, otherwise
gray and bare--to trace, I say, the oldest paths by their streaks of
earliest green. Sweet, indeed, I can't deny; but, to the north is
Charlemagne.

So Charlemagne, he carried it. It was not long after 1848; and, somehow,
about that time, all round the world, these kings, they had the casting
vote, and voted for themselves.

No sooner was ground broken, than all the neighborhood, neighbor Dives,
in particular, broke, too--into a laugh. Piazza to the north! Winter
piazza! Wants, of winter midnights, to watch the Aurora Borealis, I
suppose; hope he's laid in good store of Polar muffs and mittens.

That was in the lion month of March. Not forgotten are the blue noses of
the carpenters, and how they scouted at the greenness of the cit, who
would build his sole piazza to the north. But March don't last forever;
patience, and August comes. And then, in the cool elysium of my northern
bower, I, Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, cast down the hill a pitying
glance on poor old Dives, tormented in the purgatory of his piazza to
the south.

But, even in December, this northern piazza does not repel--nipping cold
and gusty though it be, and the north wind, like any miller, bolting by
the snow, in finest flour--for then, once more, with frosted beard, I
pace the sleety deck, weathering Cape Horn.

In summer, too, Canute-like, sitting here, one is often reminded of the
sea. For not only do long ground-swells roll the slanting grain, and
little wavelets of the grass ripple over upon the low piazza, as their
beach, and the blown down of dandelions is wafted like the spray, and
the purple of the mountains is just the purple of the billows, and a
still August noon broods upon the deep meadows, as a calm upon the Line;
but the vastness and the lonesomeness are so oceanic, and the silence
and the sameness, too, that the first peep of a strange house, rising
beyond the trees, is for all the world like spying, on the Barbary
coast, an unknown sail.

And this recalls my inland voyage to fairy-land. A true voyage; but,
take it all in all, interesting as if invented.

From the piazza, some uncertain object I had caught, mysteriously
snugged away, to all appearance, in a sort of purpled breast-pocket,
high up in a hopper-like hollow, or sunken angle, among the northwestern
mountains--yet, whether, really, it was on a mountain-side, or a
mountain-top, could not be determined; because, though, viewed from
favorable points, a blue summit, peering up away behind the rest, will,
as it were, talk to you over their heads, and plainly tell you, that,
though he (the blue summit) seems among them, he is not of them (God
forbid!), and, indeed, would have you know that he considers
himself--as, to say truth, he has good right--by several cubits their
superior, nevertheless, certain ranges, here and there double-filed, as
in platoons, so shoulder and follow up upon one another, with their
irregular shapes and heights, that, from the piazza, a nigher and lower
mountain will, in most states of the atmosphere, effacingly shade itself
away into a higher and further one; that an object, bleak on the
former's crest, will, for all that, appear nested in the latter's flank.
These mountains, somehow, they play at hide-and-seek, and all before
one's eyes.

But, be that as it may, the spot in question was, at all events, so
situated as to be only visible, and then but vaguely, under certain
witching conditions of light and shadow.

Indeed, for a year or more, I knew not there was such a spot, and might,
perhaps, have never known, had it not been for a wizard afternoon in
autumn--late in autumn--a mad poet's afternoon; when the turned maple
woods in the broad basin below me, having lost their first vermilion
tint, dully smoked, like smouldering towns, when flames expire upon
their prey; and rumor had it, that this smokiness in the general air was
not all Indian summer--which was not used to be so sick a thing, however
mild--but, in great part, was blown from far-off forests, for weeks on
fire, in Vermont; so that no wonder the sky was ominous as Hecate's
cauldron--and two sportsmen, crossing a red stubble buck-wheat field,
seemed guilty Macbeth and foreboding Banquo; and the hermit-sun, hutted
in an Adullum cave, well towards the south, according to his season, did
little else but, by indirect reflection of narrow rays shot down a
Simplon pass among the clouds, just steadily paint one small, round,
strawberry mole upon the wan cheek of northwestern hills. Signal as a
candle. One spot of radiance, where all else was shade.

Fairies there, thought I; some haunted ring where fairies dance.

Time passed; and the following May, after a gentle shower upon the
mountains--a little shower islanded in misty seas of sunshine; such a
distant shower--and sometimes two, and three, and four of them, all
visible together in different parts--as I love to watch from the
piazza, instead of thunder storms, as I used to, which wrap old
Greylock, like a Sinai, till one thinks swart Moses must be climbing
among scathed hemlocks there; after, I say, that, gentle shower, I saw a
rainbow, resting its further end just where, in autumn, I had marked the
mole. Fairies there, thought I; remembering that rainbows bring out the
blooms, and that, if one can but get to the rainbow's end, his fortune
is made in a bag of gold. Yon rainbow's end, would I were there, thought
I. And none the less I wished it, for now first noticing what seemed
some sort of glen, or grotto, in the mountain side; at least, whatever
it was, viewed through the rainbow's medium, it glowed like the Potosi
mine. But a work-a-day neighbor said, no doubt it was but some old
barn--an abandoned one, its broadside beaten in, the acclivity its
background. But I, though I had never been there, I knew better.

A few days after, a cheery sunrise kindled a golden sparkle in the same
spot as before. The sparkle was of that vividness, it seemed as if it
could only come from glass. The building, then--if building, after all,
it was--could, at least, not be a barn, much less an abandoned one;
stale hay ten years musting in it. No; if aught built by mortal, it must
be a cottage; perhaps long vacant and dismantled, but this very spring
magically fitted up and glazed.

Again, one noon, in the same direction, I marked, over dimmed tops of
terraced foliage, a broader gleam, as of a silver buckler, held sunwards
over some croucher's head; which gleam, experience in like cases taught,
must come from a roof newly shingled. This, to me, made pretty sure the
recent occupancy of that far cot in fairy land.

Day after day, now, full of interest in my discovery, what time I could
spare from reading the Midsummer's Night Dream, and all about Titania,
wishfully I gazed off towards the hills; but in vain. Either troops of
shadows, an imperial guard, with slow pace and solemn, defiled along the
steeps; or, routed by pursuing light, fled broadcast from east to
west--old wars of Lucifer and Michael; or the mountains, though unvexed
by these mirrored sham fights in the sky, had an atmosphere otherwise
unfavorable for fairy views. I was sorry; the more so, because I had to
keep my chamber for some time after--which chamber did not face those
hills.

At length, when pretty well again, and sitting out, in the September
morning, upon the piazza, and thinking to myself, when, just after a
little flock of sheep, the farmer's banded children passed, a-nutting,
and said, "How sweet a day"--it was, after all, but what their fathers
call a weather-breeder--and, indeed, was become so sensitive through my
illness, as that I could not bear to look upon a Chinese creeper of my
adoption, and which, to my delight, climbing a post of the piazza, had
burst out in starry bloom, but now, if you removed the leaves a little,
showed millions of strange, cankerous worms, which, feeding upon those
blossoms, so shared their blessed hue, as to make it unblessed
evermore--worms, whose germs had doubtless lurked in the very bulb
which, so hopefully, I had planted: in this ingrate peevishness of my
weary convalescence, was I sitting there; when, suddenly looking off, I
saw the golden mountain-window, dazzling like a deep-sea dolphin.
Fairies there, thought I, once more; the queen of fairies at her
fairy-window; at any rate, some glad mountain-girl; it will do me good,
it will cure this weariness, to look on her. No more; I'll launch my
yawl--ho, cheerly, heart! and push away for fairy-land--for rainbow's
end, in fairy-land.

How to get to fairy-land, by what road, I did not know; nor could any
one inform me; not even one Edmund Spenser, who had been there--so he
wrote me--further than that to reach fairy-land, it must be voyaged to,
and with faith. I took the fairy-mountain's bearings, and the first fine
day, when strength permitted, got into my yawl--high-pommeled, leather
one--cast off the fast, and away I sailed, free voyager as an autumn
leaf. Early dawn; and, sallying westward, I sowed the morning before me.

Some miles brought me nigh the hills; but out of present sight of them.
I was not lost; for road-side golden-rods, as guide-posts, pointed, I
doubted not, the way to the golden window. Following them, I came to a
lone and languid region, where the grass-grown ways were traveled but by
drowsy cattle, that, less waked than stirred by day, seemed to walk in
sleep. Browse, they did not--the enchanted never eat. At least, so says
Don Quixote, that sagest sage that ever lived.

On I went, and gained at last the fairy mountain's base, but saw yet no
fairy ring. A pasture rose before me. Letting down five mouldering
bars--so moistly green, they seemed fished up from some sunken wreck--a
wigged old Aries, long-visaged, and with crumpled horn, came snuffing
up; and then, retreating, decorously led on along a milky-way of
white-weed, past dim-clustering Pleiades and Hyades, of small
forget-me-nots; and would have led me further still his astral path, but
for golden flights of yellow-birds--pilots, surely, to the golden
window, to one side flying before me, from bush to bush, towards deep
woods--which woods themselves were luring--and, somehow, lured, too, by
their fence, banning a dark road, which, however dark, led up. I pushed
through; when Aries, renouncing me now for some lost soul, wheeled, and
went his wiser way.. Forbidding and forbidden ground--to him.

A winter wood road, matted all along with winter-green. By the side of
pebbly waters--waters the cheerier for their solitude; beneath swaying
fir-boughs, petted by no season, but still green in all, on I
journeyed--my horse and I; on, by an old saw-mill, bound down and hushed
with vines, that his grating voice no more was heard; on, by a deep
flume clove through snowy marble, vernal-tinted, where freshet eddies
had, on each side, spun out empty chapels in the living rock; on, where
Jacks-in-the-pulpit, like their Baptist namesake, preached but to the
wilderness; on, where a huge, cross-grain block, fern-bedded, showed
where, in forgotten times, man after man had tried to split it, but lost
his wedges for his pains--which wedges yet rusted in their holes; on,
where, ages past, in step-like ledges of a cascade, skull-hollow pots
had been churned out by ceaseless whirling of a flintstone--ever
wearing, but itself unworn; on, by wild rapids pouring into a secret
pool, but soothed by circling there awhile, issued forth serenely; on,
to less broken ground, and by a little ring, where, truly, fairies must
have danced, or else some wheel-tire been heated--for all was bare;
still on, and up, and out into a hanging orchard, where maidenly looked
down upon me a crescent moon, from morning.

My horse hitched low his head. Red apples rolled before him; Eve's
apples; seek-no-furthers. He tasted one, I another; it tasted of the
ground. Fairy land not yet, thought I, flinging my bridle to a humped
old tree, that crooked out an arm to catch it. For the way now lay where
path was none, and none might go but by himself, and only go by daring.
Through blackberry brakes that tried to pluck me back, though I but
strained towards fruitless growths of mountain-laurel; up slippery
steeps to barren heights, where stood none to welcome. Fairy land not
yet, thought I, though the morning is here before me.

Foot-sore enough and weary, I gained not then my journey's end, but came
ere long to a craggy pass, dipping towards growing regions still beyond.
A zigzag road, half overgrown with blueberry bushes, here turned among
the cliffs. A rent was in their ragged sides; through it a little track
branched off, which, upwards threading that short defile, came breezily
out above, to where the mountain-top, part sheltered northward, by a
taller brother, sloped gently off a space, ere darkly plunging; and
here, among fantastic rocks, reposing in a herd, the foot-track wound,
half beaten, up to a little, low-storied, grayish cottage, capped,
nun-like, with a peaked roof.

On one slope, the roof was deeply weather-stained, and, nigh the turfy
eaves-trough, all velvet-napped; no doubt the snail-monks founded mossy
priories there. The other slope was newly shingled. On the north side,
doorless and windowless, the clap-boards, innocent of paint, were yet
green as the north side of lichened pines or copperless hulls of
Japanese junks, becalmed. The whole base, like those of the neighboring
rocks, was rimmed about with shaded streaks of richest sod; for, with
hearth-stones in fairy land, the natural rock, though housed, preserves
to the last, just as in open fields, its fertilizing charm; only, by
necessity, working now at a remove, to the sward without. So, at least,
says Oberon, grave authority in fairy lore. Though setting Oberon aside,
certain it is, that, even in the common world, the soil, close up to
farm-houses, as close up to pasture rocks, is, even though untended,
ever richer than it is a few rods off--such gentle, nurturing heat is
radiated there.

But with this cottage, the shaded streaks were richest in its front and
about its entrance, where the ground-sill, and especially the doorsill
had, through long eld, quietly settled down.

No fence was seen, no inclosure. Near by--ferns, ferns, ferns;
further--woods, woods, woods; beyond--mountains, mountains, mountains;
then--sky, sky, sky. Turned out in aerial commons, pasture for the
mountain moon. Nature, and but nature, house and, all; even a low
cross-pile of silver birch, piled openly, to season; up among whose
silvery sticks, as through the fencing of some sequestered grave, sprang
vagrant raspberry bushes--willful assertors of their right of way.

The foot-track, so dainty narrow, just like a sheep-track, led through
long ferns that lodged. Fairy land at last, thought I; Una and her lamb
dwell here. Truly, a small abode--mere palanquin, set down on the
summit, in a pass between two worlds, participant of neither.

A sultry hour, and I wore a light hat, of yellow sinnet, with white duck
trowsers--both relics of my tropic sea-going. Clogged in the muffling
ferns, I softly stumbled, staining the knees a sea-green.

Pausing at the threshold, or rather where threshold once had been, I
saw, through the open door-way, a lonely girl, sewing at a lonely
window. A pale-cheeked girl, and fly-specked window, with wasps about
the mended upper panes. I spoke. She shyly started, like some Tahiti
girl, secreted for a sacrifice, first catching sight, through palms, of
Captain Cook. Recovering, she bade me enter; with her apron brushed off
a stool; then silently resumed her own. With thanks I took the stool;
but now, for a space, I, too, was mute. This, then, is the
fairy-mountain house, and here, the fairy queen sitting at her fairy
window.

I went up to it. Downwards, directed by the tunneled pass, as through a
leveled telescope, I caught sight of a far-off, soft, azure world. I
hardly knew it, though I came from it.

"You must find this view very pleasant," said I, at last.

"Oh, sir," tears starting in her eyes, "the first time I looked out of
this window, I said 'never, never shall I weary of this.'"

"And what wearies you of it now?"

"I don't know," while a tear fell; "but it is not the view, it is
Marianna."

Some months back, her brother, only seventeen, had come hither, a long
way from the other side, to cut wood and burn coal, and she, elder
sister, had accompanied, him. Long had they been orphans, and now, sole
inhabitants of the sole house upon the mountain. No guest came, no
traveler passed. The zigzag, perilous road was only used at seasons by
the coal wagons. The brother was absent the entire day, sometimes the
entire night. When at evening, fagged out, he did come home, he soon
left his bench, poor fellow, for his bed; just as one, at last, wearily
quits that, too, for still deeper rest. The bench, the bed, the grave.

Silent I stood by the fairy window, while these things were being told.

"Do you know," said she at last, as stealing from her story, "do you
know who lives yonder?--I have never been down into that country--away
off there, I mean; that house, that marble one," pointing far across the
lower landscape; "have you not caught it? there, on the long hill-side:
the field before, the woods behind; the white shines out against their
blue; don't you mark it? the only house in sight."

I looked; and after a time, to my surprise, recognized, more by its
position than its aspect, or Marianna's description, my own abode,
glimmering much like this mountain one from the piazza. The mirage haze
made it appear less a farm-house than King Charming's palace.

"I have often wondered who lives there; but it must be some happy one;
again this morning was I thinking so."

"Some happy one," returned I, starting; "and why do you think that? You
judge some rich one lives there?"

"Rich or not, I never thought; but it looks so happy, I can't tell how;
and it is so far away. Sometimes I think I do but dream it is there.
You should see it in a sunset."

"No doubt the sunset gilds it finely; but not more than the sunrise does
this house, perhaps."

"This house? The sun is a good sun, but it never gilds this house. Why
should it? This old house is rotting. That makes it so mossy. In the
morning, the sun comes in at this old window, to be sure--boarded up,
when first we came; a window I can't keep clean, do what I may--and half
burns, and nearly blinds me at my sewing, besides setting the flies and
wasps astir--such flies and wasps as only lone mountain houses know.
See, here is the curtain--this apron--I try to shut it out with then. It
fades it, you see. Sun gild this house? not that ever Marianna saw."

"Because when this roof is gilded most, then you stay here within."

"The hottest, weariest hour of day, you mean? Sir, the sun gilds not
this roof. It leaked so, brother newly shingled all one side. Did you
not see it? The north side, where the sun strikes most on what the rain
has wetted. The sun is a good sun; but this roof, in first scorches,
and then rots. An old house. They went West, and are long dead, they
say, who built it. A mountain house. In winter no fox could den in it.
That chimney-place has been blocked up with snow, just like a hollow
stump."

"Yours are strange fancies, Marianna."

"They but reflect the things."

"Then I should have said, 'These are strange things,' rather than,
'Yours are strange fancies.'"

"As you will;" and took up her sewing.

Something in those quiet words, or in that quiet act, it made me mute
again; while, noting, through the fairy window, a broad shadow stealing
on, as cast by some gigantic condor, floating at brooding poise on
outstretched wings, I marked how, by its deeper and inclusive dusk, it
wiped away into itself all lesser shades of rock or fern.

"You watch the cloud," said Marianna.

"No, a shadow; a cloud's, no doubt--though that I cannot see. How did
you know it? Your eyes are on your work."

"It dusked my work. There, now the cloud is gone, Tray comes back."

"How?"

"The dog, the shaggy dog. At noon, he steals off, of himself, to change
his shape--returns, and lies down awhile, nigh the door. Don't you see
him? His head is turned round at you; though, when you came, he looked
before him."

"Your eyes rest but on your work; what do you speak of?"

"By the window, crossing."

"You mean this shaggy shadow--the nigh one? And, yes, now that I mark
it, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invading
shadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it."

"For that, you must go without."

"One of those grassy rocks, no doubt."

"You see his head, his face?"

"The shadow's? You speak as if _you_ saw it, and all the time your eyes
are on your work."

"Tray looks at you," still without glancing up; "this is his hour; I see
him."

"Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but clouds
and, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speak
of them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like a
second sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where they
are, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come and
go; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who,
though out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces--is it
so?"

"That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used to
soothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was taken
from me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a birch.
The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw the
cross-pile out-doors--the buried root lies under it; but not the shadow.
That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again."

Another cloud here stole along, once more blotting out the dog, and
blackening all the mountain; while the stillness was so still, deafness
might have forgot itself, or else believed that noiseless shadow spoke.

"Birds, Marianna, singing-birds, I hear none; I hear nothing. Boys and
bob-o-links, do they never come a-berrying up here?"

"Birds, I seldom hear; boys, never. The berries mostly ripe and
fall--few, but me, the wiser."

"But yellow-birds showed me the way--part way, at least."

"And then flew back. I guess they play about the mountain-side, but
don't make the top their home. And no doubt you think that, living so
lonesome here, knowing nothing, hearing nothing--little, at least, but
sound of thunder and the fall of trees--never reading, seldom speaking,
yet ever wakeful, this is what gives me my strange thoughts--for so you
call them--this weariness and wakefulness together Brother, who stands
and works in open air, would I could rest like him; but mine is mostly
but dull woman's work--sitting, sitting, restless sitting."

"But, do you not go walk at times? These woods are wide."

"And lonesome; lonesome, because so wide. Sometimes, 'tis true, of
afternoons, I go a little way; but soon come back again. Better feel
lone by hearth, than rock. The shadows hereabouts I know--those in the
woods are strangers."

"But the night?"

"Just like the day. Thinking, thinking--a wheel I cannot stop; pure want
of sleep it is that turns it."

"I have heard that, for this wakeful weariness, to say one's prayers,
and then lay one's head upon a fresh hop pillow--"

"Look!"

Through the fairy window, she pointed down the steep to a small garden
patch near by--mere pot of rifled loam, half rounded in by sheltering
rocks--where, side by side, some feet apart, nipped and puny, two
hop-vines climbed two poles, and, gaining their tip-ends, would have
then joined over in an upward clasp, but the baffled shoots, groping
awhile in empty air, trailed back whence they sprung.

"You have tried the pillow, then?"

"Yes."

"And prayer?"

"Prayer and pillow."

"Is there no other cure, or charm?"

"Oh, if I could but once get to yonder house, and but look upon whoever
the happy being is that lives there! A foolish thought: why do I think
it? Is it that I live so lonesome, and know nothing?"

"I, too, know nothing; and, therefore, cannot answer; but, for your
sake, Marianna, well could wish that I were that happy one of the happy
house you dream you see; for then you would behold him now, and, as you
say, this weariness might leave you."

--Enough. Launching my yawl no more for fairy-land, I stick to the
piazza. It is my box-royal; and this amphitheatre, my theatre of San
Carlo. Yes, the scenery is magical--the illusion so complete. And Madam
Meadow Lark, my prima donna, plays her grand engagement here; and,
drinking in her sunrise note, which, Memnon-like, seems struck from the
golden window, how far from me the weary face behind it.

But, every night, when the curtain falls, truth comes in with darkness.
No light shows from the mountain. To and fro I walk the piazza deck,
haunted by Marianna's face, and many as real a story.




BARTLEBY.


I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations, for the last
thirty years, has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what
would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom, as
yet, nothing, that I know of, has ever been written--I mean, the
law-copyists, or scriveners. I have known very many of them,
professionally and privately, and, if I pleased, could relate divers
histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental
souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners,
for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener, the
strangest I ever saw, or heard of. While, of other law-copyists, I might
write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I
believe that no materials exist, for a full and satisfactory biography
of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one
of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the
original sources, and, in his case, those are very small. What my own
astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, _that_ is all I know of him, except,
indeed, one vague report, which will appear in the sequel.

Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I
make some mention of myself, my _employés_, my business, my chambers,
and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable
to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be
presented. Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been
filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the
best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and
nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I
ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers
who never addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause;
but, in the cool tranquillity of a snug retreat, do a snug business
among rich men's bonds, and mortgages, and title-deeds. All who know me,
consider me an eminently _safe_ man. The late John Jacob Astor, a
personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in
pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do
not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not
unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which,
I admit, I love to repeat; for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to
it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not
insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good opinion.

Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my
avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct
in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred
upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly
remunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in
dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but, I must be permitted
to be rash here, and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent
abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution,
as a ---- premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of
the profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But
this is by the way.

My chambers were up stairs, at No. ---- Wall street. At one end, they
looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious skylight shaft,
penetrating the building from top to bottom.

This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise,
deficient in what landscape painters call "life." But, if so, the view
from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if
nothing more. In that direction, my windows commanded an unobstructed
view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which
wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but, for
the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten
feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding
buildings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval
between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.

At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy.
First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names,
the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth, they
were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks,
and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or characters.
Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman, of about my own age--that is,
somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face
was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock, meridian--his dinner
hour--it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued
blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual wane--till six o'clock, P.M.,
or thereabouts; after which, I saw no more of the proprietor of the
face, which, gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it,
to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like
regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences
I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the
fact, that, exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red
and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical moment, began
the daily period when I considered his business capacities as seriously
disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was
absolutely idle, or averse to business, then; far from it. The
difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a
strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him.
He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his
blots upon my documents were dropped there after twelve o'clock,
meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless, and sadly given to
making blots in the afternoon, but, some days, he went further, and was
rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with augmented
blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an
unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his
pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor
in a sudden passion; stood up, and leaned over his table, boxing his
papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an
elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most
valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o'clock,
meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature, too, accomplishing a
great deal of work in a style not easily to be matched--for these
reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccentricities, though, indeed,
occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however,
because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of
men in the morning, yet, in the afternoon, he was disposed, upon
provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue--in fact, insolent.
Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose
them--yet, at the same time, made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways
after twelve o'clock--and being a man of peace, unwilling by my
admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him, I took upon me, one
Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays) to hint to him, very
kindly, that, perhaps, now that he was growing old, it might be well to
abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after
twelve o'clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his lodgings, and
rest himself till tea-time. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon
devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as he
oratorically assured me--gesticulating with a long ruler at the other
end of the room--that if his services in the morning were useful, how
indispensable, then, in the afternoon?

"With submission, sir," said Turkey, on this occasion, "I consider
myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my
columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly
charge the foe, thus"--and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.

"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.

"True; but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old.
Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely
urged against gray hairs. Old age--even if it blot the page--is
honorable. With submission, sir, we _both_ are getting old."

This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all
events, I saw that go he would not. So, I made up my mind to let him
stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it that, during the afternoon,
he had to do with my less important papers.

Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the
whole, rather piratical-looking young man, of about five and twenty. I
always deemed him the victim of two evil powers--ambition and
indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the
duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly
professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal
documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous
testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind
together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions,
hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a
continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked.
Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this
table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits
of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite
adjustment, by final pieces of folded blotting-paper. But no invention
would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table
lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote, there like a
man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk, then he declared
that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table
to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore
aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew
not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a
scrivener's table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased
ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain
ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his clients.
Indeed, I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a
ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the
Justices' courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have
good reason to believe, however, that one individual who called upon him
at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his client,
was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a bill. But, with
all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers, like his
compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat, swift
hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of
deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of
way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas,
with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him from being a reproach
to me. His clothes were apt to look oily, and smell of eating-houses. He
wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were
execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of
indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a
dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the moment he entered
the room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I
reasoned with him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a
man with so small an income could not afford to sport such a lustrous
face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once
observed, Turkey's money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day, I
presented Turkey with a highly respectable-looking coat of my own--a
padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned
straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate
the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons.
But no; I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and
blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him--upon the same
principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a
rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat.
It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.

Though, concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey, I had my own
private surmises, yet, touching Nippers, I was well persuaded that,
whatever might be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a
temperate young man. But, indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his
vintner, and, at his birth, charged him so thoroughly with an irritable,
brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless.
When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would
sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table,
spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk
it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a
perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him, I plainly
perceive that, for Nippers, brandy-and-water were altogether
superfluous.

It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar
cause--indigestion--the irritability and consequent nervousness of
Nippers were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he
was comparatively mild. So that, Turkey's paroxysms only coming on about
twelve o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one time.
Their fits relieved each other, like guards. When Nippers's was on,
Turkey's was off; and _vice versa_. This was a good natural arrangement,
under the circumstances.

Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad, some twelve years old. His,
father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of
a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office, as student at law,
errand-boy, cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He
had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon
inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various
sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth, the whole noble
science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the
employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the
most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and
Nippers. Copying law-papers being proverbially a dry, husky sort of
business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often
with Spitzenbergs, to be had at the numerous stalls nigh the Custom
House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very frequently for
that peculiar cake--small, flat, round, and very spicy--after which he
had been named by them. Of a cold morning, when business was but dull,
Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if they were mere
wafers--indeed, they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a
penny--the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp
particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried
rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his
lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage, for a seal. I came within an
ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental
bow, and saying--

"With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery
on my own account."

Now my original business--that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and
drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts--was considerably
increased by receiving the master's office. There was now great work for
scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must
have additional help.

In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood
upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can
see that figure now--pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably
forlorn! It was Bartleby.

After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect,
which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of
Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.

I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my
premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the
other by myself. According to my humor, I threw open these doors, or
closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the
folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man
within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed
his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a
window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy
backyards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections,
commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within
three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far
above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a
dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high
green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my
sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner,
privacy and society were conjoined.

At first, Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my
documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night
line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite
delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But
he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to
verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or
more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this
examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original.
It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily
imagine that, to some sanguine temperaments, it would be altogether
intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet,
Byron, would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law
document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.

Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist
in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for
this purpose. One object I had, in placing Bartleby so handy to me
behind the screen, was, to avail myself of his services on such trivial
occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and
before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined,
that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I
abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of
instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my
desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with
the copy, so that, immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby
might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.

In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating
what it was I wanted him to do--namely, to examine a small paper with
me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when, without moving
from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied,
"I would prefer not to."

I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties.
Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby
had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the
clearest tone I could assume; but in quite as clear a one came the
previous reply, "I would prefer not to."

"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the
room with a stride. "What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you
to help me compare this sheet here--take it," and I thrust it towards
him.

"I would prefer not to," said he.

I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye
dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the
least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in
other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him,
doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But
as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale
plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him
awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at
my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my
business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present,
reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other
room, the paper was speedily examined.

A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being
quadruplicates of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of
Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit,
and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged, I called
Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut, from the next room, meaning to place the
four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the
original. Accordingly, Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut had taken their
seats in a row, each with his document in his hand, when I called to
Bartleby to join this interesting group.

"Bartleby! quick, I am waiting."

I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and
soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage.

"What is wanted?" said he, mildly.

"The copies, the copies," said I, hurriedly. "We are going to examine
them. There"--and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.

"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the
screen.

For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the
head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced
towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary
conduct.

"_Why_ do you refuse?"

"I would prefer not to."

With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion,
scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my
presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely
disarmed me, but, in a wonderful manner, touched and disconcerted me. I
began to reason with him.

"These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving
to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is
common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not
so? Will you not speak? Answer!"

"I prefer not to," he replied in a flutelike tone. It seemed to me that,
while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement
that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the
irresistible conclusion; but, at the same time, some paramount
consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did.

"You are decided, then, not to comply with my request--a request made
according to common usage and common sense?"

He briefly gave me to understand, that on that point my judgment was
sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible.

It is not seldom the case that, when a man is browbeaten in some
unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in
his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that,
wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the
other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he
turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind.

"Turkey," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"

"With submission, sir," said Turkey, in his blandest tone, "I think that
you are."

"Nippers," said I, "what do _you_ think of it?"

"I think I should kick him out of the office."

(The reader, of nice perceptions, will here perceive that, it being
morning, Turkey's answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but
Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence,
Nippers's ugly mood was on duty, and Turkey's off.)

"Ginger Nut," said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my
behalf, "what do _you_ think of it?"

"I think, sir, he's a little _luny_," replied Ginger Nut, with a grin.

"You hear what they say," said I, turning towards the screen, "come
forth and do your duty."

But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But
once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the
consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little
trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at
every page or two Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion, that this
proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his
chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out, between his set teeth,
occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the
screen. And for his (Nippers's) part, this was the first and the last
time he would do another man's business without pay.

Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to everything but his
own peculiar business there.

Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy
work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I
observed that he never went to dinner; indeed, that he never went
anywhere. As yet I had never, of my personal knowledge, known him to be
outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about
eleven o'clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would
advance toward the opening in Bartleby's screen, as if silently beckoned
thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy would then
leave the office, jingling a few pence, and reappear with a handful of
ginger-nuts, which he delivered in the hermitage, receiving two of the
cakes for his trouble.

He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly
speaking; he must be a vegetarian, then; but no; he never eats even
vegetables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in
reveries concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution of
living entirely on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called, because they
contain ginger as one of their peculiar constituents, and the final
flavoring one. Now, what was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was Bartleby
hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby.
Probably, he preferred it should have none.

Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the
individual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resisting
one perfectly harmless in his passivity, then, in the better moods of
the former, he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination
what proves impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the
most part, I regarded Bartleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he
means no mischief; it is plain he intends no insolence; his aspect
sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. He is
useful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him away, the chances
are he will fall in with some less-indulgent employer, and then he will
be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes.
Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend
Bartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little
or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet
morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable, with me. The
passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely goaded
on to encounter him in new opposition--to elicit some angry spark from
him answerable to my own. But, indeed, I might as well have essayed to
strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. But one
afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little
scene ensued:

"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers are all copied, I will compare
them with you."

"I would prefer not to."

"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?"

No answer.

I threw open the folding-doors near by, and, turning upon Turkey and
Nippers, exclaimed:

"Bartleby a second time says, he won't examine his papers. What do you
think of it, Turkey?"

It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass
boiler; his bald head steaming; his hands reeling among his blotted
papers.

"Think of it?" roared Turkey; "I think I'll just step behind his screen,
and black his eyes for him!"

So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic
position. He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I detained
him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey's
combativeness after dinner.

"Sit down, Turkey," said I, "and hear what Nippers has to say. What do
you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately
dismissing Bartleby?"

"Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite
unusual, and, indeed, unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may
only be a passing whim."

"Ah," exclaimed I, "you have strangely changed your mind, then--you
speak very gently of him now."

"All beer," cried Turkey; "gentleness is effects of beer--Nippers and I
dined together to-day. You see how gentle _I_ am, sir. Shall I go and
black his eyes?"

"You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied;
"pray, put up your fists."

I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt
additional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled
against again. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.

"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step around to the Post
Office, won't you? (it was but a three minutes' walk), and see if there
is anything for me."

"I would prefer not to."

"You _will_ not?"

"I _prefer_ not."

I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind
inveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure
myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?--my
hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he
will be sure to refuse to do?

"Bartleby!"

No answer.

"Bartleby," in a louder tone.

No answer.

"Bartleby," I roared.

Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the
third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

"Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me."

"I prefer not to," he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly
disappeared.

"Very good, Bartleby," said I, in a quiet sort of serenely-severe
self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible
retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something
of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my
dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the
day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.

Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that
it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener,
by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the
usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was
permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being
transferred to Turkey and Nippers, out of compliment, doubtless, to
their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never, on any
account, to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and
that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally
understood that he would "prefer not to"--in other words, that he would
refuse point-blank.

As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His
steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry
(except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his
screen), his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all
circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was
this--_he was always there_--first in the morning, continually through
the day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his
honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands.
Sometimes, to be sure, I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid
falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding
difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities,
privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on
Bartleby's part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in
the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently
summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the
incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing
some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, "I
prefer not to," was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature,
with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly
exclaiming upon such perverseness--such unreasonableness. However, every
added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the
probability of my repeating the inadvertence.

Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal
gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there
were several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the
attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my
apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I
sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a
celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground I
thought I would walk round to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my
key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by
something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when
to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean
visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby
appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered
deshabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged
just then, and--preferred not admitting me at present. In a brief word
or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round the
block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have
concluded his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my
law-chambers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly
_nonchalance_, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange
effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and
did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion
against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it
was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but
unmanned me as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a sort
of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate to
him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was full
of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my office
in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a
Sunday morning. Was anything amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the
question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was an
immoral person. But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay again,
whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous
person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state
approaching to nudity. Besides, it was Sunday; and there was something
about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he would by any secular
occupation violate the proprieties of the day.

Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless
curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted
my key, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked
round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he
was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an
indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my
office, and that, too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat
of a ricketty old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean,
reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under the
empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with
soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and
a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby
has been making his home here, keeping bachelor's hall all by himself.
Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, what miserable
friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great;
but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is
deserted as Petra; and every night of every day it is an emptiness. This
building, too, which of week-days hums with industry and life, at
nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday is forlorn.
And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator, of a solitude which he
has seen all populous--a sort of innocent and transformed Marius
brooding among the ruins of Carthage!

For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging
melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not
unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me
irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby
were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I
had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi
of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought
to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay;
but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad
fancyings--chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain--led on to
other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of
Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The
scriveners pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers,
in its shivering winding sheet.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open
sight left in the lock.

I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity,
thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents, too, so I will
make bold to look within. Everything was methodically arranged, the
papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the
files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt
something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna
handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings'
bank.

I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I
remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that, though at intervals
he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him
reading--no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand
looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick
wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house;
while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like
Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went
anywhere in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk,
unless, indeed, that was the case at present; that he had declined
telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives
in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill
health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of
pallid--how shall I call it?--of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an
austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame
compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do
the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from
his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be
standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.

Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently
discovered fact, that he made my office his constant abiding place and
home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these
things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions
had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in
proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my
imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into
repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible, too, that up to a certain
point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but,
in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who
would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness
of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of
remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not
seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot
lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul be rid of it. What
I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of
innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his
body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I
could not reach.

I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that
morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time
from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with
Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this--I would put certain calm
questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he
declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would
prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above
whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer
required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be
happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place,
wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses.
Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want
of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.

The next morning came.

"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.

No reply.

"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going
to ask you to do anything you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to
speak to you."

Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.

"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?"

"I would prefer not to."

"Will you tell me _anything_ about yourself?"

"I would prefer not to."

"But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel
friendly towards you."

He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my
bust of Cicero, which, as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six
inches above my head.

"What is your answer, Bartleby," said I, after waiting a considerable
time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only
there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.

"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired into his
hermitage.

It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner, on this occasion,
nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm
disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the
undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me.

Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his
behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my
office, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking
at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing
me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this
forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his
screen, I sat down and said: "Bartleby, never mind, then, about
revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply
as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now, you will help
to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now, that in a
day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:--say so, Bartleby."

"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable," was his
mildly cadaverous reply.

Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed
suffering from an unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer
indigestion than common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.

"_Prefer not_, eh?" gritted Nippers--"I'd _prefer_ him, if I were you,
sir," addressing me--"I'd _prefer_ him; I'd give him preferences, the
stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he _prefers_ not to do now?"

Bartleby moved not a limb.

"Mr. Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the
present."

Somehow, of late, I had got into the way of involuntarily using this
word "prefer" upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I
trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and
seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper
aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been
without efficacy in determining me to summary measures.

As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly
and deferentially approached.

"With submission, sir," said he, "yesterday I was thinking about
Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart
of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and
enabling him to assist in examining his papers."

"So you have got the word, too," said I, slightly excited.

"With submission, what word, sir," asked Turkey, respectfully crowding
himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing,
making me jostle the scrivener. "What word, sir?"

"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended at
being mobbed in his privacy.

"_That's_ the word, Turkey," said I--"_that's_ it."

"Oh, _prefer_? oh yes--queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as
I was saying, if he would but prefer--"

"Turkey," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw."

"Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should."

As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a
glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper
copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent
the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his
tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man,
who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of
myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission
at once.

The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window
in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said
that he had decided upon doing no more writing.

"Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"

"No more."

"And what is the reason?"

"Do you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied.

I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and
glazed. Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in
copying by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with me
might have temporarily impared his vision.

I was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hinted that of
course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; and urged
him to embrace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in the open
air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other
clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain
letters by the mail, I thought that, having nothing else earthly to do,
Bartleby would surely be less inflexible than usual, and carry these
letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So, much to my
inconvenience, I went myself.

Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby's eyes improved or not, I
could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked
him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no
copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had
permanently given up copying.

"What!" exclaimed I; "suppose your eyes should get entirely well--better
than ever before--would you not copy then?"

"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid aside.

He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay--if that were
possible--he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be
done? He would do nothing in the office; why should he stay there? In
plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a
necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less
than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me
uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I
would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow
away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone
in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length,
necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other
considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days
time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take
measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to
assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step
towards a removal. "And when you finally quit me, Bartleby," added I, "I
shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this
hour, remember."

At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!
Bartleby was there.

I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him,
touched his shoulder, and said, "The time has come; you must quit this
place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go."

"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.

"You _must_."

He remained silent.

Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man's common honesty. He had
frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped
upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button
affairs. The proceeding, then, which followed will not be deemed
extraordinary.

"Bartleby," said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are
thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours--Will you take it?" and I handed
the bills towards him.

But he made no motion.

"I will leave them here, then," putting them under a weight on the
table. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door, I tranquilly
turned and added--"After you have removed your things from these
offices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door--since every one is
now gone for the day but you--and if you please, slip your key
underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not
see you again; so good-by to you. If, hereafter, in your new place of
abode, I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by
letter. Good-by, Bartleby, and fare you well."

But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,
he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise
deserted room.

As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity.
I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting
rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any
dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in
its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any
sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the
apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself
off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding
Bartleby depart--as an inferior genius might have done--I _assumed_ the
ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to
say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with
it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts--I had
somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest
hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure
seemed as sagacious as ever--but only in theory. How it would prove in
practice--there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have
assumed Bartleby's departure; but, after all, that assumption was
simply my own, and none of Bartleby's. The great point was, not whether
I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to
do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.

After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_ and
_con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and
Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment
it seemed certain that I should find his chair empty. And so I kept
veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal street, I saw quite
an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.

"I'll take odds he doesn't," said a voice as I passed.

"Doesn't go?--done!" said I, "put up your money."

I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when
I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard
bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some
candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it
were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were
debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the
uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness.

As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood
listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the
knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he
indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was
almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat
for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when
accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning
sound, and in response a voice came to me from within--"Not yet; I am
occupied."

It was Bartleby.

I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in
mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by
summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and
remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till some one
touched him, when he fell.

"Not gone!" I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous
ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which
ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly
went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the
block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity.
Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away
by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an
unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph
over me--this, too, I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if
nothing could be done, was there anything further that I could _assume_
in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby
would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he
was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my
office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk
straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a
singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly
possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the
doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the
plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him
again.

"Bartleby," said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe
expression, "I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had
thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly
organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would
suffice--in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why," I
added, unaffectedly starting, "you have not even touched that money
yet," pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.

He answered nothing.

"Will you, or will you not, quit me?" I now demanded in a sudden
passion, advancing close to him.

"I would prefer _not_ to quit you," he replied gently emphasizing the
_not_.

"What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you
pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?"

He answered nothing.

"Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could
you copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines?
or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do anything at
all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?"

He silently retired into his hermitage.

I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but
prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby
and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and
the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter;
and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently
permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into
his fatal act--an act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more
than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings
upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public
street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it
did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up
stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic
associations--an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort
of appearance--this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance
the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.

But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me
concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by
recalling the divine injunction: "A new commandment give I unto you,
that ye love one another." Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from
higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and
prudent principle--a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have
committed murder for jealousy's sake, and anger's sake, and hatred's
sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual pride's sake; but no man,
that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet
charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be
enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings
to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question,
I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by
benevolently construing his conduct.--Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought
I, he don't mean anything; and besides, he has seen hard times, and
ought to be indulged.

I endeavored, also, immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time
to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy, that in the course of the
morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Bartleby, of his
own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage and take up some
decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past
twelve o'clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his
inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into
quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby
remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall
reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon
I left the office without saying one further word to him.

Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a
little into "Edwards on the Will," and "Priestley on Necessity." Under
the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I
slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine, touching the
scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was
billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an allwise Providence,
which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby,
stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more;
you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I
never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I
feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am
content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this
world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as
you may see fit to remain.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks
obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But
thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears
out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure,
when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my
office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable
Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations
concerning him. Sometimes an attorney, having business with me, and
calling at my office, and finding no one but the scrivener there, would
undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching
my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain
standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him
in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he
came.

Also, when a reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and
witnesses, and business driving fast, some deeply-occupied legal
gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him
to run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some
papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet
remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and
turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all
through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder
was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my
office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his
possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers,
and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing
my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the
premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings
(for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps
outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual
occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and
more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon
the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved
to gather all my faculties together, and forever rid me of this
intolerable incubus.

Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I
first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent
departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commanded the idea to his
careful and mature consideration. But, having taken three days to
meditate upon it, he apprised me, that his original determination
remained the same; in short, that he still preferred to abide with me.

What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last
button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I
_should_ do with this man, or, rather, ghost. Rid myself of him, I must;
go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive
mortal--you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door?
you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot
do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his
remains in the wall. What, then, will you do? For all your coaxing, he
will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paper-weight on your
table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you.

Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you
will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent
pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a
thing to be done?--a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who
refuses to budge? It is because he will _not_ be a vagrant, then, that
you seek to count him _as_ a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible
means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he
_does_ support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any
man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more, then. Since
he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will
move elsewhere, and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new
premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser.

Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: "I find these
chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word,
I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require
your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another
place."

He made no reply, and nothing more was said.

On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,
and, having but little furniture, everything was removed in a few hours.
Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I
directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and, being
folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked
room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from
within me upbraided me.

I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket--and--and my heart in my mouth.

"Good-by, Bartleby; I am going--good-by, and God some way bless you; and
take that," slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the
floor, and then--strange to say--I tore myself from him whom I had so
longed to be rid of.

Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked,
and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my
rooms, after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an
instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears
were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me.

I thought all was going well, when a perturbed-looking stranger visited
me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms
at No. ---- Wall street.

Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.

"Then, sir," said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, "you are
responsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he
refuses to do anything; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to
quit the premises."

"I am very sorry, sir," said I, with assumed tranquillity, but an inward
tremor, "but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me--he is no
relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for
him."

"In mercy's name, who is he?"

"I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I
employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some
time past."

"I shall settle him, then--good morning, sir."

Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and, though I often felt
a charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a
certain squeamishness, of I know not what, withheld me.

All is over with him, by this time, thought I, at last, when, through
another week, no further intelligence reached me. But, coming to my room
the day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high
state of nervous excitement.

"That's the man--here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom I
recognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.

"You must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person among
them, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No. ----
Wall street. "These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer;
Mr. B----," pointing to the lawyer, "has turned him out of his room,
and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting upon the
banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by night.
Everybody is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some fears are
entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without delay."

Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have
locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was
nothing to me--no more than to any one else. In vain--I was the last
person known to have anything to do with him, and they held me to the
terrible account. Fearful, then, of being exposed in the papers (as one
person present obscurely threatened), I considered the matter, and, at
length, said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview
with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer's) own room, I would, that
afternoon, strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained
of.

Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting
upon the banister at the landing.

"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.

"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.

I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.

"Bartleby" said I, "are you aware that you are the cause of great
tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being
dismissed from the office?"

No answer.

"Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something, or
something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like
to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?"

"No; I would prefer not to make any change."

"Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?"

"There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a
clerkship; but I am not particular."

"Too much confinement," I cried, "why you keep yourself confined all the
time!"

"I would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settle
that little item at once.

"How would a bar-tender's business suit you? There is no trying of the
eye-sight in that."

"I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not
particular."

His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.

"Well, then, would you like to travel through the country collecting
bills for the merchants? That would improve your health."

"No, I would prefer to be doing something else."

"How, then, would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some
young gentleman with your conversation--how would that suit you?"

"Not at all. It does not strike me that there is anything definite about
that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular."

"Stationary you shall be, then," I cried, now losing all patience, and,
for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him, fairly
flying into a passion. "If you do not go away from these premises
before night, I shall feel bound--indeed, I _am_ bound--to--to--to quit
the premises myself!" I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what
possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance.
Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when
a final thought occurred to me--one which had not been wholly unindulged
before.

"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such
exciting circumstances, "will you go home with me now--not to my office,
but my dwelling--and remain there till we can conclude upon some
convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now,
right away."

"No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all."

I answered nothing; but, effectually dodging every one by the suddenness
and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall street
towards Broadway, and, jumping into the first omnibus, was soon removed
from pursuit. As soon as tranquillity returned, I distinctly perceived
that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the
demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own
desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude
persecution, I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my
conscience justified me in the attempt; though, indeed, it was not so
successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again
hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that,
surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days, I drove about the
upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed
over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to
Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact, I almost lived in my rockaway for
the time.

When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon
the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the
writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as
a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he
wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the
facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was
indignant; but, at last, almost approved. The landlord's energetic,
summary disposition, had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not
think I would have decided upon myself; and yet, as a last resort, under
such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.

As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but, in his
pale, unmoving way, silently acquiesced.

Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent
procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the
roaring thoroughfares at noon.

The same day I received the note, I went to the Tombs, or, to speak more
properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the
purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described
was, indeed, within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a
perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however
unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew and closed by suggesting
the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible,
till something less harsh might be done--though, indeed, I hardly knew
what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the
alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.

Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and,
especially, in the inclosed grass-platted yards thereof. And so I found
him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face
towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail
windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and
thieves.

"Bartleby!"

"I know you," he said, without looking round--"and I want nothing to say
to you."

"It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby," said I, keenly pained at
his implied suspicion. "And to you, this should not be so vile a place.
Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so
sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the
grass."

"I know where I am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I
left him.

As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron,
accosted me, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said--"Is that
your friend?"

"Yes."

"Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,
that's all."

"Who are you?" asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially
speaking person in such a place.

"I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to
provide them with something good to eat."

"Is this so?" said I, turning to the turnkey.

He said it was.

"Well, then," said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man's hands
(for so they called him), "I want you to give particular attention to my
friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be
as polite to him as possible."

"Introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with an
expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to
give a specimen of his breeding.

Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and,
asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.

"Bartleby, this is a friend; you will find him very useful to you."

"Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a low
salutation behind his apron. "Hope you find it pleasant here, sir; nice
grounds--cool apartments--hope you'll stay with us some time--try to
make it agreeable. What will you have for dinner to-day?"

"I prefer not to dine to-day," said Bartleby, turning away. "It would
disagree with me; I am unused to dinners." So saying, he slowly moved to
the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the
dead-wall.

"How's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of
astonishment. "He's odd, ain't he?"

"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.

"Deranged? deranged is it? Well, now, upon my word, I thought that
friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale, and
genteel-like, them forgers. I can't help pity 'em--can't help it, sir.
Did you know Monroe Edwards?" he added, touchingly, and paused. Then,
laying his hand piteously on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of
consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren't acquainted with Monroe?"

"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop
longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see
you again."

Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding
him.

"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be
he's gone to loiter in the yards."

So I went in that direction.

"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey, passing me.
"Yonder he lies--sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes
since I saw him lie down."

The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common
prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all
sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon
me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart
of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic,
through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.

Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying
on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted
Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him;
stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed
profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his
hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my
feet.

The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is ready.
Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?"

"Lives without dining," said I, and closed the eyes.

"Eh!--He's asleep, ain't he?"

"With kings and counselors," murmured I.

       *       *       *       *       *

There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history.
Imagination will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby's
interment. But, ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this
little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as
to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present
narrator's making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such
curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I
hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which
came to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. Upon what
basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I
cannot now tell. But, inasmuch as this vague report has not been without
a certain suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove the same
with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was this:
that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at
Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the
administration. When I think over this rumor, hardly can I express the
emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men?
Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness,
can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of
continually handling these dead letters, and assorting them for the
flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from
out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring--the finger it was
meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest
charity--he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon
for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good
tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands
of life, these letters speed to death.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!




BENITO CERENO.


In the year 1799, Captain Amasa Delano, of Duxbury, in Massachusetts,
commanding a large sealer and general trader, lay at anchor with a
valuable cargo, in the harbor of St. Maria--a small, desert, uninhabited
island toward the southern extremity of the long coast of Chili. There
he had touched for water.

On the second day, not long after dawn, while lying in his berth, his
mate came below, informing him that a strange sail was coming into the
bay. Ships were then not so plenty in those waters as now. He rose,
dressed, and went on deck.

The morning was one peculiar to that coast. Everything was mute and
calm; everything gray. The sea, though undulated into long roods of
swells, seemed fixed, and was sleeked at the surface like waved lead
that has cooled and set in the smelter's mould. The sky seemed a gray
surtout. Flights of troubled gray fowl, kith and kin with flights of
troubled gray vapors among which they were mixed, skimmed low and
fitfully over the waters, as swallows over meadows before storms.
Shadows present, foreshadowing deeper shadows to come.

To Captain Delano's surprise, the stranger, viewed through the glass,
showed no colors; though to do so upon entering a haven, however
uninhabited in its shores, where but a single other ship might be lying,
was the custom among peaceful seamen of all nations. Considering the
lawlessness and loneliness of the spot, and the sort of stories, at that
day, associated with those seas, Captain Delano's surprise might have
deepened into some uneasiness had he not been a person of a singularly
undistrustful good-nature, not liable, except on extraordinary and
repeated incentives, and hardly then, to indulge in personal alarms, any
way involving the imputation of malign evil in man. Whether, in view of
what humanity is capable, such a trait implies, along with a benevolent
heart, more than ordinary quickness and accuracy of intellectual
perception, may be left to the wise to determine.

But whatever misgivings might have obtruded on first seeing the
stranger, would almost, in any seaman's mind, have been dissipated by
observing that, the ship, in navigating into the harbor, was drawing too
near the land; a sunken reef making out off her bow. This seemed to
prove her a stranger, indeed, not only to the sealer, but the island;
consequently, she could be no wonted freebooter on that ocean. With no
small interest, Captain Delano continued to watch her--a proceeding not
much facilitated by the vapors partly mantling the hull, through which
the far matin light from her cabin streamed equivocally enough; much
like the sun--by this time hemisphered on the rim of the horizon, and,
apparently, in company with the strange ship entering the harbor--which,
wimpled by the same low, creeping clouds, showed not unlike a Lima
intriguante's one sinister eye peering across the Plaza from the Indian
loop-hole of her dusk _saya-y-manta._

It might have been but a deception of the vapors, but, the longer the
stranger was watched the more singular appeared her manoeuvres. Ere
long it seemed hard to decide whether she meant to come in or no--what
she wanted, or what she was about. The wind, which had breezed up a
little during the night, was now extremely light and baffling, which the
more increased the apparent uncertainty of her movements. Surmising, at
last, that it might be a ship in distress, Captain Delano ordered his
whale-boat to be dropped, and, much to the wary opposition of his mate,
prepared to board her, and, at the least, pilot her in. On the night
previous, a fishing-party of the seamen had gone a long distance to some
detached rocks out of sight from the sealer, and, an hour or two before
daybreak, had returned, having met with no small success. Presuming that
the stranger might have been long off soundings, the good captain put
several baskets of the fish, for presents, into his boat, and so pulled
away. From her continuing too near the sunken reef, deeming her in
danger, calling to his men, he made all haste to apprise those on board
of their situation. But, some time ere the boat came up, the wind, light
though it was, having shifted, had headed the vessel off, as well as
partly broken the vapors from about her.

Upon gaining a less remote view, the ship, when made signally visible on
the verge of the leaden-hued swells, with the shreds of fog here and
there raggedly furring her, appeared like a white-washed monastery after
a thunder-storm, seen perched upon some dun cliff among the Pyrenees.
But it was no purely fanciful resemblance which now, for a moment,
almost led Captain Delano to think that nothing less than a ship-load of
monks was before him. Peering over the bulwarks were what really seemed,
in the hazy distance, throngs of dark cowls; while, fitfully revealed
through the open port-holes, other dark moving figures were dimly
descried, as of Black Friars pacing the cloisters.

Upon a still nigher approach, this appearance was modified, and the true
character of the vessel was plain--a Spanish merchantman of the first
class, carrying negro slaves, amongst other valuable freight, from one
colonial port to another. A very large, and, in its time, a very fine
vessel, such as in those days were at intervals encountered along that
main; sometimes superseded Acapulco treasure-ships, or retired frigates
of the Spanish king's navy, which, like superannuated Italian palaces,
still, under a decline of masters, preserved signs of former state.

As the whale-boat drew more and more nigh, the cause of the peculiar
pipe-clayed aspect of the stranger was seen in the slovenly neglect
pervading her. The spars, ropes, and great part of the bulwarks, looked
woolly, from long unacquaintance with the scraper, tar, and the brush.
Her keel seemed laid, her ribs put together, and she launched, from
Ezekiel's Valley of Dry Bones.

In the present business in which she was engaged, the ship's general
model and rig appeared to have undergone no material change from their
original warlike and Froissart pattern. However, no guns were seen.

The tops were large, and were railed about with what had once been
octagonal net-work, all now in sad disrepair. These tops hung overhead
like three ruinous aviaries, in one of which was seen, perched, on a
ratlin, a white noddy, a strange fowl, so called from its lethargic,
somnambulistic character, being frequently caught by hand at sea.
Battered and mouldy, the castellated forecastle seemed some ancient
turret, long ago taken by assault, and then left to decay. Toward the
stern, two high-raised quarter galleries--the balustrades here and there
covered with dry, tindery sea-moss--opening out from the unoccupied
state-cabin, whose dead-lights, for all the mild weather, were
hermetically closed and calked--these tenantless balconies hung over the
sea as if it were the grand Venetian canal. But the principal relic of
faded grandeur was the ample oval of the shield-like stern-piece,
intricately carved with the arms of Castile and Leon, medallioned about
by groups of mythological or symbolical devices; uppermost and central
of which was a dark satyr in a mask, holding his foot on the prostrate
neck of a writhing figure, likewise masked.

Whether the ship had a figure-head, or only a plain beak, was not quite
certain, owing to canvas wrapped about that part, either to protect it
while undergoing a re-furbishing, or else decently to hide its decay.
Rudely painted or chalked, as in a sailor freak, along the forward side
of a sort of pedestal below the canvas, was the sentence, "_Seguid
vuestro jefe_" (follow your leader); while upon the tarnished
headboards, near by, appeared, in stately capitals, once gilt, the
ship's name, "SAN DOMINICK," each letter streakingly corroded with
tricklings of copper-spike rust; while, like mourning weeds, dark
festoons of sea-grass slimily swept to and fro over the name, with every
hearse-like roll of the hull.

As, at last, the boat was hooked from the bow along toward the gangway
amidship, its keel, while yet some inches separated from the hull,
harshly grated as on a sunken coral reef. It proved a huge bunch of
conglobated barnacles adhering below the water to the side like a wen--a
token of baffling airs and long calms passed somewhere in those seas.

Climbing the side, the visitor was at once surrounded by a clamorous
throng of whites and blacks, but the latter outnumbering the former more
than could have been expected, negro transportation-ship as the stranger
in port was. But, in one language, and as with one voice, all poured out
a common tale of suffering; in which the negresses, of whom there were
not a few, exceeded the others in their dolorous vehemence. The scurvy,
together with the fever, had swept off a great part of their number,
more especially the Spaniards. Off Cape Horn they had narrowly escaped
shipwreck; then, for days together, they had lain tranced without wind;
their provisions were low; their water next to none; their lips that
moment were baked.

While Captain Delano was thus made the mark of all eager tongues, his
one eager glance took in all faces, with every other object about him.

Always upon first boarding a large and populous ship at sea, especially
a foreign one, with a nondescript crew such as Lascars or Manilla men,
the impression varies in a peculiar way from that produced by first
entering a strange house with strange inmates in a strange land. Both
house and ship--the one by its walls and blinds, the other by its high
bulwarks like ramparts--hoard from view their interiors till the last
moment: but in the case of the ship there is this addition; that the
living spectacle it contains, upon its sudden and complete disclosure,
has, in contrast with the blank ocean which zones it, something of the
effect of enchantment. The ship seems unreal; these strange costumes,
gestures, and faces, but a shadowy tableau just emerged from the deep,
which directly must receive back what it gave.

Perhaps it was some such influence, as above is attempted to be
described, which, in Captain Delano's mind, heightened whatever, upon a
staid scrutiny, might have seemed unusual; especially the conspicuous
figures of four elderly grizzled negroes, their heads like black,
doddered willow tops, who, in venerable contrast to the tumult below
them, were couched, sphynx-like, one on the starboard cat-head, another
on the larboard, and the remaining pair face to face on the opposite
bulwarks above the main-chains. They each had bits of unstranded old
junk in their hands, and, with a sort of stoical self-content, were
picking the junk into oakum, a small heap of which lay by their sides.
They accompanied the task with a continuous, low, monotonous, chant;
droning and drilling away like so many gray-headed bag-pipers playing a
funeral march.

The quarter-deck rose into an ample elevated poop, upon the forward
verge of which, lifted, like the oakum-pickers, some eight feet above
the general throng, sat along in a row, separated by regular spaces, the
cross-legged figures of six other blacks; each with a rusty hatchet in
his hand, which, with a bit of brick and a rag, he was engaged like a
scullion in scouring; while between each two was a small stack of
hatchets, their rusted edges turned forward awaiting a like operation.
Though occasionally the four oakum-pickers would briefly address some
person or persons in the crowd below, yet the six hatchet-polishers
neither spoke to others, nor breathed a whisper among themselves, but
sat intent upon their task, except at intervals, when, with the peculiar
love in negroes of uniting industry with pastime, two and two they
sideways clashed their hatchets together, like cymbals, with a
barbarous din. All six, unlike the generality, had the raw aspect of
unsophisticated Africans.

But that first comprehensive glance which took in those ten figures,
with scores less conspicuous, rested but an instant upon them, as,
impatient of the hubbub of voices, the visitor turned in quest of
whomsoever it might be that commanded the ship.

But as if not unwilling to let nature make known her own case among his
suffering charge, or else in despair of restraining it for the time, the
Spanish captain, a gentlemanly, reserved-looking, and rather young man
to a stranger's eye, dressed with singular richness, but bearing plain
traces of recent sleepless cares and disquietudes, stood passively by,
leaning against the main-mast, at one moment casting a dreary,
spiritless look upon his excited people, at the next an unhappy glance
toward his visitor. By his side stood a black of small stature, in whose
rude face, as occasionally, like a shepherd's dog, he mutely turned it
up into the Spaniard's, sorrow and affection were equally blended.

Struggling through the throng, the American advanced to the Spaniard,
assuring him of his sympathies, and offering to render whatever
assistance might be in his power. To which the Spaniard returned for
the present but grave and ceremonious acknowledgments, his national
formality dusked by the saturnine mood of ill-health.

But losing no time in mere compliments, Captain Delano, returning to the
gangway, had his basket of fish brought up; and as the wind still
continued light, so that some hours at least must elapse ere the ship
could be brought to the anchorage, he bade his men return to the sealer,
and fetch back as much water as the whale-boat could carry, with
whatever soft bread the steward might have, all the remaining pumpkins
on board, with a box of sugar, and a dozen of his private bottles of
cider.

Not many minutes after the boat's pushing off, to the vexation of all,
the wind entirely died away, and the tide turning, began drifting back
the ship helplessly seaward. But trusting this would not long last,
Captain Delano sought, with good hopes, to cheer up the strangers,
feeling no small satisfaction that, with persons in their condition, he
could--thanks to his frequent voyages along the Spanish main--converse
with some freedom in their native tongue.

While left alone with them, he was not long in observing some things
tending to heighten his first impressions; but surprise was lost in
pity, both for the Spaniards and blacks, alike evidently reduced from
scarcity of water and provisions; while long-continued suffering seemed
to have brought out the less good-natured qualities of the negroes,
besides, at the same time, impairing the Spaniard's authority over them.
But, under the circumstances, precisely this condition of things was to
have been anticipated. In armies, navies, cities, or families, in nature
herself, nothing more relaxes good order than misery. Still, Captain
Delano was not without the idea, that had Benito Cereno been a man of
greater energy, misrule would hardly have come to the present pass. But
the debility, constitutional or induced by hardships, bodily and mental,
of the Spanish captain, was too obvious to be overlooked. A prey to
settled dejection, as if long mocked with hope he would not now indulge
it, even when it had ceased to be a mock, the prospect of that day, or
evening at furthest, lying at anchor, with plenty of water for his
people, and a brother captain to counsel and befriend, seemed in no
perceptible degree to encourage him. His mind appeared unstrung, if not
still more seriously affected. Shut up in these oaken walls, chained to
one dull round of command, whose unconditionality cloyed him, like some
hypochondriac abbot he moved slowly about, at times suddenly pausing,
starting, or staring, biting his lip, biting his finger-nail, flushing,
paling, twitching his beard, with other symptoms of an absent or moody
mind. This distempered spirit was lodged, as before hinted, in as
distempered a frame. He was rather tall, but seemed never to have been
robust, and now with nervous suffering was almost worn to a skeleton. A
tendency to some pulmonary complaint appeared to have been lately
confirmed. His voice was like that of one with lungs half gone--hoarsely
suppressed, a husky whisper. No wonder that, as in this state he
tottered about, his private servant apprehensively followed him.
Sometimes the negro gave his master his arm, or took his handkerchief
out of his pocket for him; performing these and similar offices with
that affectionate zeal which transmutes into something filial or
fraternal acts in themselves but menial; and which has gained for the
negro the repute of making the most pleasing body-servant in the world;
one, too, whom a master need be on no stiffly superior terms with, but
may treat with familiar trust; less a servant than a devoted companion.

Marking the noisy indocility of the blacks in general, as well as what
seemed the sullen inefficiency of the whites it was not without humane
satisfaction that Captain Delano witnessed the steady good conduct of
Babo.

But the good conduct of Babo, hardly more than the ill-behavior of
others, seemed to withdraw the half-lunatic Don Benito from his cloudy
languor. Not that such precisely was the impression made by the Spaniard
on the mind of his visitor. The Spaniard's individual unrest was, for
the present, but noted as a conspicuous feature in the ship's general
affliction. Still, Captain Delano was not a little concerned at what he
could not help taking for the time to be Don Benito's unfriendly
indifference towards himself. The Spaniard's manner, too, conveyed a
sort of sour and gloomy disdain, which he seemed at no pains to
disguise. But this the American in charity ascribed to the harassing
effects of sickness, since, in former instances, he had noted that there
are peculiar natures on whom prolonged physical suffering seems to
cancel every social instinct of kindness; as if, forced to black bread
themselves, they deemed it but equity that each person coming nigh them
should, indirectly, by some slight or affront, be made to partake of
their fare.

But ere long Captain Delano bethought him that, indulgent as he was at
the first, in judging the Spaniard, he might not, after all, have
exercised charity enough. At bottom it was Don Benito's reserve which
displeased him; but the same reserve was shown towards all but his
faithful personal attendant. Even the formal reports which, according to
sea-usage, were, at stated times, made to him by some petty underling,
either a white, mulatto or black, he hardly had patience enough to
listen to, without betraying contemptuous aversion. His manner upon such
occasions was, in its degree, not unlike that which might be supposed
to have been his imperial countryman's, Charles V., just previous to the
anchoritish retirement of that monarch from the throne.

This splenetic disrelish of his place was evinced in almost every
function pertaining to it. Proud as he was moody, he condescended to no
personal mandate. Whatever special orders were necessary, their delivery
was delegated to his body-servant, who in turn transferred them to their
ultimate destination, through runners, alert Spanish boys or slave boys,
like pages or pilot-fish within easy call continually hovering round Don
Benito. So that to have beheld this undemonstrative invalid gliding
about, apathetic and mute, no landsman could have dreamed that in him
was lodged a dictatorship beyond which, while at sea, there was no
earthly appeal.

Thus, the Spaniard, regarded in his reserve, seemed the involuntary
victim of mental disorder. But, in fact, his reserve might, in some
degree, have proceeded from design. If so, then here was evinced the
unhealthy climax of that icy though conscientious policy, more or less
adopted by all commanders of large ships, which, except in signal
emergencies, obliterates alike the manifestation of sway with every
trace of sociality; transforming the man into a block, or rather into a
loaded cannon, which, until there is call for thunder, has nothing to
say.

Viewing him in this light, it seemed but a natural token of the perverse
habit induced by a long course of such hard self-restraint, that,
notwithstanding the present condition of his ship, the Spaniard should
still persist in a demeanor, which, however harmless, or, it may be,
appropriate, in a well-appointed vessel, such as the San Dominick might
have been at the outset of the voyage, was anything but judicious now.
But the Spaniard, perhaps, thought that it was with captains as with
gods: reserve, under all events, must still be their cue. But probably
this appearance of slumbering dominion might have been but an attempted
disguise to conscious imbecility--not deep policy, but shallow device.
But be all this as it might, whether Don Benito's manner was designed or
not, the more Captain Delano noted its pervading reserve, the less he
felt uneasiness at any particular manifestation of that reserve towards
himself.

Neither were his thoughts taken up by the captain alone. Wonted to the
quiet orderliness of the sealer's comfortable family of a crew, the
noisy confusion of the San Dominick's suffering host repeatedly
challenged his eye. Some prominent breaches, not only of discipline but
of decency, were observed. These Captain Delano could not but ascribe,
in the main, to the absence of those subordinate deck-officers to whom,
along with higher duties, is intrusted what may be styled the police
department of a populous ship. True, the old oakum-pickers appeared at
times to act the part of monitorial constables to their countrymen, the
blacks; but though occasionally succeeding in allaying trifling
outbreaks now and then between man and man, they could do little or
nothing toward establishing general quiet. The San Dominick was in the
condition of a transatlantic emigrant ship, among whose multitude of
living freight are some individuals, doubtless, as little troublesome as
crates and bales; but the friendly remonstrances of such with their
ruder companions are of not so much avail as the unfriendly arm of the
mate. What the San Dominick wanted was, what the emigrant ship has,
stern superior officers. But on these decks not so much as a fourth-mate
was to be seen.

The visitor's curiosity was roused to learn the particulars of those
mishaps which had brought about such absenteeism, with its consequences;
because, though deriving some inkling of the voyage from the wails which
at the first moment had greeted him, yet of the details no clear
understanding had been had. The best account would, doubtless, be given
by the captain. Yet at first the visitor was loth to ask it, unwilling
to provoke some distant rebuff. But plucking up courage, he at last
accosted Don Benito, renewing the expression of his benevolent interest,
adding, that did he (Captain Delano) but know the particulars of the
ship's misfortunes, he would, perhaps, be better able in the end to
relieve them. Would Don Benito favor him with the whole story.

Don Benito faltered; then, like some somnambulist suddenly interfered
with, vacantly stared at his visitor, and ended by looking down on the
deck. He maintained this posture so long, that Captain Delano, almost
equally disconcerted, and involuntarily almost as rude, turned suddenly
from him, walking forward to accost one of the Spanish seamen for the
desired information. But he had hardly gone five paces, when, with a
sort of eagerness, Don Benito invited him back, regretting his momentary
absence of mind, and professing readiness to gratify him.

While most part of the story was being given, the two captains stood on
the after part of the main-deck, a privileged spot, no one being near
but the servant.

"It is now a hundred and ninety days," began the Spaniard, in his husky
whisper, "that this ship, well officered and well manned, with several
cabin passengers--some fifty Spaniards in all--sailed from Buenos Ayres
bound to Lima, with a general cargo, hardware, Paraguay tea and the
like--and," pointing forward, "that parcel of negroes, now not more than
a hundred and fifty, as you see, but then numbering over three hundred
souls. Off Cape Horn we had heavy gales. In one moment, by night, three
of my best officers, with fifteen sailors, were lost, with the
main-yard; the spar snapping under them in the slings, as they sought,
with heavers, to beat down the icy sail. To lighten the hull, the
heavier sacks of mata were thrown into the sea, with most of the
water-pipes lashed on deck at the time. And this last necessity it was,
combined with the prolonged detections afterwards experienced, which
eventually brought about our chief causes of suffering. When--"

Here there was a sudden fainting attack of his cough, brought on, no
doubt, by his mental distress. His servant sustained him, and drawing a
cordial from his pocket placed it to his lips. He a little revived. But
unwilling to leave him unsupported while yet imperfectly restored, the
black with one arm still encircled his master, at the same time keeping
his eye fixed on his face, as if to watch for the first sign of complete
restoration, or relapse, as the event might prove.

The Spaniard proceeded, but brokenly and obscurely, as one in a dream.

--"Oh, my God! rather than pass through what I have, with joy I would
have hailed the most terrible gales; but--"

His cough returned and with increased violence; this subsiding; with
reddened lips and closed eyes he fell heavily against his supporter.

"His mind wanders. He was thinking of the plague that followed the
gales," plaintively sighed the servant; "my poor, poor master!" wringing
one hand, and with the other wiping the mouth. "But be patient, Señor,"
again turning to Captain Delano, "these fits do not last long; master
will soon be himself."

Don Benito reviving, went on; but as this portion of the story was very
brokenly delivered, the substance only will here be set down.

It appeared that after the ship had been many days tossed in storms off
the Cape, the scurvy broke out, carrying off numbers of the whites and
blacks. When at last they had worked round into the Pacific, their spars
and sails were so damaged, and so inadequately handled by the surviving
mariners, most of whom were become invalids, that, unable to lay her
northerly course by the wind, which was powerful, the unmanageable ship,
for successive days and nights, was blown northwestward, where the
breeze suddenly deserted her, in unknown waters, to sultry calms. The
absence of the water-pipes now proved as fatal to life as before their
presence had menaced it. Induced, or at least aggravated, by the more
than scanty allowance of water, a malignant fever followed the scurvy;
with the excessive heat of the lengthened calm, making such short work
of it as to sweep away, as by billows, whole families of the Africans,
and a yet larger number, proportionably, of the Spaniards, including, by
a luckless fatality, every remaining officer on board. Consequently, in
the smart west winds eventually following the calm, the already rent
sails, having to be simply dropped, not furled, at need, had been
gradually reduced to the beggars' rags they were now. To procure
substitutes for his lost sailors, as well as supplies of water and
sails, the captain, at the earliest opportunity, had made for Baldivia,
the southernmost civilized port of Chili and South America; but upon
nearing the coast the thick weather had prevented him from so much as
sighting that harbor. Since which period, almost without a crew, and
almost without canvas and almost without water, and, at intervals giving
its added dead to the sea, the San Dominick had been battle-dored about
by contrary winds, inveigled by currents, or grown weedy in calms. Like
a man lost in woods, more than once she had doubled upon her own track.

"But throughout these calamities," huskily continued Don Benito,
painfully turning in the half embrace of his servant, "I have to thank
those negroes you see, who, though to your inexperienced eyes appearing
unruly, have, indeed, conducted themselves with less of restlessness
than even their owner could have thought possible under such
circumstances."

Here he again fell faintly back. Again his mind wandered; but he
rallied, and less obscurely proceeded.

"Yes, their owner was quite right in assuring me that no fetters would
be needed with his blacks; so that while, as is wont in this
transportation, those negroes have always remained upon deck--not thrust
below, as in the Guinea-men--they have, also, from the beginning, been
freely permitted to range within given bounds at their pleasure."

Once more the faintness returned--his mind roved--but, recovering, he
resumed:

"But it is Babo here to whom, under God, I owe not only my own
preservation, but likewise to him, chiefly, the merit is due, of
pacifying his more ignorant brethren, when at intervals tempted to
murmurings."

"Ah, master," sighed the black, bowing his face, "don't speak of me;
Babo is nothing; what Babo has done was but duty."

"Faithful fellow!" cried Captain Delano. "Don Benito, I envy you such a
friend; slave I cannot call him."

As master and man stood before him, the black upholding the white,
Captain Delano could not but bethink him of the beauty of that
relationship which could present such a spectacle of fidelity on the one
hand and confidence on the other. The scene was heightened by, the
contrast in dress, denoting their relative positions. The Spaniard wore
a loose Chili jacket of dark velvet; white small-clothes and stockings,
with silver buckles at the knee and instep; a high-crowned sombrero, of
fine grass; a slender sword, silver mounted, hung from a knot in his
sash--the last being an almost invariable adjunct, more for utility than
ornament, of a South American gentleman's dress to this hour. Excepting
when his occasional nervous contortions brought about disarray, there
was a certain precision in his attire curiously at variance with the
unsightly disorder around; especially in the belittered Ghetto, forward
of the main-mast, wholly occupied by the blacks.

The servant wore nothing but wide trowsers, apparently, from their
coarseness and patches, made out of some old topsail; they were clean,
and confined at the waist by a bit of unstranded rope, which, with his
composed, deprecatory air at times, made him look something like a
begging friar of St. Francis.

However unsuitable for the time and place, at least in the
blunt-thinking American's eyes, and however strangely surviving in the
midst of all his afflictions, the toilette of Don Benito might not, in
fashion at least, have gone beyond the style of the day among South
Americans of his class. Though on the present voyage sailing from Buenos
Ayres, he had avowed himself a native and resident of Chili, whose
inhabitants had not so generally adopted the plain coat and once
plebeian pantaloons; but, with a becoming modification, adhered to their
provincial costume, picturesque as any in the world. Still, relatively
to the pale history of the voyage, and his own pale face, there seemed
something so incongruous in the Spaniard's apparel, as almost to suggest
the image of an invalid courtier tottering about London streets in the
time of the plague.

The portion of the narrative which, perhaps, most excited interest, as
well as some surprise, considering the latitudes in question, was the
long calms spoken of, and more particularly the ship's so long drifting
about. Without communicating the opinion, of course, the American could
not but impute at least part of the detentions both to clumsy seamanship
and faulty navigation. Eying Don Benito's small, yellow hands, he
easily inferred that the young captain had not got into command at the
hawse-hole, but the cabin-window; and if so, why wonder at incompetence,
in youth, sickness, and gentility united?

But drowning criticism in compassion, after a fresh repetition of his
sympathies, Captain Delano, having heard out his story, not only
engaged, as in the first place, to see Don Benito and his people
supplied in their immediate bodily needs, but, also, now farther
promised to assist him in procuring a large permanent supply of water,
as well as some sails and rigging; and, though it would involve no small
embarrassment to himself, yet he would spare three of his best seamen
for temporary deck officers; so that without delay the ship might
proceed to Conception, there fully to refit for Lima, her destined port.

Such generosity was not without its effect, even upon the invalid. His
face lighted up; eager and hectic, he met the honest glance of his
visitor. With gratitude he seemed overcome.

"This excitement is bad for master," whispered the servant, taking his
arm, and with soothing words gently drawing him aside.

When Don Benito returned, the American was pained to observe that his
hopefulness, like the sudden kindling in his cheek, was but febrile and
transient.

Ere long, with a joyless mien, looking up towards the poop, the host
invited his guest to accompany him there, for the benefit of what little
breath of wind might be stirring.

As, during the telling of the story, Captain Delano had once or twice
started at the occasional cymballing of the hatchet-polishers, wondering
why such an interruption should be allowed, especially in that part of
the ship, and in the ears of an invalid; and moreover, as the hatchets
had anything but an attractive look, and the handlers of them still less
so, it was, therefore, to tell the truth, not without some lurking
reluctance, or even shrinking, it may be, that Captain Delano, with
apparent complaisance, acquiesced in his host's invitation. The more so,
since, with an untimely caprice of punctilio, rendered distressing by
his cadaverous aspect, Don Benito, with Castilian bows, solemnly
insisted upon his guest's preceding him up the ladder leading to the
elevation; where, one on each side of the last step, sat for armorial
supporters and sentries two of the ominous file. Gingerly enough stepped
good Captain Delano between them, and in the instant of leaving them
behind, like one running the gauntlet, he felt an apprehensive twitch in
the calves of his legs.

But when, facing about, he saw the whole file, like so many
organ-grinders, still stupidly intent on their work, unmindful of
everything beside, he could not but smile at his late fidgety panic.

Presently, while standing with his host, looking forward upon the decks
below, he was struck by one of those instances of insubordination
previously alluded to. Three black boys, with two Spanish boys, were
sitting together on the hatches, scraping a rude wooden platter, in
which some scanty mess had recently been cooked. Suddenly, one of the
black boys, enraged at a word dropped by one of his white companions,
seized a knife, and, though called to forbear by one of the
oakum-pickers, struck the lad over the head, inflicting a gash from
which blood flowed.

In amazement, Captain Delano inquired what this meant. To which the pale
Don Benito dully muttered, that it was merely the sport of the lad.

"Pretty serious sport, truly," rejoined Captain Delano. "Had such a
thing happened on board the Bachelor's Delight, instant punishment would
have followed."

At these words the Spaniard turned upon the American one of his sudden,
staring, half-lunatic looks; then, relapsing into his torpor, answered,
"Doubtless, doubtless, Señor."

Is it, thought Captain Delano, that this hapless man is one of those
paper captains I've known, who by policy wink at what by power they
cannot put down? I know no sadder sight than a commander who has little
of command but the name.

"I should think, Don Benito," he now said, glancing towards the
oakum-picker who had sought to interfere with the boys, "that you would
find it advantageous to keep all your blacks employed, especially the
younger ones, no matter at what useless task, and no matter what happens
to the ship. Why, even with my little band, I find such a course
indispensable. I once kept a crew on my quarter-deck thrumming mats for
my cabin, when, for three days, I had given up my ship--mats, men, and
all--for a speedy loss, owing to the violence of a gale, in which we
could do nothing but helplessly drive before it."

"Doubtless, doubtless," muttered Don Benito.

"But," continued Captain Delano, again glancing upon the oakum-pickers
and then at the hatchet-polishers, near by, "I see you keep some, at
least, of your host employed."

"Yes," was again the vacant response.

"Those old men there, shaking their pows from their pulpits," continued
Captain Delano, pointing to the oakum-pickers, "seem to act the part of
old dominies to the rest, little heeded as their admonitions are at
times. Is this voluntary on their part, Don Benito, or have you
appointed them shepherds to your flock of black sheep?"

"What posts they fill, I appointed them," rejoined the Spaniard, in an
acrid tone, as if resenting some supposed satiric reflection.

"And these others, these Ashantee conjurors here," continued Captain
Delano, rather uneasily eying the brandished steel of the
hatchet-polishers, where, in spots, it had been brought to a shine,
"this seems a curious business they are at, Don Benito?"

"In the gales we met," answered the Spaniard, "what of our general cargo
was not thrown overboard was much damaged by the brine. Since coming
into calm weather, I have had several cases of knives and hatchets daily
brought up for overhauling and cleaning."

"A prudent idea, Don Benito. You are part owner of ship and cargo, I
presume; but none of the slaves, perhaps?"

"I am owner of all you see," impatiently returned Don Benito, "except
the main company of blacks, who belonged to my late friend, Alexandro
Aranda."

As he mentioned this name, his air was heart-broken; his knees shook;
his servant supported him.

Thinking he divined the cause of such unusual emotion, to confirm his
surmise, Captain Delano, after a pause, said: "And may I ask, Don
Benito, whether--since awhile ago you spoke of some cabin
passengers--the friend, whose loss so afflicts you, at the outset of the
voyage accompanied his blacks?"

"Yes."

"But died of the fever?"

"Died of the fever. Oh, could I but--"

Again quivering, the Spaniard paused.

"Pardon me," said Captain Delano, lowly, "but I think that, by a
sympathetic experience, I conjecture, Don Benito, what it is that gives
the keener edge to your grief. It was once my hard fortune to lose, at
sea, a dear friend, my own brother, then supercargo. Assured of the
welfare of his spirit, its departure I could have borne like a man; but
that honest eye, that honest hand--both of which had so often met
mine--and that warm heart; all, all--like scraps to the dogs--to throw
all to the sharks! It was then I vowed never to have for fellow-voyager
a man I loved, unless, unbeknown to him, I had provided every requisite,
in case of a fatality, for embalming his mortal part for interment on
shore. Were your friend's remains now on board this ship, Don Benito,
not thus strangely would the mention of his name affect you."


"On board this ship?" echoed the Spaniard. Then, with horrified
gestures, as directed against some spectre, he unconsciously fell into
the ready arms of his attendant, who, with a silent appeal toward
Captain Delano, seemed beseeching him not again to broach a theme so
unspeakably distressing to his master.

This poor fellow now, thought the pained American, is the victim of that
sad superstition which associates goblins with the deserted body of man,
as ghosts with an abandoned house. How unlike are we made! What to me,
in like case, would have been a solemn satisfaction, the bare
suggestion, even, terrifies the Spaniard into this trance. Poor
Alexandro Aranda! what would you say could you here see your
friend--who, on former voyages, when you, for months, were left behind,
has, I dare say, often longed, and longed, for one peep at you--now
transported with terror at the least thought of having you anyway nigh
him.

At this moment, with a dreary grave-yard toll, betokening a flaw, the
ship's forecastle bell, smote by one of the grizzled oakum-pickers,
proclaimed ten o'clock, through the leaden calm; when Captain Delano's
attention was caught by the moving figure of a gigantic black, emerging
from the general crowd below, and slowly advancing towards the elevated
poop. An iron collar was about his neck, from which depended a chain,
thrice wound round his body; the terminating links padlocked together at
a broad band of iron, his girdle.

"How like a mute Atufal moves," murmured the servant.

The black mounted the steps of the poop, and, like a brave prisoner,
brought up to receive sentence, stood in unquailing muteness before Don
Benito, now recovered from his attack.

At the first glimpse of his approach, Don Benito had started, a
resentful shadow swept over his face; and, as with the sudden memory of
bootless rage, his white lips glued together.

This is some mulish mutineer, thought Captain Delano, surveying, not
without a mixture of admiration, the colossal form of the negro.

"See, he waits your question, master," said the servant.

Thus reminded, Don Benito, nervously averting his glance, as if
shunning, by anticipation, some rebellious response, in a disconcerted
voice, thus spoke:--

"Atufal, will you ask my pardon, now?"

The black was silent.

"Again, master," murmured the servant, with bitter upbraiding eyeing his
countryman, "Again, master; he will bend to master yet."

"Answer," said Don Benito, still averting his glance, "say but the one
word, _pardon_, and your chains shall be off."

Upon this, the black, slowly raising both arms, let them lifelessly
fall, his links clanking, his head bowed; as much as to say, "no, I am
content."

"Go," said Don Benito, with inkept and unknown emotion.

Deliberately as he had come, the black obeyed.

"Excuse me, Don Benito," said Captain Delano, "but this scene surprises
me; what means it, pray?"

"It means that that negro alone, of all the band, has given me peculiar
cause of offense. I have put him in chains; I--"

Here he paused; his hand to his head, as if there were a swimming there,
or a sudden bewilderment of memory had come over him; but meeting his
servant's kindly glance seemed reassured, and proceeded:--

"I could not scourge such a form. But I told him he must ask my pardon.
As yet he has not. At my command, every two hours he stands before me."

"And how long has this been?"

"Some sixty days."

"And obedient in all else? And respectful?"

"Yes."

"Upon my conscience, then," exclaimed Captain Delano, impulsively, "he
has a royal spirit in him, this fellow."

"He may have some right to it," bitterly returned Don Benito, "he says
he was king in his own land."

"Yes," said the servant, entering a word, "those slits in Atufal's ears
once held wedges of gold; but poor Babo here, in his own land, was only
a poor slave; a black man's slave was Babo, who now is the white's."

Somewhat annoyed by these conversational familiarities, Captain Delano
turned curiously upon the attendant, then glanced inquiringly at his
master; but, as if long wonted to these little informalities, neither
master nor man seemed to understand him.

"What, pray, was Atufal's offense, Don Benito?" asked Captain Delano;
"if it was not something very serious, take a fool's advice, and, in
view of his general docility, as well as in some natural respect for his
spirit, remit him his penalty."

"No, no, master never will do that," here murmured the servant to
himself, "proud Atufal must first ask master's pardon. The slave there
carries the padlock, but master here carries the key."

His attention thus directed, Captain Delano now noticed for the first,
that, suspended by a slender silken cord, from Don Benito's neck, hung
a key. At once, from the servant's muttered syllables, divining the
key's purpose, he smiled, and said:--"So, Don Benito--padlock and
key--significant symbols, truly."

Biting his lip, Don Benito faltered.

Though the remark of Captain Delano, a man of such native simplicity as
to be incapable of satire or irony, had been dropped in playful allusion
to the Spaniard's singularly evidenced lordship over the black; yet the
hypochondriac seemed some way to have taken it as a malicious reflection
upon his confessed inability thus far to break down, at least, on a
verbal summons, the entrenched will of the slave. Deploring this
supposed misconception, yet despairing of correcting it, Captain Delano
shifted the subject; but finding his companion more than ever withdrawn,
as if still sourly digesting the lees of the presumed affront
above-mentioned, by-and-by Captain Delano likewise became less
talkative, oppressed, against his own will, by what seemed the secret
vindictiveness of the morbidly sensitive Spaniard. But the good sailor,
himself of a quite contrary disposition, refrained, on his part, alike
from the appearance as from the feeling of resentment, and if silent,
was only so from contagion.

Presently the Spaniard, assisted by his servant somewhat discourteously
crossed over from his guest; a procedure which, sensibly enough, might
have been allowed to pass for idle caprice of ill-humor, had not master
and man, lingering round the corner of the elevated skylight, began
whispering together in low voices. This was unpleasing. And more; the
moody air of the Spaniard, which at times had not been without a sort of
valetudinarian stateliness, now seemed anything but dignified; while the
menial familiarity of the servant lost its original charm of
simple-hearted attachment.

In his embarrassment, the visitor turned his face to the other side of
the ship. By so doing, his glance accidentally fell on a young Spanish
sailor, a coil of rope in his hand, just stepped from the deck to the
first round of the mizzen-rigging. Perhaps the man would not have been
particularly noticed, were it not that, during his ascent to one of the
yards, he, with a sort of covert intentness, kept his eye fixed on
Captain Delano, from whom, presently, it passed, as if by a natural
sequence, to the two whisperers.

His own attention thus redirected to that quarter, Captain Delano gave a
slight start. From something in Don Benito's manner just then, it seemed
as if the visitor had, at least partly, been the subject of the
withdrawn consultation going on--a conjecture as little agreeable to the
guest as it was little flattering to the host.

The singular alternations of courtesy and ill-breeding in the Spanish
captain were unaccountable, except on one of two suppositions--innocent
lunacy, or wicked imposture.

But the first idea, though it might naturally have occurred to an
indifferent observer, and, in some respect, had not hitherto been wholly
a stranger to Captain Delano's mind, yet, now that, in an incipient way,
he began to regard the stranger's conduct something in the light of an
intentional affront, of course the idea of lunacy was virtually vacated.
But if not a lunatic, what then? Under the circumstances, would a
gentleman, nay, any honest boor, act the part now acted by his host? The
man was an impostor. Some low-born adventurer, masquerading as an
oceanic grandee; yet so ignorant of the first requisites of mere
gentlemanhood as to be betrayed into the present remarkable indecorum.
That strange ceremoniousness, too, at other times evinced, seemed not
uncharacteristic of one playing a part above his real level. Benito
Cereno--Don Benito Cereno--a sounding name. One, too, at that period,
not unknown, in the surname, to super-cargoes and sea captains trading
along the Spanish Main, as belonging to one of the most enterprising and
extensive mercantile families in all those provinces; several members of
it having titles; a sort of Castilian Rothschild, with a noble brother,
or cousin, in every great trading town of South America. The alleged Don
Benito was in early manhood, about twenty-nine or thirty. To assume a
sort of roving cadetship in the maritime affairs of such a house, what
more likely scheme for a young knave of talent and spirit? But the
Spaniard was a pale invalid. Never mind. For even to the degree of
simulating mortal disease, the craft of some tricksters had been known
to attain. To think that, under the aspect of infantile weakness, the
most savage energies might be couched--those velvets of the Spaniard but
the silky paw to his fangs.

From no train of thought did these fancies come; not from within, but
from without; suddenly, too, and in one throng, like hoar frost; yet as
soon to vanish as the mild sun of Captain Delano's good-nature regained
its meridian.

Glancing over once more towards his host--whose side-face, revealed
above the skylight, was now turned towards him--he was struck by the
profile, whose clearness of cut was refined by the thinness, incident to
ill-health, as well as ennobled about the chin by the beard. Away with
suspicion. He was a true off-shoot of a true hidalgo Cereno.

Relieved by these and other better thoughts, the visitor, lightly
humming a tune, now began indifferently pacing the poop, so as not to
betray to Don Benito that he had at all mistrusted incivility, much less
duplicity; for such mistrust would yet be proved illusory, and by the
event; though, for the present, the circumstance which had provoked that
distrust remained unexplained. But when that little mystery should have
been cleared up, Captain Delano thought he might extremely regret it,
did he allow Don Benito to become aware that he had indulged in
ungenerous surmises. In short, to the Spaniard's black-letter text, it
was best, for awhile, to leave open margin.

Presently, his pale face twitching and overcast, the Spaniard, still
supported by his attendant, moved over towards his guest, when, with
even more than his usual embarrassment, and a strange sort of intriguing
intonation in his husky whisper, the following conversation began:--

"Señor, may I ask how long you have lain at this isle?"

"Oh, but a day or two, Don Benito."

"And from what port are you last?"

"Canton."

"And there, Señor, you exchanged your sealskins for teas and silks, I
think you said?"

"Yes, Silks, mostly."

"And the balance you took in specie, perhaps?"

Captain Delano, fidgeting a little, answered--

"Yes; some silver; not a very great deal, though."

"Ah--well. May I ask how many men have you, Señor?"

Captain Delano slightly started, but answered--

"About five-and-twenty, all told."

"And at present, Señor, all on board, I suppose?"

"All on board, Don Benito," replied the Captain, now with satisfaction.

"And will be to-night, Señor?"

At this last question, following so many pertinacious ones, for the soul
of him Captain Delano could not but look very earnestly at the
questioner, who, instead of meeting the glance, with every token of
craven discomposure dropped his eyes to the deck; presenting an unworthy
contrast to his servant, who, just then, was kneeling at his feet,
adjusting a loose shoe-buckle; his disengaged face meantime, with
humble curiosity, turned openly up into his master's downcast one.

The Spaniard, still with a guilty shuffle, repeated his question:

"And--and will be to-night, Señor?"

"Yes, for aught I know," returned Captain Delano--"but nay," rallying
himself into fearless truth, "some of them talked of going off on
another fishing party about midnight."

"Your ships generally go--go more or less armed, I believe, Señor?"

"Oh, a six-pounder or two, in case of emergency," was the intrepidly
indifferent reply, "with a small stock of muskets, sealing-spears, and
cutlasses, you know."

As he thus responded, Captain Delano again glanced at Don Benito, but
the latter's eyes were averted; while abruptly and awkwardly shifting
the subject, he made some peevish allusion to the calm, and then,
without apology, once more, with his attendant, withdrew to the opposite
bulwarks, where the whispering was resumed.

At this moment, and ere Captain Delano could cast a cool thought upon
what had just passed, the young Spanish sailor, before mentioned, was
seen descending from the rigging. In act of stooping over to spring
inboard to the deck, his voluminous, unconfined frock, or shirt, of
coarse woolen, much spotted with tar, opened out far down the chest,
revealing a soiled under garment of what seemed the finest linen, edged,
about the neck, with a narrow blue ribbon, sadly faded and worn. At this
moment the young sailor's eye was again fixed on the whisperers, and
Captain Delano thought he observed a lurking significance in it, as if
silent signs, of some Freemason sort, had that instant been
interchanged.

This once more impelled his own glance in the direction of Don Benito,
and, as before, he could not but infer that himself formed the subject
of the conference. He paused. The sound of the hatchet-polishing fell on
his ears. He cast another swift side-look at the two. They had the air
of conspirators. In connection with the late questionings, and the
incident of the young sailor, these things now begat such return of
involuntary suspicion, that the singular guilelessness of the American
could not endure it. Plucking up a gay and humorous expression, he
crossed over to the two rapidly, saying:--"Ha, Don Benito, your black
here seems high in your trust; a sort of privy-counselor, in fact."

Upon this, the servant looked up with a good-natured grin, but the
master started as from a venomous bite. It was a moment or two before
the Spaniard sufficiently recovered himself to reply; which he did, at
last, with cold constraint:--"Yes, Señor, I have trust in Babo."

Here Babo, changing his previous grin of mere animal humor into an
intelligent smile, not ungratefully eyed his master.

Finding that the Spaniard now stood silent and reserved, as if
involuntarily, or purposely giving hint that his guest's proximity was
inconvenient just then, Captain Delano, unwilling to appear uncivil even
to incivility itself, made some trivial remark and moved off; again and
again turning over in his mind the mysterious demeanor of Don Benito
Cereno.

He had descended from the poop, and, wrapped in thought, was passing
near a dark hatchway, leading down into the steerage, when, perceiving
motion there, he looked to see what moved. The same instant there was a
sparkle in the shadowy hatchway, and he saw one of the Spanish sailors,
prowling there hurriedly placing his hand in the bosom of his frock, as
if hiding something. Before the man could have been certain who it was
that was passing, he slunk below out of sight. But enough was seen of
him to make it sure that he was the same young sailor before noticed in
the rigging.

What was that which so sparkled? thought Captain Delano. It was no
lamp--no match--no live coal. Could it have been a jewel? But how come
sailors with jewels?--or with silk-trimmed under-shirts either? Has he
been robbing the trunks of the dead cabin-passengers? But if so, he
would hardly wear one of the stolen articles on board ship here. Ah,
ah--if, now, that was, indeed, a secret sign I saw passing between this
suspicious fellow and his captain awhile since; if I could only be
certain that, in my uneasiness, my senses did not deceive me, then--

Here, passing from one suspicious thing to another, his mind revolved
the strange questions put to him concerning his ship.

By a curious coincidence, as each point was recalled, the black wizards
of Ashantee would strike up with their hatchets, as in ominous comment
on the white stranger's thoughts. Pressed by such enigmas and portents,
it would have been almost against nature, had not, even into the least
distrustful heart, some ugly misgivings obtruded.

Observing the ship, now helplessly fallen into a current, with enchanted
sails, drifting with increased rapidity seaward; and noting that, from a
lately intercepted projection of the land, the sealer was hidden, the
stout mariner began to quake at thoughts which he barely durst confess
to himself. Above all, he began to feel a ghostly dread of Don Benito.
And yet, when he roused himself, dilated his chest, felt himself strong
on his legs, and coolly considered it--what did all these phantoms
amount to?

Had the Spaniard any sinister scheme, it must have reference not so much
to him (Captain Delano) as to his ship (the Bachelor's Delight). Hence
the present drifting away of the one ship from the other, instead of
favoring any such possible scheme, was, for the time, at least, opposed
to it. Clearly any suspicion, combining such contradictions, must need
be delusive. Beside, was it not absurd to think of a vessel in
distress--a vessel by sickness almost dismanned of her crew--a vessel
whose inmates were parched for water--was it not a thousand times absurd
that such a craft should, at present, be of a piratical character; or
her commander, either for himself or those under him, cherish any desire
but for speedy relief and refreshment? But then, might not general
distress, and thirst in particular, be affected? And might not that same
undiminished Spanish crew, alleged to have perished off to a remnant, be
at that very moment lurking in the hold? On heart-broken pretense of
entreating a cup of cold water, fiends in human form had got into lonely
dwellings, nor retired until a dark deed had been done. And among the
Malay pirates, it was no unusual thing to lure ships after them into
their treacherous harbors, or entice boarders from a declared enemy at
sea, by the spectacle of thinly manned or vacant decks, beneath which
prowled a hundred spears with yellow arms ready to upthrust them through
the mats. Not that Captain Delano had entirely credited such things. He
had heard of them--and now, as stories, they recurred. The present
destination of the ship was the anchorage. There she would be near his
own vessel. Upon gaining that vicinity, might not the San Dominick, like
a slumbering volcano, suddenly let loose energies now hid?

He recalled the Spaniard's manner while telling his story. There was a
gloomy hesitancy and subterfuge about it. It was just the manner of one
making up his tale for evil purposes, as he goes. But if that story was
not true, what was the truth? That the ship had unlawfully come into the
Spaniard's possession? But in many of its details, especially in
reference to the more calamitous parts, such as the fatalities among the
seamen, the consequent prolonged beating about, the past sufferings from
obstinate calms, and still continued suffering from thirst; in all
these points, as well as others, Don Benito's story had corroborated not
only the wailing ejaculations of the indiscriminate multitude, white and
black, but likewise--what seemed impossible to be counterfeit--by the
very expression and play of every human feature, which Captain Delano
saw. If Don Benito's story was, throughout, an invention, then every
soul on board, down to the youngest negress, was his carefully drilled
recruit in the plot: an incredible inference. And yet, if there was
ground for mistrusting his veracity, that inference was a legitimate
one.

But those questions of the Spaniard. There, indeed, one might pause. Did
they not seem put with much the same object with which the burglar or
assassin, by day-time, reconnoitres the walls of a house? But, with ill
purposes, to solicit such information openly of the chief person
endangered, and so, in effect, setting him on his guard; how unlikely a
procedure was that? Absurd, then, to suppose that those questions had
been prompted by evil designs. Thus, the same conduct, which, in this
instance, had raised the alarm, served to dispel it. In short, scarce
any suspicion or uneasiness, however apparently reasonable at the time,
which was not now, with equal apparent reason, dismissed.

At last he began to laugh at his former forebodings; and laugh at the
strange ship for, in its aspect, someway siding with them, as it were;
and laugh, too, at the odd-looking blacks, particularly those old
scissors-grinders, the Ashantees; and those bed-ridden old knitting
women, the oakum-pickers; and almost at the dark Spaniard himself, the
central hobgoblin of all.

For the rest, whatever in a serious way seemed enigmatical, was now
good-naturedly explained away by the thought that, for the most part,
the poor invalid scarcely knew what he was about; either sulking in
black vapors, or putting idle questions without sense or object.
Evidently for the present, the man was not fit to be intrusted with the
ship. On some benevolent plea withdrawing the command from him, Captain
Delano would yet have to send her to Conception, in charge of his
second mate, a worthy person and good navigator--a plan not more
convenient for the San Dominick than for Don Benito; for, relieved from
all anxiety, keeping wholly to his cabin, the sick man, under the good
nursing of his servant, would, probably, by the end of the passage, be
in a measure restored to health, and with that he should also be
restored to authority.

Such were the American's thoughts. They were tranquilizing. There was a
difference between the idea of Don Benito's darkly pre-ordaining Captain
Delano's fate, and Captain Delano's lightly arranging Don Benito's.
Nevertheless, it was not without something of relief that the good
seaman presently perceived his whale-boat in the distance. Its absence
had been prolonged by unexpected detention at the sealer's side, as well
as its returning trip lengthened by the continual recession of the goal.

The advancing speck was observed by the blacks. Their shouts attracted
the attention of Don Benito, who, with a return of courtesy, approaching
Captain Delano, expressed satisfaction at the coming of some supplies,
slight and temporary as they must necessarily prove.

Captain Delano responded; but while doing so, his attention was drawn to
something passing on the deck below: among the crowd climbing the
landward bulwarks, anxiously watching the coming boat, two blacks, to
all appearances accidentally incommoded by one of the sailors, violently
pushed him aside, which the sailor someway resenting, they dashed him to
the deck, despite the earnest cries of the oakum-pickers.

"Don Benito," said Captain Delano quickly, "do you see what is going on
there? Look!"

But, seized by his cough, the Spaniard staggered, with both hands to his
face, on the point of falling. Captain Delano would have supported him,
but the servant was more alert, who, with one hand sustaining his
master, with the other applied the cordial. Don Benito restored, the
black withdrew his support, slipping aside a little, but dutifully
remaining within call of a whisper. Such discretion was here evinced as
quite wiped away, in the visitor's eyes, any blemish of impropriety
which might have attached to the attendant, from the indecorous
conferences before mentioned; showing, too, that if the servant were to
blame, it might be more the master's fault than his own, since, when
left to himself, he could conduct thus well.

His glance called away from the spectacle of disorder to the more
pleasing one before him, Captain Delano could not avoid again
congratulating his host upon possessing such a servant, who, though
perhaps a little too forward now and then, must upon the whole be
invaluable to one in the invalid's situation.

"Tell me, Don Benito," he added, with a smile--"I should like to have
your man here, myself--what will you take for him? Would fifty doubloons
be any object?"

"Master wouldn't part with Babo for a thousand doubloons," murmured the
black, overhearing the offer, and taking it in earnest, and, with the
strange vanity of a faithful slave, appreciated by his master, scorning
to hear so paltry a valuation put upon him by a stranger. But Don
Benito, apparently hardly yet completely restored, and again
interrupted by his cough, made but some broken reply.

Soon his physical distress became so great, affecting his mind, too,
apparently, that, as if to screen the sad spectacle, the servant gently
conducted his master below.

Left to himself, the American, to while away the time till his boat
should arrive, would have pleasantly accosted some one of the few
Spanish seamen he saw; but recalling something that Don Benito had said
touching their ill conduct, he refrained; as a shipmaster indisposed to
countenance cowardice or unfaithfulness in seamen.

While, with these thoughts, standing with eye directed forward towards
that handful of sailors, suddenly he thought that one or two of them
returned the glance and with a sort of meaning. He rubbed his eyes, and
looked again; but again seemed to see the same thing. Under a new form,
but more obscure than any previous one, the old suspicions recurred,
but, in the absence of Don Benito, with less of panic than before.
Despite the bad account given of the sailors, Captain Delano resolved
forthwith to accost one of them. Descending the poop, he made his way
through the blacks, his movement drawing a queer cry from the
oakum-pickers, prompted by whom, the negroes, twitching each other
aside, divided before him; but, as if curious to see what was the object
of this deliberate visit to their Ghetto, closing in behind, in
tolerable order, followed the white stranger up. His progress thus
proclaimed as by mounted kings-at-arms, and escorted as by a Caffre
guard of honor, Captain Delano, assuming a good-humored, off-handed air,
continued to advance; now and then saying a blithe word to the negroes,
and his eye curiously surveying the white faces, here and there sparsely
mixed in with the blacks, like stray white pawns venturously involved in
the ranks of the chess-men opposed.

While thinking which of them to select for his purpose, he chanced to
observe a sailor seated on the deck engaged in tarring the strap of a
large block, a circle of blacks squatted round him inquisitively eying
the process.

The mean employment of the man was in contrast with something superior
in his figure. His hand, black with continually thrusting it into the
tar-pot held for him by a negro, seemed not naturally allied to his
face, a face which would have been a very fine one but for its
haggardness. Whether this haggardness had aught to do with criminality,
could not be determined; since, as intense heat and cold, though unlike,
produce like sensations, so innocence and guilt, when, through casual
association with mental pain, stamping any visible impress, use one
seal--a hacked one.

Not again that this reflection occurred to Captain Delano at the time,
charitable man as he was. Rather another idea. Because observing so
singular a haggardness combined with a dark eye, averted as in trouble
and shame, and then again recalling Don Benito's confessed ill opinion
of his crew, insensibly he was operated upon by certain general notions
which, while disconnecting pain and abashment from virtue, invariably
link them with vice.

If, indeed, there be any wickedness on board this ship, thought Captain
Delano, be sure that man there has fouled his hand in it, even as now he
fouls it in the pitch. I don't like to accost him. I will speak to this
other, this old Jack here on the windlass.

He advanced to an old Barcelona tar, in ragged red breeches and dirty
night-cap, cheeks trenched and bronzed, whiskers dense as thorn hedges.
Seated between two sleepy-looking Africans, this mariner, like his
younger shipmate, was employed upon some rigging--splicing a cable--the
sleepy-looking blacks performing the inferior function of holding the
outer parts of the ropes for him.

Upon Captain Delano's approach, the man at once hung his head below its
previous level; the one necessary for business. It appeared as if he
desired to be thought absorbed, with more than common fidelity, in his
task. Being addressed, he glanced up, but with what seemed a furtive,
diffident air, which sat strangely enough on his weather-beaten visage,
much as if a grizzly bear, instead of growling and biting, should simper
and cast sheep's eyes. He was asked several questions concerning the
voyage--questions purposely referring to several particulars in Don
Benito's narrative, not previously corroborated by those impulsive cries
greeting the visitor on first coming on board. The questions were
briefly answered, confirming all that remained to be confirmed of the
story. The negroes about the windlass joined in with the old sailor;
but, as they became talkative, he by degrees became mute, and at length
quite glum, seemed morosely unwilling to answer more questions, and yet,
all the while, this ursine air was somehow mixed with his sheepish one.

Despairing of getting into unembarrassed talk with such a centaur,
Captain Delano, after glancing round for a more promising countenance,
but seeing none, spoke pleasantly to the blacks to make way for him; and
so, amid various grins and grimaces, returned to the poop, feeling a
little strange at first, he could hardly tell why, but upon the whole
with regained confidence in Benito Cereno.

How plainly, thought he, did that old whiskerando yonder betray a
consciousness of ill desert. No doubt, when he saw me coming, he
dreaded lest I, apprised by his Captain of the crew's general
misbehavior, came with sharp words for him, and so down with his head.
And yet--and yet, now that I think of it, that very old fellow, if I err
not, was one of those who seemed so earnestly eying me here awhile
since. Ah, these currents spin one's head round almost as much as they
do the ship. Ha, there now's a pleasant sort of sunny sight; quite
sociable, too.

His attention had been drawn to a slumbering negress, partly disclosed
through the lacework of some rigging, lying, with youthful limbs
carelessly disposed, under the lee of the bulwarks, like a doe in the
shade of a woodland rock. Sprawling at her lapped breasts, was her
wide-awake fawn, stark naked, its black little body half lifted from the
deck, crosswise with its dam's; its hands, like two paws, clambering
upon her; its mouth and nose ineffectually rooting to get at the mark;
and meantime giving a vexatious half-grunt, blending with the composed
snore of the negress.

The uncommon vigor of the child at length roused the mother. She started
up, at a distance facing Captain Delano. But as if not at all concerned
at the attitude in which she had been caught, delightedly she caught the
child up, with maternal transports, covering it with kisses.

There's naked nature, now; pure tenderness and love, thought Captain
Delano, well pleased.

This incident prompted him to remark the other negresses more
particularly than before. He was gratified with their manners: like most
uncivilized women, they seemed at once tender of heart and tough of
constitution; equally ready to die for their infants or fight for them.
Unsophisticated as leopardesses; loving as doves. Ah! thought Captain
Delano, these, perhaps, are some of the very women whom Ledyard saw in
Africa, and gave such a noble account of.

These natural sights somehow insensibly deepened his confidence and
ease. At last he looked to see how his boat was getting on; but it was
still pretty remote. He turned to see if Don Benito had returned; but
he had not.

To change the scene, as well as to please himself with a leisurely
observation of the coming boat, stepping over into the mizzen-chains, he
clambered his way into the starboard quarter-gallery--one of
those abandoned Venetian-looking water-balconies previously
mentioned--retreats cut off from the deck. As his foot pressed the
half-damp, half-dry sea-mosses matting the place, and a chance phantom
cats-paw--an islet of breeze, unheralded, unfollowed--as this ghostly
cats-paw came fanning his cheek; as his glance fell upon the row of
small, round dead-lights--all closed like coppered eyes of the
coffined--and the state-cabin door, once connecting with the gallery,
even as the dead-lights had once looked out upon it, but now calked fast
like a sarcophagus lid; and to a purple-black tarred-over, panel,
threshold, and post; and he bethought him of the time, when that
state-cabin and this state-balcony had heard the voices of the Spanish
king's officers, and the forms of the Lima viceroy's daughters had
perhaps leaned where he stood--as these and other images flitted
through his mind, as the cats-paw through the calm, gradually he felt
rising a dreamy inquietude, like that of one who alone on the prairie
feels unrest from the repose of the noon.

He leaned against the carved balustrade, again looking off toward his
boat; but found his eye falling upon the ribbon grass, trailing along
the ship's water-line, straight as a border of green box; and parterres
of sea-weed, broad ovals and crescents, floating nigh and far, with what
seemed long formal alleys between, crossing the terraces of swells, and
sweeping round as if leading to the grottoes below. And overhanging all
was the balustrade by his arm, which, partly stained with pitch and
partly embossed with moss, seemed the charred ruin of some summer-house
in a grand garden long running to waste.

Trying to break one charm, he was but becharmed anew. Though upon the
wide sea, he seemed in some far inland country; prisoner in some
deserted château, left to stare at empty grounds, and peer out at vague
roads, where never wagon or wayfarer passed.

But these enchantments were a little disenchanted as his eye fell on the
corroded main-chains. Of an ancient style, massy and rusty in link,
shackle and bolt, they seemed even more fit for the ship's present
business than the one for which she had been built.

Presently he thought something moved nigh the chains. He rubbed his
eyes, and looked hard. Groves of rigging were about the chains; and
there, peering from behind a great stay, like an Indian from behind a
hemlock, a Spanish sailor, a marlingspike in his hand, was seen, who
made what seemed an imperfect gesture towards the balcony, but
immediately as if alarmed by some advancing step along the deck within,
vanished into the recesses of the hempen forest, like a poacher.

What meant this? Something the man had sought to communicate, unbeknown
to any one, even to his captain. Did the secret involve aught
unfavorable to his captain? Were those previous misgivings of Captain
Delano's about to be verified? Or, in his haunted mood at the moment,
had some random, unintentional motion of the man, while busy with the
stay, as if repairing it, been mistaken for a significant beckoning?

Not unbewildered, again he gazed off for his boat. But it was
temporarily hidden by a rocky spur of the isle. As with some eagerness
he bent forward, watching for the first shooting view of its beak, the
balustrade gave way before him like charcoal. Had he not clutched an
outreaching rope he would have fallen into the sea. The crash, though
feeble, and the fall, though hollow, of the rotten fragments, must have
been overheard. He glanced up. With sober curiosity peering down upon
him was one of the old oakum-pickers, slipped from his perch to an
outside boom; while below the old negro, and, invisible to him,
reconnoitering from a port-hole like a fox from the mouth of its den,
crouched the Spanish sailor again. From something suddenly suggested by
the man's air, the mad idea now darted into Captain Delano's mind, that
Don Benito's plea of indisposition, in withdrawing below, was but a
pretense: that he was engaged there maturing his plot, of which the
sailor, by some means gaining an inkling, had a mind to warn the
stranger against; incited, it may be, by gratitude for a kind word on
first boarding the ship. Was it from foreseeing some possible
interference like this, that Don Benito had, beforehand, given such a
bad character of his sailors, while praising the negroes; though,
indeed, the former seemed as docile as the latter the contrary? The
whites, too, by nature, were the shrewder race. A man with some evil
design, would he not be likely to speak well of that stupidity which was
blind to his depravity, and malign that intelligence from which it might
not be hidden? Not unlikely, perhaps. But if the whites had dark secrets
concerning Don Benito, could then Don Benito be any way in complicity
with the blacks? But they were too stupid. Besides, who ever heard of a
white so far a renegade as to apostatize from his very species almost,
by leaguing in against it with negroes? These difficulties recalled
former ones. Lost in their mazes, Captain Delano, who had now regained
the deck, was uneasily advancing along it, when he observed a new face;
an aged sailor seated cross-legged near the main hatchway. His skin was
shrunk up with wrinkles like a pelican's empty pouch; his hair frosted;
his countenance grave and composed. His hands were full of ropes, which
he was working into a large knot. Some blacks were about him obligingly
dipping the strands for him, here and there, as the exigencies of the
operation demanded.

Captain Delano crossed over to him, and stood in silence surveying the
knot; his mind, by a not uncongenial transition, passing from its own
entanglements to those of the hemp. For intricacy, such a knot he had
never seen in an American ship, nor indeed any other. The old man looked
like an Egyptian priest, making Gordian knots for the temple of Ammon.
The knot seemed a combination of double-bowline-knot, treble-crown-knot,
back-handed-well-knot, knot-in-and-out-knot, and jamming-knot.

At last, puzzled to comprehend the meaning of such a knot, Captain
Delano addressed the knotter:--

"What are you knotting there, my man?"

"The knot," was the brief reply, without looking up.

"So it seems; but what is it for?"

"For some one else to undo," muttered back the old man, plying his
fingers harder than ever, the knot being now nearly completed.

While Captain Delano stood watching him, suddenly the old man threw the
knot towards him, saying in broken English--the first heard in the
ship--something to this effect: "Undo it, cut it, quick." It was said
lowly, but with such condensation of rapidity, that the long, slow words
in Spanish, which had preceded and followed, almost operated as covers
to the brief English between.

For a moment, knot in hand, and knot in head, Captain Delano stood mute;
while, without further heeding him, the old man was now intent upon
other ropes. Presently there was a slight stir behind Captain Delano.
Turning, he saw the chained negro, Atufal, standing quietly there. The
next moment the old sailor rose, muttering, and, followed by his
subordinate negroes, removed to the forward part of the ship, where in
the crowd he disappeared.

An elderly negro, in a clout like an infant's, and with a pepper and
salt head, and a kind of attorney air, now approached Captain Delano. In
tolerable Spanish, and with a good-natured, knowing wink, he informed
him that the old knotter was simple-witted, but harmless; often playing
his odd tricks. The negro concluded by begging the knot, for of course
the stranger would not care to be troubled with it. Unconsciously, it
was handed to him. With a sort of congé, the negro received it, and,
turning his back, ferreted into it like a detective custom-house officer
after smuggled laces. Soon, with some African word, equivalent to pshaw,
he tossed the knot overboard.

All this is very queer now, thought Captain Delano, with a qualmish sort
of emotion; but, as one feeling incipient sea-sickness, he strove, by
ignoring the symptoms, to get rid of the malady. Once more he looked off
for his boat. To his delight, it was now again in view, leaving the
rocky spur astern.

The sensation here experienced, after at first relieving his uneasiness,
with unforeseen efficacy soon began to remove it. The less distant sight
of that well-known boat--showing it, not as before, half blended with
the haze, but with outline defined, so that its individuality, like a
man's, was manifest; that boat, Rover by name, which, though now in
strange seas, had often pressed the beach of Captain Delano's home, and,
brought to its threshold for repairs, had familiarly lain there, as a
Newfoundland dog; the sight of that household boat evoked a thousand
trustful associations, which, contrasted with previous suspicions,
filled him not only with lightsome confidence, but somehow with half
humorous self-reproaches at his former lack of it.

"What, I, Amasa Delano--Jack of the Beach, as they called me when a
lad--I, Amasa; the same that, duck-satchel in hand, used to paddle along
the water-side to the school-house made from the old hulk--I, little
Jack of the Beach, that used to go berrying with cousin Nat and the
rest; I to be murdered here at the ends of the earth, on board a haunted
pirate-ship by a horrible Spaniard? Too nonsensical to think of! Who
would murder Amasa Delano? His conscience is clean. There is some one
above. Fie, fie, Jack of the Beach! you are a child indeed; a child of
the second childhood, old boy; you are beginning to dote and drule, I'm
afraid."

Light of heart and foot, he stepped aft, and there was met by Don
Benito's servant, who, with a pleasing expression, responsive to his own
present feelings, informed him that his master had recovered from the
effects of his coughing fit, and had just ordered him to go present his
compliments to his good guest, Don Amasa, and say that he (Don Benito)
would soon have the happiness to rejoin him.

There now, do you mark that? again thought Captain Delano, walking the
poop. What a donkey I was. This kind gentleman who here sends me his
kind compliments, he, but ten minutes ago, dark-lantern in had, was
dodging round some old grind-stone in the hold, sharpening a hatchet for
me, I thought. Well, well; these long calms have a morbid effect on the
mind, I've often heard, though I never believed it before. Ha! glancing
towards the boat; there's Rover; good dog; a white bone in her mouth. A
pretty big bone though, seems to me.--What? Yes, she has fallen afoul
of the bubbling tide-rip there. It sets her the other way, too, for the
time. Patience.

It was now about noon, though, from the grayness of everything, it
seemed to be getting towards dusk.

The calm was confirmed. In the far distance, away from the influence of
land, the leaden ocean seemed laid out and leaded up, its course
finished, soul gone, defunct. But the current from landward, where the
ship was, increased; silently sweeping her further and further towards
the tranced waters beyond.

Still, from his knowledge of those latitudes, cherishing hopes of a
breeze, and a fair and fresh one, at any moment, Captain Delano, despite
present prospects, buoyantly counted upon bringing the San Dominick
safely to anchor ere night. The distance swept over was nothing; since,
with a good wind, ten minutes' sailing would retrace more than sixty
minutes, drifting. Meantime, one moment turning to mark "Rover" fighting
the tide-rip, and the next to see Don Benito approaching, he continued
walking the poop.

Gradually he felt a vexation arising from the delay of his boat; this
soon merged into uneasiness; and at last--his eye falling continually,
as from a stage-box into the pit, upon the strange crowd before and
below him, and, by-and-by, recognizing there the face--now composed to
indifference--of the Spanish sailor who had seemed to beckon from the
main-chains--something of his old trepidations returned.

Ah, thought he--gravely enough--this is like the ague: because it went
off, it follows not that it won't come back.

Though ashamed of the relapse, he could not altogether subdue it; and
so, exerting his good-nature to the utmost, insensibly he came to a
compromise.

Yes, this is a strange craft; a strange history, too, and strange folks
on board. But--nothing more.

By way of keeping his mind out of mischief till the boat should arrive,
he tried to occupy it with turning over and over, in a purely
speculative sort of way, some lesser peculiarities of the captain and
crew. Among others, four curious points recurred:

First, the affair of the Spanish lad assailed with a knife by the slave
boy; an act winked at by Don Benito. Second, the tyranny in Don Benito's
treatment of Atufal, the black; as if a child should lead a bull of the
Nile by the ring in his nose. Third, the trampling of the sailor by the
two negroes; a piece of insolence passed over without so much as a
reprimand. Fourth, the cringing submission to their master, of all the
ship's underlings, mostly blacks; as if by the least inadvertence they
feared to draw down his despotic displeasure.

Coupling these points, they seemed somewhat contradictory. But what
then, thought Captain Delano, glancing towards his now nearing
boat--what then? Why, Don Benito is a very capricious commander. But he
is not the first of the sort I have seen; though it's true he rather
exceeds any other. But as a nation--continued he in his reveries--these
Spaniards are all an odd set; the very word Spaniard has a curious,
conspirator, Guy-Fawkish twang to it. And yet, I dare say, Spaniards in
the main are as good folks as any in Duxbury, Massachusetts. Ah good!
At last "Rover" has come.

As, with its welcome freight, the boat touched the side, the
oakum-pickers, with venerable gestures, sought to restrain the blacks,
who, at the sight of three gurried water-casks in its bottom, and a pile
of wilted pumpkins in its bow, hung over the bulwarks in disorderly
raptures.

Don Benito, with his servant, now appeared; his coming, perhaps,
hastened by hearing the noise. Of him Captain Delano sought permission
to serve out the water, so that all might share alike, and none injure
themselves by unfair excess. But sensible, and, on Don Benito's account,
kind as this offer was, it was received with what seemed impatience; as
if aware that he lacked energy as a commander, Don Benito, with the true
jealousy of weakness, resented as an affront any interference. So, at
least, Captain Delano inferred.

In another moment the casks were being hoisted in, when some of the
eager negroes accidentally jostled Captain Delano, where he stood by the
gangway; so, that, unmindful of Don Benito, yielding to the impulse of
the moment, with good-natured authority he bade the blacks stand back;
to enforce his words making use of a half-mirthful, half-menacing
gesture. Instantly the blacks paused, just where they were, each negro
and negress suspended in his or her posture, exactly as the word had
found them--for a few seconds continuing so--while, as between the
responsive posts of a telegraph, an unknown syllable ran from man to man
among the perched oakum-pickers. While the visitor's attention was fixed
by this scene, suddenly the hatchet-polishers half rose, and a rapid cry
came from Don Benito.

Thinking that at the signal of the Spaniard he was about to be
massacred, Captain Delano would have sprung for his boat, but paused, as
the oakum-pickers, dropping down into the crowd with earnest
exclamations, forced every white and every negro back, at the same
moment, with gestures friendly and familiar, almost jocose, bidding him,
in substance, not be a fool. Simultaneously the hatchet-polishers
resumed their seats, quietly as so many tailors, and at once, as if
nothing had happened, the work of hoisting in the casks was resumed,
whites and blacks singing at the tackle.

Captain Delano glanced towards Don Benito. As he saw his meagre form in
the act of recovering itself from reclining in the servant's arms, into
which the agitated invalid had fallen, he could not but marvel at the
panic by which himself had been surprised, on the darting supposition
that such a commander, who, upon a legitimate occasion, so trivial, too,
as it now appeared, could lose all self-command, was, with energetic
iniquity, going to bring about his murder.

The casks being on deck, Captain Delano was handed a number of jars and
cups by one of the steward's aids, who, in the name of his captain,
entreated him to do as he had proposed--dole out the water. He complied,
with republican impartiality as to this republican element, which always
seeks one level, serving the oldest white no better than the youngest
black; excepting, indeed, poor Don Benito, whose condition, if not rank,
demanded an extra allowance. To him, in the first place, Captain Delano
presented a fair pitcher of the fluid; but, thirsting as he was for it,
the Spaniard quaffed not a drop until after several grave bows and
salutes. A reciprocation of courtesies which the sight-loving Africans
hailed with clapping of hands.

Two of the less wilted pumpkins being reserved for the cabin table, the
residue were minced up on the spot for the general regalement. But the
soft bread, sugar, and bottled cider, Captain Delano would have given
the whites alone, and in chief Don Benito; but the latter objected;
which disinterestedness not a little pleased the American; and so
mouthfuls all around were given alike to whites and blacks; excepting
one bottle of cider, which Babo insisted upon setting aside for his
master.

Here it may be observed that as, on the first visit of the boat, the
American had not permitted his men to board the ship, neither did he
now; being unwilling to add to the confusion of the decks.

Not uninfluenced by the peculiar good-humor at present prevailing, and
for the time oblivious of any but benevolent thoughts, Captain Delano,
who, from recent indications, counted upon a breeze within an hour or
two at furthest, dispatched the boat back to the sealer, with orders for
all the hands that could be spared immediately to set about rafting
casks to the watering-place and filling them. Likewise he bade word be
carried to his chief officer, that if, against present expectation, the
ship was not brought to anchor by sunset, he need be under no concern;
for as there was to be a full moon that night, he (Captain Delano) would
remain on board ready to play the pilot, come the wind soon or late.

As the two Captains stood together, observing the departing boat--the
servant, as it happened, having just spied a spot on his master's velvet
sleeve, and silently engaged rubbing it out--the American expressed his
regrets that the San Dominick had no boats; none, at least, but the
unseaworthy old hulk of the long-boat, which, warped as a camel's
skeleton in the desert, and almost as bleached, lay pot-wise inverted
amidships, one side a little tipped, furnishing a subterraneous sort of
den for family groups of the blacks, mostly women and small children;
who, squatting on old mats below, or perched above in the dark dome, on
the elevated seats, were descried, some distance within, like a social
circle of bats, sheltering in some friendly cave; at intervals, ebon
flights of naked boys and girls, three or four years old, darting in and
out of the den's mouth.

"Had you three or four boats now, Don Benito," said Captain Delano, "I
think that, by tugging at the oars, your negroes here might help along
matters some. Did you sail from port without boats, Don Benito?"

"They were stove in the gales, Señor."

"That was bad. Many men, too, you lost then. Boats and men. Those must
have been hard gales, Don Benito."

"Past all speech," cringed the Spaniard.

"Tell me, Don Benito," continued his companion with increased interest,
"tell me, were these gales immediately off the pitch of Cape Horn?"

"Cape Horn?--who spoke of Cape Horn?"

"Yourself did, when giving me an account of your voyage," answered
Captain Delano, with almost equal astonishment at this eating of his own
words, even as he ever seemed eating his own heart, on the part of the
Spaniard. "You yourself, Don Benito, spoke of Cape Horn," he
emphatically repeated.

The Spaniard turned, in a sort of stooping posture, pausing an instant,
as one about to make a plunging exchange of elements, as from air to
water.

At this moment a messenger-boy, a white, hurried by, in the regular
performance of his function carrying the last expired half hour forward
to the forecastle, from the cabin time-piece, to have it struck at the
ship's large bell.

"Master," said the servant, discontinuing his work on the coat sleeve,
and addressing the rapt Spaniard with a sort of timid apprehensiveness,
as one charged with a duty, the discharge of which, it was foreseen,
would prove irksome to the very person who had imposed it, and for whose
benefit it was intended, "master told me never mind where he was, or how
engaged, always to remind him to a minute, when shaving-time comes.
Miguel has gone to strike the half-hour afternoon. It is _now_, master.
Will master go into the cuddy?"

"Ah--yes," answered the Spaniard, starting, as from dreams into
realities; then turning upon Captain Delano, he said that ere long he
would resume the conversation.

"Then if master means to talk more to Don Amasa," said the servant, "why
not let Don Amasa sit by master in the cuddy, and master can talk, and
Don Amasa can listen, while Babo here lathers and strops."

"Yes," said Captain Delano, not unpleased with this sociable plan, "yes,
Don Benito, unless you had rather not, I will go with you."

"Be it so, Señor."

As the three passed aft, the American could not but think it another
strange instance of his host's capriciousness, this being shaved with
such uncommon punctuality in the middle of the day. But he deemed it
more than likely that the servant's anxious fidelity had something to do
with the matter; inasmuch as the timely interruption served to rally his
master from the mood which had evidently been coming upon him.

The place called the cuddy was a light deck-cabin formed by the poop, a
sort of attic to the large cabin below. Part of it had formerly been
the quarters of the officers; but since their death all the partitioning
had been thrown down, and the whole interior converted into one spacious
and airy marine hall; for absence of fine furniture and picturesque
disarray of odd appurtenances, somewhat answering to the wide, cluttered
hall of some eccentric bachelor-squire in the country, who hangs his
shooting-jacket and tobacco-pouch on deer antlers, and keeps his
fishing-rod, tongs, and walking-stick in the same corner.

The similitude was heightened, if not originally suggested, by glimpses
of the surrounding sea; since, in one aspect, the country and the ocean
seem cousins-german.

The floor of the cuddy was matted. Overhead, four or five old muskets
were stuck into horizontal holes along the beams. On one side was a
claw-footed old table lashed to the deck; a thumbed missal on it, and
over it a small, meagre crucifix attached to the bulk-head. Under the
table lay a dented cutlass or two, with a hacked harpoon, among some
melancholy old rigging, like a heap of poor friars' girdles. There were
also two long, sharp-ribbed settees of Malacca cane, black with age,
and uncomfortable to look at as inquisitors' racks, with a large,
misshapen arm-chair, which, furnished with a rude barber's crotch at the
back, working with a screw, seemed some grotesque engine of torment. A
flag locker was in one corner, open, exposing various colored bunting,
some rolled up, others half unrolled, still others tumbled. Opposite was
a cumbrous washstand, of black mahogany, all of one block, with a
pedestal, like a font, and over it a railed shelf, containing combs,
brushes, and other implements of the toilet. A torn hammock of stained
grass swung near; the sheets tossed, and the pillow wrinkled up like a
brow, as if who ever slept here slept but illy, with alternate
visitations of sad thoughts and bad dreams.

The further extremity of the cuddy, overhanging the ship's stern, was
pierced with three openings, windows or port-holes, according as men or
cannon might peer, socially or unsocially, out of them. At present
neither men nor cannon were seen, though huge ring-bolts and other rusty
iron fixtures of the wood-work hinted of twenty-four-pounders.

Glancing towards the hammock as he entered, Captain Delano said, "You
sleep here, Don Benito?"

"Yes, Señor, since we got into mild weather."

"This seems a sort of dormitory, sitting-room, sail-loft, chapel,
armory, and private closet all together, Don Benito," added Captain
Delano, looking round.

"Yes, Señor; events have not been favorable to much order in my
arrangements."

Here the servant, napkin on arm, made a motion as if waiting his
master's good pleasure. Don Benito signified his readiness, when,
seating him in the Malacca arm-chair, and for the guest's convenience
drawing opposite one of the settees, the servant commenced operations by
throwing back his master's collar and loosening his cravat.

There is something in the negro which, in a peculiar way, fits him for
avocations about one's person. Most negroes are natural valets and
hair-dressers; taking to the comb and brush congenially as to the
castinets, and flourishing them apparently with almost equal
satisfaction. There is, too, a smooth tact about them in this
employment, with a marvelous, noiseless, gliding briskness, not
ungraceful in its way, singularly pleasing to behold, and still more so
to be the manipulated subject of. And above all is the great gift of
good-humor. Not the mere grin or laugh is here meant. Those were
unsuitable. But a certain easy cheerfulness, harmonious in every glance
and gesture; as though God had set the whole negro to some pleasant
tune.

When to this is added the docility arising from the unaspiring
contentment of a limited mind and that susceptibility of blind
attachment sometimes inhering in indisputable inferiors, one readily
perceives why those hypochondriacs, Johnson and Byron--it may be,
something like the hypochondriac Benito Cereno--took to their hearts,
almost to the exclusion of the entire white race, their serving men, the
negroes, Barber and Fletcher. But if there be that in the negro which
exempts him from the inflicted sourness of the morbid or cynical mind,
how, in his most prepossessing aspects, must he appear to a benevolent
one? When at ease with respect to exterior things, Captain Delano's
nature was not only benign, but familiarly and humorously so. At home,
he had often taken rare satisfaction in sitting in his door, watching
some free man of color at his work or play. If on a voyage he chanced to
have a black sailor, invariably he was on chatty and half-gamesome terms
with him. In fact, like most men of a good, blithe heart, Captain Delano
took to negroes, not philanthropically, but genially, just as other men
to Newfoundland dogs.

Hitherto, the circumstances in which he found the San Dominick had
repressed the tendency. But in the cuddy, relieved from his former
uneasiness, and, for various reasons, more sociably inclined than at any
previous period of the day, and seeing the colored servant, napkin on
arm, so debonair about his master, in a business so familiar as that of
shaving, too, all his old weakness for negroes returned.

Among other things, he was amused with an odd instance of the African
love of bright colors and fine shows, in the black's informally taking
from the flag-locker a great piece of bunting of all hues, and lavishly
tucking it under his master's chin for an apron.

The mode of shaving among the Spaniards is a little different from what
it is with other nations. They have a basin, specifically called a
barber's basin, which on one side is scooped out, so as accurately to
receive the chin, against which it is closely held in lathering; which
is done, not with a brush, but with soap dipped in the water of the
basin and rubbed on the face.

In the present instance salt-water was used for lack of better; and the
parts lathered were only the upper lip, and low down under the throat,
all the rest being cultivated beard.

The preliminaries being somewhat novel to Captain Delano, he sat
curiously eying them, so that no conversation took place, nor, for the
present, did Don Benito appear disposed to renew any.

Setting down his basin, the negro searched among the razors, as for the
sharpest, and having found it, gave it an additional edge by expertly
strapping it on the firm, smooth, oily skin of his open palm; he then
made a gesture as if to begin, but midway stood suspended for an
instant, one hand elevating the razor, the other professionally dabbling
among the bubbling suds on the Spaniard's lank neck. Not unaffected by
the close sight of the gleaming steel, Don Benito nervously shuddered;
his usual ghastliness was heightened by the lather, which lather, again,
was intensified in its hue by the contrasting sootiness of the negro's
body. Altogether the scene was somewhat peculiar, at least to Captain
Delano, nor, as he saw the two thus postured, could he resist the
vagary, that in the black he saw a headsman, and in the white a man at
the block. But this was one of those antic conceits, appearing and
vanishing in a breath, from which, perhaps, the best regulated mind is
not always free.

Meantime the agitation of the Spaniard had a little loosened the bunting
from around him, so that one broad fold swept curtain-like over the
chair-arm to the floor, revealing, amid a profusion of armorial bars and
ground-colors--black, blue, and yellow--a closed castle in a blood red
field diagonal with a lion rampant in a white.

"The castle and the lion," exclaimed Captain Delano--"why, Don Benito,
this is the flag of Spain you use here. It's well it's only I, and not
the King, that sees this," he added, with a smile, "but"--turning
towards the black--"it's all one, I suppose, so the colors be gay;"
which playful remark did not fail somewhat to tickle the negro.

"Now, master," he said, readjusting the flag, and pressing the head
gently further back into the crotch of the chair; "now, master," and the
steel glanced nigh the throat.

Again Don Benito faintly shuddered.

"You must not shake so, master. See, Don Amasa, master always shakes
when I shave him. And yet master knows I never yet have drawn blood,
though it's true, if master will shake so, I may some of these times.
Now master," he continued. "And now, Don Amasa, please go on with your
talk about the gale, and all that; master can hear, and, between times,
master can answer."

"Ah yes, these gales," said Captain Delano; "but the more I think of
your voyage, Don Benito, the more I wonder, not at the gales, terrible
as they must have been, but at the disastrous interval following them.
For here, by your account, have you been these two months and more
getting from Cape Horn to St. Maria, a distance which I myself, with a
good wind, have sailed in a few days. True, you had calms, and long
ones, but to be becalmed for two months, that is, at least, unusual.
Why, Don Benito, had almost any other gentleman told me such a story, I
should have been half disposed to a little incredulity."

Here an involuntary expression came over the Spaniard, similar to that
just before on the deck, and whether it was the start he gave, or a
sudden gawky roll of the hull in the calm, or a momentary unsteadiness
of the servant's hand, however it was, just then the razor drew blood,
spots of which stained the creamy lather under the throat: immediately
the black barber drew back his steel, and, remaining in his professional
attitude, back to Captain Delano, and face to Don Benito, held up the
trickling razor, saying, with a sort of half humorous sorrow, "See,
master--you shook so--here's Babo's first blood."

No sword drawn before James the First of England, no assassination in
that timid King's presence, could have produced a more terrified aspect
than was now presented by Don Benito.

Poor fellow, thought Captain Delano, so nervous he can't even bear the
sight of barber's blood; and this unstrung, sick man, is it credible
that I should have imagined he meant to spill all my blood, who can't
endure the sight of one little drop of his own? Surely, Amasa Delano,
you have been beside yourself this day. Tell it not when you get home,
sappy Amasa. Well, well, he looks like a murderer, doesn't he? More like
as if himself were to be done for. Well, well, this day's experience
shall be a good lesson.

Meantime, while these things were running through the honest seaman's
mind, the servant had taken the napkin from his arm, and to Don Benito
had said--"But answer Don Amasa, please, master, while I wipe this ugly
stuff off the razor, and strop it again."

As he said the words, his face was turned half round, so as to be alike
visible to the Spaniard and the American, and seemed, by its
expression, to hint, that he was desirous, by getting his master to go
on with the conversation, considerately to withdraw his attention from
the recent annoying accident. As if glad to snatch the offered relief,
Don Benito resumed, rehearsing to Captain Delano, that not only were the
calms of unusual duration, but the ship had fallen in with obstinate
currents; and other things he added, some of which were but repetitions
of former statements, to explain how it came to pass that the passage
from Cape Horn to St. Maria had been so exceedingly long; now and then,
mingling with his words, incidental praises, less qualified than before,
to the blacks, for their general good conduct. These particulars were
not given consecutively, the servant, at convenient times, using his
razor, and so, between the intervals of shaving, the story and panegyric
went on with more than usual huskiness.

To Captain Delano's imagination, now again not wholly at rest, there was
something so hollow in the Spaniard's manner, with apparently some
reciprocal hollowness in the servant's dusky comment of silence, that
the idea flashed across him, that possibly master and man, for some
unknown purpose, were acting out, both in word and deed, nay, to the
very tremor of Don Benito's limbs, some juggling play before him.
Neither did the suspicion of collusion lack apparent support, from the
fact of those whispered conferences before mentioned. But then, what
could be the object of enacting this play of the barber before him? At
last, regarding the notion as a whimsy, insensibly suggested, perhaps,
by the theatrical aspect of Don Benito in his harlequin ensign, Captain
Delano speedily banished it.

The shaving over, the servant bestirred himself with a small bottle of
scented waters, pouring a few drops on the head, and then diligently
rubbing; the vehemence of the exercise causing the muscles of his face
to twitch rather strangely.

His next operation was with comb, scissors, and brush; going round and
round, smoothing a curl here, clipping an unruly whisker-hair there,
giving a graceful sweep to the temple-lock, with other impromptu
touches evincing the hand of a master; while, like any resigned
gentleman in barber's hands, Don Benito bore all, much less uneasily, at
least than he had done the razoring; indeed, he sat so pale and rigid
now, that the negro seemed a Nubian sculptor finishing off a white
statue-head.

All being over at last, the standard of Spain removed, tumbled up, and
tossed back into the flag-locker, the negro's warm breath blowing away
any stray hair, which might have lodged down his master's neck; collar
and cravat readjusted; a speck of lint whisked off the velvet lapel; all
this being done; backing off a little space, and pausing with an
expression of subdued self-complacency, the servant for a moment
surveyed his master, as, in toilet at least, the creature of his own
tasteful hands.

Captain Delano playfully complimented him upon his achievement; at the
same time congratulating Don Benito.

But neither sweet waters, nor shampooing, nor fidelity, nor sociality,
delighted the Spaniard. Seeing him relapsing into forbidding gloom, and
still remaining seated, Captain Delano, thinking that his presence was
undesired just then, withdrew, on pretense of seeing whether, as he had
prophesied, any signs of a breeze were visible.

Walking forward to the main-mast, he stood awhile thinking over the
scene, and not without some undefined misgivings, when he heard a noise
near the cuddy, and turning, saw the negro, his hand to his cheek.
Advancing, Captain Delano perceived that the cheek was bleeding. He was
about to ask the cause, when the negro's wailing soliloquy enlightened
him.

"Ah, when will master get better from his sickness; only the sour heart
that sour sickness breeds made him serve Babo so; cutting Babo with the
razor, because, only by accident, Babo had given master one little
scratch; and for the first time in so many a day, too. Ah, ah, ah,"
holding his hand to his face.

Is it possible, thought Captain Delano; was it to wreak in private his
Spanish spite against this poor friend of his, that Don Benito, by his
sullen manner, impelled me to withdraw? Ah this slavery breeds ugly
passions in man.--Poor fellow!

He was about to speak in sympathy to the negro, but with a timid
reluctance he now re-entered the cuddy.

Presently master and man came forth; Don Benito leaning on his servant
as if nothing had happened.

But a sort of love-quarrel, after all, thought Captain Delano.

He accosted Don Benito, and they slowly walked together. They had gone
but a few paces, when the steward--a tall, rajah-looking mulatto,
orientally set off with a pagoda turban formed by three or four Madras
handkerchiefs wound about his head, tier on tier--approaching with a
saalam, announced lunch in the cabin.

On their way thither, the two captains were preceded by the mulatto,
who, turning round as he advanced, with continual smiles and bows,
ushered them on, a display of elegance which quite completed the
insignificance of the small bare-headed Babo, who, as if not unconscious
of inferiority, eyed askance the graceful steward. But in part, Captain
Delano imputed his jealous watchfulness to that peculiar feeling which
the full-blooded African entertains for the adulterated one. As for the
steward, his manner, if not bespeaking much dignity of self-respect, yet
evidenced his extreme desire to please; which is doubly meritorious, as
at once Christian and Chesterfieldian.

Captain Delano observed with interest that while the complexion of the
mulatto was hybrid, his physiognomy was European--classically so.

"Don Benito," whispered he, "I am glad to see this
usher-of-the-golden-rod of yours; the sight refutes an ugly remark once
made to me by a Barbadoes planter; that when a mulatto has a regular
European face, look out for him; he is a devil. But see, your steward
here has features more regular than King George's of England; and yet
there he nods, and bows, and smiles; a king, indeed--the king of kind
hearts and polite fellows. What a pleasant voice he has, too?"

"He has, Señor."

"But tell me, has he not, so far as you have known him, always proved a
good, worthy fellow?" said Captain Delano, pausing, while with a final
genuflexion the steward disappeared into the cabin; "come, for the
reason just mentioned, I am curious to know."

"Francesco is a good man," a sort of sluggishly responded Don Benito,
like a phlegmatic appreciator, who would neither find fault nor flatter.

"Ah, I thought so. For it were strange, indeed, and not very creditable
to us white-skins, if a little of our blood mixed with the African's,
should, far from improving the latter's quality, have the sad effect of
pouring vitriolic acid into black broth; improving the hue, perhaps, but
not the wholesomeness."

"Doubtless, doubtless, Señor, but"--glancing at Babo--"not to speak of
negroes, your planter's remark I have heard applied to the Spanish and
Indian intermixtures in our provinces. But I know nothing about the
matter," he listlessly added.

And here they entered the cabin.

The lunch was a frugal one. Some of Captain Delano's fresh fish and
pumpkins, biscuit and salt beef, the reserved bottle of cider, and the
San Dominick's last bottle of Canary.

As they entered, Francesco, with two or three colored aids, was hovering
over the table giving the last adjustments. Upon perceiving their master
they withdrew, Francesco making a smiling congé, and the Spaniard,
without condescending to notice it, fastidiously remarking to his
companion that he relished not superfluous attendance.

Without companions, host and guest sat down, like a childless married
couple, at opposite ends of the table, Don Benito waving Captain Delano
to his place, and, weak as he was, insisting upon that gentleman being
seated before himself.

The negro placed a rug under Don Benito's feet, and a cushion behind his
back, and then stood behind, not his master's chair, but Captain
Delano's. At first, this a little surprised the latter. But it was soon
evident that, in taking his position, the black was still true to his
master; since by facing him he could the more readily anticipate his
slightest want.

"This is an uncommonly intelligent fellow of yours, Don Benito,"
whispered Captain Delano across the table.

"You say true, Señor."

During the repast, the guest again reverted to parts of Don Benito's
story, begging further particulars here and there. He inquired how it
was that the scurvy and fever should have committed such wholesale havoc
upon the whites, while destroying less than half of the blacks. As if
this question reproduced the whole scene of plague before the Spaniard's
eyes, miserably reminding him of his solitude in a cabin where before he
had had so many friends and officers round him, his hand shook, his face
became hueless, broken words escaped; but directly the sane memory of
the past seemed replaced by insane terrors of the present. With starting
eyes he stared before him at vacancy. For nothing was to be seen but the
hand of his servant pushing the Canary over towards him. At length a few
sips served partially to restore him. He made random reference to the
different constitution of races, enabling one to offer more resistance
to certain maladies than another. The thought was new to his companion.

Presently Captain Delano, intending to say something to his host
concerning the pecuniary part of the business he had undertaken for him,
especially--since he was strictly accountable to his owners--with
reference to the new suit of sails, and other things of that sort; and
naturally preferring to conduct such affairs in private, was desirous
that the servant should withdraw; imagining that Don Benito for a few
minutes could dispense with his attendance. He, however, waited awhile;
thinking that, as the conversation proceeded, Don Benito, without being
prompted, would perceive the propriety of the step.

But it was otherwise. At last catching his host's eye, Captain Delano,
with a slight backward gesture of his thumb, whispered, "Don Benito,
pardon me, but there is an interference with the full expression of what
I have to say to you."

Upon this the Spaniard changed countenance; which was imputed to his
resenting the hint, as in some way a reflection upon his servant. After
a moment's pause, he assured his guest that the black's remaining with
them could be of no disservice; because since losing his officers he had
made Babo (whose original office, it now appeared, had been captain of
the slaves) not only his constant attendant and companion, but in all
things his confidant.

After this, nothing more could be said; though, indeed, Captain Delano
could hardly avoid some little tinge of irritation upon being left
ungratified in so inconsiderable a wish, by one, too, for whom he
intended such solid services. But it is only his querulousness, thought
he; and so filling his glass he proceeded to business.

The price of the sails and other matters was fixed upon. But while this
was being done, the American observed that, though his original offer of
assistance had been hailed with hectic animation, yet now when it was
reduced to a business transaction, indifference and apathy were
betrayed. Don Benito, in fact, appeared to submit to hearing the details
more out of regard to common propriety, than from any impression that
weighty benefit to himself and his voyage was involved.

Soon, his manner became still more reserved. The effort was vain to seek
to draw him into social talk. Gnawed by his splenetic mood, he sat
twitching his beard, while to little purpose the hand of his servant,
mute as that on the wall, slowly pushed over the Canary.

Lunch being over, they sat down on the cushioned transom; the servant
placing a pillow behind his master. The long continuance of the calm had
now affected the atmosphere. Don Benito sighed heavily, as if for
breath.

"Why not adjourn to the cuddy," said Captain Delano; "there is more air
there." But the host sat silent and motionless.

Meantime his servant knelt before him, with a large fan of feathers. And
Francesco coming in on tiptoes, handed the negro a little cup of
aromatic waters, with which at intervals he chafed his master's brow;
smoothing the hair along the temples as a nurse does a child's. He spoke
no word. He only rested his eye on his master's, as if, amid all Don
Benito's distress, a little to refresh his spirit by the silent sight
of fidelity.

Presently the ship's bell sounded two o'clock; and through the cabin
windows a slight rippling of the sea was discerned; and from the desired
direction.

"There," exclaimed Captain Delano, "I told you so, Don Benito, look!"

He had risen to his feet, speaking in a very animated tone, with a view
the more to rouse his companion. But though the crimson curtain of the
stern-window near him that moment fluttered against his pale cheek, Don
Benito seemed to have even less welcome for the breeze than the calm.

Poor fellow, thought Captain Delano, bitter experience has taught him
that one ripple does not make a wind, any more than one swallow a
summer. But he is mistaken for once. I will get his ship in for him, and
prove it.

Briefly alluding to his weak condition, he urged his host to remain
quietly where he was, since he (Captain Delano) would with pleasure take
upon himself the responsibility of making the best use of the wind.

Upon gaining the deck, Captain Delano started at the unexpected figure
of Atufal, monumentally fixed at the threshold, like one of those
sculptured porters of black marble guarding the porches of Egyptian
tombs.

But this time the start was, perhaps, purely physical. Atufal's
presence, singularly attesting docility even in sullenness, was
contrasted with that of the hatchet-polishers, who in patience evinced
their industry; while both spectacles showed, that lax as Don Benito's
general authority might be, still, whenever he chose to exert it, no man
so savage or colossal but must, more or less, bow.

Snatching a trumpet which hung from the bulwarks, with a free step
Captain Delano advanced to the forward edge of the poop, issuing his
orders in his best Spanish. The few sailors and many negroes, all
equally pleased, obediently set about heading the ship towards the
harbor.

While giving some directions about setting a lower stu'n'-sail, suddenly
Captain Delano heard a voice faithfully repeating his orders. Turning,
he saw Babo, now for the time acting, under the pilot, his original
part of captain of the slaves. This assistance proved valuable. Tattered
sails and warped yards were soon brought into some trim. And no brace or
halyard was pulled but to the blithe songs of the inspirited negroes.

Good fellows, thought Captain Delano, a little training would make fine
sailors of them. Why see, the very women pull and sing too. These must
be some of those Ashantee negresses that make such capital soldiers,
I've heard. But who's at the helm. I must have a good hand there.

He went to see.

The San Dominick steered with a cumbrous tiller, with large horizontal
pullies attached. At each pully-end stood a subordinate black, and
between them, at the tiller-head, the responsible post, a Spanish
seaman, whose countenance evinced his due share in the general
hopefulness and confidence at the coming of the breeze.

He proved the same man who had behaved with so shame-faced an air on the
windlass.

"Ah,--it is you, my man," exclaimed Captain Delano--"well, no more
sheep's-eyes now;--look straight forward and keep the ship so. Good
hand, I trust? And want to get into the harbor, don't you?"

The man assented with an inward chuckle, grasping the tiller-head
firmly. Upon this, unperceived by the American, the two blacks eyed the
sailor intently.

Finding all right at the helm, the pilot went forward to the forecastle,
to see how matters stood there.

The ship now had way enough to breast the current. With the approach of
evening, the breeze would be sure to freshen.

Having done all that was needed for the present, Captain Delano, giving
his last orders to the sailors, turned aft to report affairs to Don
Benito in the cabin; perhaps additionally incited to rejoin him by the
hope of snatching a moment's private chat while the servant was engaged
upon deck.

From opposite sides, there were, beneath the poop, two approaches to the
cabin; one further forward than the other, and consequently
communicating with a longer passage. Marking the servant still above,
Captain Delano, taking the nighest entrance--the one last named, and at
whose porch Atufal still stood--hurried on his way, till, arrived at the
cabin threshold, he paused an instant, a little to recover from his
eagerness. Then, with the words of his intended business upon his lips,
he entered. As he advanced toward the seated Spaniard, he heard another
footstep, keeping time with his. From the opposite door, a salver in
hand, the servant was likewise advancing.

"Confound the faithful fellow," thought Captain Delano; "what a
vexatious coincidence."

Possibly, the vexation might have been something different, were it not
for the brisk confidence inspired by the breeze. But even as it was, he
felt a slight twinge, from a sudden indefinite association in his mind
of Babo with Atufal.

"Don Benito," said he, "I give you joy; the breeze will hold, and will
increase. By the way, your tall man and time-piece, Atufal, stands
without. By your order, of course?"

Don Benito recoiled, as if at some bland satirical touch, delivered with
such adroit garnish of apparent good breeding as to present no handle
for retort.

He is like one flayed alive, thought Captain Delano; where may one touch
him without causing a shrink?

The servant moved before his master, adjusting a cushion; recalled to
civility, the Spaniard stiffly replied: "you are right. The slave
appears where you saw him, according to my command; which is, that if at
the given hour I am below, he must take his stand and abide my coming."

"Ah now, pardon me, but that is treating the poor fellow like an ex-king
indeed. Ah, Don Benito," smiling, "for all the license you permit in
some things, I fear lest, at bottom, you are a bitter hard master."

Again Don Benito shrank; and this time, as the good sailor thought, from
a genuine twinge of his conscience.

Again conversation became constrained. In vain Captain Delano called
attention to the now perceptible motion of the keel gently cleaving the
sea; with lack-lustre eye, Don Benito returned words few and reserved.

By-and-by, the wind having steadily risen, and still blowing right into
the harbor bore the San Dominick swiftly on. Sounding a point of land,
the sealer at distance came into open view.

Meantime Captain Delano had again repaired to the deck, remaining there
some time. Having at last altered the ship's course, so as to give the
reef a wide berth, he returned for a few moments below.

I will cheer up my poor friend, this time, thought he.

"Better and better," Don Benito, he cried as he blithely re-entered:
"there will soon be an end to your cares, at least for awhile. For when,
after a long, sad voyage, you know, the anchor drops into the haven, all
its vast weight seems lifted from the captain's heart. We are getting on
famously, Don Benito. My ship is in sight. Look through this side-light
here; there she is; all a-taunt-o! The Bachelor's Delight, my good
friend. Ah, how this wind braces one up. Come, you must take a cup of
coffee with me this evening. My old steward will give you as fine a cup
as ever any sultan tasted. What say you, Don Benito, will you?"

At first, the Spaniard glanced feverishly up, casting a longing look
towards the sealer, while with mute concern his servant gazed into his
face. Suddenly the old ague of coldness returned, and dropping back to
his cushions he was silent.

"You do not answer. Come, all day you have been my host; would you have
hospitality all on one side?"

"I cannot go," was the response.

"What? it will not fatigue you. The ships will lie together as near as
they can, without swinging foul. It will be little more than stepping
from deck to deck; which is but as from room to room. Come, come, you
must not refuse me."

"I cannot go," decisively and repulsively repeated Don Benito.

Renouncing all but the last appearance of courtesy, with a sort of
cadaverous sullenness, and biting his thin nails to the quick, he
glanced, almost glared, at his guest, as if impatient that a stranger's
presence should interfere with the full indulgence of his morbid hour.
Meantime the sound of the parted waters came more and more gurglingly
and merrily in at the windows; as reproaching him for his dark spleen;
as telling him that, sulk as he might, and go mad with it, nature cared
not a jot; since, whose fault was it, pray?

But the foul mood was now at its depth, as the fair wind at its height.

There was something in the man so far beyond any mere unsociality or
sourness previously evinced, that even the forbearing good-nature of his
guest could no longer endure it. Wholly at a loss to account for such
demeanor, and deeming sickness with eccentricity, however extreme, no
adequate excuse, well satisfied, too, that nothing in his own conduct
could justify it, Captain Delano's pride began to be roused. Himself
became reserved. But all seemed one to the Spaniard. Quitting him,
therefore, Captain Delano once more went to the deck.

The ship was now within less than two miles of the sealer. The
whale-boat was seen darting over the interval.

To be brief, the two vessels, thanks to the pilot's skill, ere long
neighborly style lay anchored together.

Before returning to his own vessel, Captain Delano had intended
communicating to Don Benito the smaller details of the proposed services
to be rendered. But, as it was, unwilling anew to subject himself to
rebuffs, he resolved, now that he had seen the San Dominick safely
moored, immediately to quit her, without further allusion to hospitality
or business. Indefinitely postponing his ulterior plans, he would
regulate his future actions according to future circumstances. His boat
was ready to receive him; but his host still tarried below. Well,
thought Captain Delano, if he has little breeding, the more need to show
mine. He descended to the cabin to bid a ceremonious, and, it may be,
tacitly rebukeful adieu. But to his great satisfaction, Don Benito, as
if he began to feel the weight of that treatment with which his slighted
guest had, not indecorously, retaliated upon him, now supported by his
servant, rose to his feet, and grasping Captain Delano's hand, stood
tremulous; too much agitated to speak. But the good augury hence drawn
was suddenly dashed, by his resuming all his previous reserve, with
augmented gloom, as, with half-averted eyes, he silently reseated
himself on his cushions. With a corresponding return of his own chilled
feelings, Captain Delano bowed and withdrew.

He was hardly midway in the narrow corridor, dim as a tunnel, leading
from the cabin to the stairs, when a sound, as of the tolling for
execution in some jail-yard, fell on his ears. It was the echo of the
ship's flawed bell, striking the hour, drearily reverberated in this
subterranean vault. Instantly, by a fatality not to be withstood, his
mind, responsive to the portent, swarmed with superstitious suspicions.
He paused. In images far swifter than these sentences, the minutest
details of all his former distrusts swept through him.

Hitherto, credulous good-nature had been too ready to furnish excuses
for reasonable fears. Why was the Spaniard, so superfluously punctilious
at times, now heedless of common propriety in not accompanying to the
side his departing guest? Did indisposition forbid? Indisposition had
not forbidden more irksome exertion that day. His last equivocal
demeanor recurred. He had risen to his feet, grasped his guest's hand,
motioned toward his hat; then, in an instant, all was eclipsed in
sinister muteness and gloom. Did this imply one brief, repentant
relenting at the final moment, from some iniquitous plot, followed by
remorseless return to it? His last glance seemed to express a
calamitous, yet acquiescent farewell to Captain Delano forever. Why
decline the invitation to visit the sealer that evening? Or was the
Spaniard less hardened than the Jew, who refrained not from supping at
the board of him whom the same night he meant to betray? What imported
all those day-long enigmas and contradictions, except they were intended
to mystify, preliminary to some stealthy blow? Atufal, the pretended
rebel, but punctual shadow, that moment lurked by the threshold without.
He seemed a sentry, and more. Who, by his own confession, had stationed
him there? Was the negro now lying in wait?

The Spaniard behind--his creature before: to rush from darkness to
light was the involuntary choice.

The next moment, with clenched jaw and hand, he passed Atufal, and stood
unharmed in the light. As he saw his trim ship lying peacefully at
anchor, and almost within ordinary call; as he saw his household boat,
with familiar faces in it, patiently rising and falling, on the short
waves by the San Dominick's side; and then, glancing about the decks
where he stood, saw the oakum-pickers still gravely plying their
fingers; and heard the low, buzzing whistle and industrious hum of the
hatchet-polishers, still bestirring themselves over their endless
occupation; and more than all, as he saw the benign aspect of nature,
taking her innocent repose in the evening; the screened sun in the quiet
camp of the west shining out like the mild light from Abraham's tent; as
charmed eye and ear took in all these, with the chained figure of the
black, clenched jaw and hand relaxed. Once again he smiled at the
phantoms which had mocked him, and felt something like a tinge of
remorse, that, by harboring them even for a moment, he should, by
implication, have betrayed an atheist doubt of the ever-watchful
Providence above.

There was a few minutes' delay, while, in obedience to his orders, the
boat was being hooked along to the gangway. During this interval, a sort
of saddened satisfaction stole over Captain Delano, at thinking of the
kindly offices he had that day discharged for a stranger. Ah, thought
he, after good actions one's conscience is never ungrateful, however
much so the benefited party may be.

Presently, his foot, in the first act of descent into the boat, pressed
the first round of the side-ladder, his face presented inward upon the
deck. In the same moment, he heard his name courteously sounded; and, to
his pleased surprise, saw Don Benito advancing--an unwonted energy in
his air, as if, at the last moment, intent upon making amends for his
recent discourtesy. With instinctive good feeling, Captain Delano,
withdrawing his foot, turned and reciprocally advanced. As he did so,
the Spaniard's nervous eagerness increased, but his vital energy failed;
so that, the better to support him, the servant, placing his master's
hand on his naked shoulder, and gently holding it there, formed himself
into a sort of crutch.

When the two captains met, the Spaniard again fervently took the hand of
the American, at the same time casting an earnest glance into his eyes,
but, as before, too much overcome to speak.

I have done him wrong, self-reproachfully thought Captain Delano; his
apparent coldness has deceived me: in no instance has he meant to
offend.

Meantime, as if fearful that the continuance of the scene might too much
unstring his master, the servant seemed anxious to terminate it. And so,
still presenting himself as a crutch, and walking between the two
captains, he advanced with them towards the gangway; while still, as if
full of kindly contrition, Don Benito would not let go the hand of
Captain Delano, but retained it in his, across the black's body.

Soon they were standing by the side, looking over into the boat, whose
crew turned up their curious eyes. Waiting a moment for the Spaniard to
relinquish his hold, the now embarrassed Captain Delano lifted his foot,
to overstep the threshold of the open gangway; but still Don Benito
would not let go his hand. And yet, with an agitated tone, he said, "I
can go no further; here I must bid you adieu. Adieu, my dear, dear Don
Amasa. Go--go!" suddenly tearing his hand loose, "go, and God guard you
better than me, my best friend."

Not unaffected, Captain Delano would now have lingered; but catching the
meekly admonitory eye of the servant, with a hasty farewell he descended
into his boat, followed by the continual adieus of Don Benito, standing
rooted in the gangway.

Seating himself in the stern, Captain Delano, making a last salute,
ordered the boat shoved off. The crew had their oars on end. The bowsmen
pushed the boat a sufficient distance for the oars to be lengthwise
dropped. The instant that was done, Don Benito sprang over the bulwarks,
falling at the feet of Captain Delano; at the same time calling towards
his ship, but in tones so frenzied, that none in the boat could
understand him. But, as if not equally obtuse, three sailors, from
three different and distant parts of the ship, splashed into the sea,
swimming after their captain, as if intent upon his rescue.

The dismayed officer of the boat eagerly asked what this meant. To
which, Captain Delano, turning a disdainful smile upon the unaccountable
Spaniard, answered that, for his part, he neither knew nor cared; but it
seemed as if Don Benito had taken it into his head to produce the
impression among his people that the boat wanted to kidnap him. "Or
else--give way for your lives," he wildly added, starting at a
clattering hubbub in the ship, above which rang the tocsin of the
hatchet-polishers; and seizing Don Benito by the throat he added, "this
plotting pirate means murder!" Here, in apparent verification of the
words, the servant, a dagger in his hand, was seen on the rail overhead,
poised, in the act of leaping, as if with desperate fidelity to befriend
his master to the last; while, seemingly to aid the black, the three
white sailors were trying to clamber into the hampered bow. Meantime,
the whole host of negroes, as if inflamed at the sight of their
jeopardized captain, impended in one sooty avalanche over the bulwarks.

All this, with what preceded, and what followed, occurred with such
involutions of rapidity, that past, present, and future seemed one.

Seeing the negro coming, Captain Delano had flung the Spaniard aside,
almost in the very act of clutching him, and, by the unconscious recoil,
shifting his place, with arms thrown up, so promptly grappled the
servant in his descent, that with dagger presented at Captain Delano's
heart, the black seemed of purpose to have leaped there as to his mark.
But the weapon was wrenched away, and the assailant dashed down into the
bottom of the boat, which now, with disentangled oars, began to speed
through the sea.

At this juncture, the left hand of Captain Delano, on one side, again
clutched the half-reclined Don Benito, heedless that he was in a
speechless faint, while his right-foot, on the other side, ground the
prostrate negro; and his right arm pressed for added speed on the after
oar, his eye bent forward, encouraging his men to their utmost.

But here, the officer of the boat, who had at last succeeded in beating
off the towing sailors, and was now, with face turned aft, assisting the
bowsman at his oar, suddenly called to Captain Delano, to see what the
black was about; while a Portuguese oarsman shouted to him to give heed
to what the Spaniard was saying.

Glancing down at his feet, Captain Delano saw the freed hand of the
servant aiming with a second dagger--a small one, before concealed in
his wool--with this he was snakishly writhing up from the boat's bottom,
at the heart of his master, his countenance lividly vindictive,
expressing the centred purpose of his soul; while the Spaniard,
half-choked, was vainly shrinking away, with husky words, incoherent to
all but the Portuguese.

That moment, across the long-benighted mind of Captain Delano, a flash
of revelation swept, illuminating, in unanticipated clearness, his
host's whole mysterious demeanor, with every enigmatic event of the day,
as well as the entire past voyage of the San Dominick. He smote Babo's
hand down, but his own heart smote him harder. With infinite pity he
withdrew his hold from Don Benito. Not Captain Delano, but Don Benito,
the black, in leaping into the boat, had intended to stab.

Both the black's hands were held, as, glancing up towards the San
Dominick, Captain Delano, now with scales dropped from his eyes, saw the
negroes, not in misrule, not in tumult, not as if frantically concerned
for Don Benito, but with mask torn away, flourishing hatchets and
knives, in ferocious piratical revolt. Like delirious black dervishes,
the six Ashantees danced on the poop. Prevented by their foes from
springing into the water, the Spanish boys were hurrying up to the
topmost spars, while such of the few Spanish sailors, not already in the
sea, less alert, were descried, helplessly mixed in, on deck, with the
blacks.

Meantime Captain Delano hailed his own vessel, ordering the ports up,
and the guns run out. But by this time the cable of the San Dominick had
been cut; and the fag-end, in lashing out, whipped away the canvas
shroud about the beak, suddenly revealing, as the bleached hull swung
round towards the open ocean, death for the figure-head, in a human
skeleton; chalky comment on the chalked words below, "_Follow your
leader_."

At the sight, Don Benito, covering his face, wailed out: "'Tis he,
Aranda! my murdered, unburied friend!"

Upon reaching the sealer, calling for ropes, Captain Delano bound the
negro, who made no resistance, and had him hoisted to the deck. He would
then have assisted the now almost helpless Don Benito up the side; but
Don Benito, wan as he was, refused to move, or be moved, until the negro
should have been first put below out of view. When, presently assured
that it was done, he no more shrank from the ascent.

The boat was immediately dispatched back to pick up the three swimming
sailors. Meantime, the guns were in readiness, though, owing to the San
Dominick having glided somewhat astern of the sealer, only the aftermost
one could be brought to bear. With this, they fired six times; thinking
to cripple the fugitive ship by bringing down her spars. But only a few
inconsiderable ropes were shot away. Soon the ship was beyond the gun's
range, steering broad out of the bay; the blacks thickly clustering
round the bowsprit, one moment with taunting cries towards the whites,
the next with upthrown gestures hailing the now dusky moors of
ocean--cawing crows escaped from the hand of the fowler.

The first impulse was to slip the cables and give chase. But, upon
second thoughts, to pursue with whale-boat and yawl seemed more
promising.

Upon inquiring of Don Benito what firearms they had on board the San
Dominick, Captain Delano was answered that they had none that could be
used; because, in the earlier stages of the mutiny, a cabin-passenger,
since dead, had secretly put out of order the locks of what few muskets
there were. But with all his remaining strength, Don Benito entreated
the American not to give chase, either with ship or boat; for the
negroes had already proved themselves such desperadoes, that, in case of
a present assault, nothing but a total massacre of the whites could be
looked for. But, regarding this warning as coming from one whose spirit
had been crushed by misery the American did not give up his design.

The boats were got ready and armed. Captain Delano ordered his men into
them. He was going himself when Don Benito grasped his arm.

"What! have you saved my life, Señor, and are you now going to throw
away your own?"

The officers also, for reasons connected with their interests and those
of the voyage, and a duty owing to the owners, strongly objected against
their commander's going. Weighing their remonstrances a moment, Captain
Delano felt bound to remain; appointing his chief mate--an athletic and
resolute man, who had been a privateer's-man--to head the party. The
more to encourage the sailors, they were told, that the Spanish captain
considered his ship good as lost; that she and her cargo, including some
gold and silver, were worth more than a thousand doubloons. Take her,
and no small part should be theirs. The sailors replied with a shout.

The fugitives had now almost gained an offing. It was nearly night; but
the moon was rising. After hard, prolonged pulling, the boats came up on
the ship's quarters, at a suitable distance laying upon their oars to
discharge their muskets. Having no bullets to return, the negroes sent
their yells. But, upon the second volley, Indian-like, they hurtled
their hatchets. One took off a sailor's fingers. Another struck the
whale-boat's bow, cutting off the rope there, and remaining stuck in the
gunwale like a woodman's axe. Snatching it, quivering from its lodgment,
the mate hurled it back. The returned gauntlet now stuck in the ship's
broken quarter-gallery, and so remained.

The negroes giving too hot a reception, the whites kept a more
respectful distance. Hovering now just out of reach of the hurtling
hatchets, they, with a view to the close encounter which must soon come,
sought to decoy the blacks into entirely disarming themselves of their
most murderous weapons in a hand-to-hand fight, by foolishly flinging
them, as missiles, short of the mark, into the sea. But, ere long,
perceiving the stratagem, the negroes desisted, though not before many
of them had to replace their lost hatchets with handspikes; an exchange
which, as counted upon, proved, in the end, favorable to the assailants.

Meantime, with a strong wind, the ship still clove the water; the boats
alternately falling behind, and pulling up, to discharge fresh volleys.

The fire was mostly directed towards the stern, since there, chiefly,
the negroes, at present, were clustering. But to kill or maim the
negroes was not the object. To take them, with the ship, was the object.
To do it, the ship must be boarded; which could not be done by boats
while she was sailing so fast.

A thought now struck the mate. Observing the Spanish boys still aloft,
high as they could get, he called to them to descend to the yards, and
cut adrift the sails. It was done. About this time, owing to causes
hereafter to be shown, two Spaniards, in the dress of sailors, and
conspicuously showing themselves, were killed; not by volleys, but by
deliberate marksman's shots; while, as it afterwards appeared, by one
of the general discharges, Atufal, the black, and the Spaniard at the
helm likewise were killed. What now, with the loss of the sails, and
loss of leaders, the ship became unmanageable to the negroes.

With creaking masts, she came heavily round to the wind; the prow slowly
swinging into view of the boats, its skeleton gleaming in the horizontal
moonlight, and casting a gigantic ribbed shadow upon the water. One
extended arm of the ghost seemed beckoning the whites to avenge it.

"Follow your leader!" cried the mate; and, one on each bow, the boats
boarded. Sealing-spears and cutlasses crossed hatchets and hand-spikes.
Huddled upon the long-boat amidships, the negresses raised a wailing
chant, whose chorus was the clash of the steel.

For a time, the attack wavered; the negroes wedging themselves to beat
it back; the half-repelled sailors, as yet unable to gain a footing,
fighting as troopers in the saddle, one leg sideways flung over the
bulwarks, and one without, plying their cutlasses like carters' whips.
But in vain. They were almost overborne, when, rallying themselves into
a squad as one man, with a huzza, they sprang inboard, where, entangled,
they involuntarily separated again. For a few breaths' space, there was
a vague, muffled, inner sound, as of submerged sword-fish rushing hither
and thither through shoals of black-fish. Soon, in a reunited band, and
joined by the Spanish seamen, the whites came to the surface,
irresistibly driving the negroes toward the stern. But a barricade of
casks and sacks, from side to side, had been thrown up by the main-mast.
Here the negroes faced about, and though scorning peace or truce, yet
fain would have had respite. But, without pause, overleaping the
barrier, the unflagging sailors again closed. Exhausted, the blacks now
fought in despair. Their red tongues lolled, wolf-like, from their black
mouths. But the pale sailors' teeth were set; not a word was spoken;
and, in five minutes more, the ship was won.

Nearly a score of the negroes were killed. Exclusive of those by the
balls, many were mangled; their wounds--mostly inflicted by the
long-edged sealing-spears, resembling those shaven ones of the English
at Preston Pans, made by the poled scythes of the Highlanders. On the
other side, none were killed, though several were wounded; some
severely, including the mate. The surviving negroes were temporarily
secured, and the ship, towed back into the harbor at midnight, once more
lay anchored.

Omitting the incidents and arrangements ensuing, suffice it that, after
two days spent in refitting, the ships sailed in company for Conception,
in Chili, and thence for Lima, in Peru; where, before the vice-regal
courts, the whole affair, from the beginning, underwent investigation.

Though, midway on the passage, the ill-fated Spaniard, relaxed from
constraint, showed some signs of regaining health with free-will; yet,
agreeably to his own foreboding, shortly before arriving at Lima, he
relapsed, finally becoming so reduced as to be carried ashore in arms.
Hearing of his story and plight, one of the many religious institutions
of the City of Kings opened an hospitable refuge to him, where both
physician and priest were his nurses, and a member of the order
volunteered to be his one special guardian and consoler, by night and by
day.

The following extracts, translated from one of the official Spanish
documents, will, it is hoped, shed light on the preceding narrative, as
well as, in the first place, reveal the true port of departure and true
history of the San Dominick's voyage, down to the time of her touching
at the island of St. Maria.

But, ere the extracts come, it may be well to preface them with a
remark.

The document selected, from among many others, for partial translation,
contains the deposition of Benito Cereno; the first taken in the case.
Some disclosures therein were, at the time, held dubious for both
learned and natural reasons. The tribunal inclined to the opinion that
the deponent, not undisturbed in his mind by recent events, raved of
some things which could never have happened. But subsequent depositions
of the surviving sailors, bearing out the revelations of their captain
in several of the strangest particulars, gave credence to the rest. So
that the tribunal, in its final decision, rested its capital sentences
upon statements which, had they lacked confirmation, it would have
deemed it but duty to reject.

       *       *       *       *       *

I, DON JOSE DE ABOS AND PADILLA, His Majesty's Notary for the Royal
Revenue, and Register of this Province, and Notary Public of the Holy
Crusade of this Bishopric, etc.

Do certify and declare, as much as is requisite in law, that, in the
criminal cause commenced the twenty-fourth of the month of September, in
the year seventeen hundred and ninety-nine, against the negroes of the
ship San Dominick, the following declaration before me was made:

    _Declaration of the first witness_, DON BENITO CERENO.

    The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor Juan Martinez
    de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience of this Kingdom, and
    learned in the law of this Intendency, ordered the captain of the
    ship San Dominick, Don Benito Cereno, to appear; which he did, in
    his litter, attended by the monk Infelez; of whom he received the
    oath, which he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross;
    under which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should
    know and should be asked;--and being interrogated agreeably to
    the tenor of the act commencing the process, he said, that on the
    twentieth of May last, he set sail with his ship from the port of
    Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao; loaded with the produce of
    the country beside thirty cases of hardware and one hundred and
    sixty blacks, of both sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro
    Aranda, gentleman, of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the
    ship consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as
    passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows:

    [_Here, in the original, follows a list of some fifty names,
    descriptions, and ages, compiled from certain recovered documents
    of Aranda's, and also from recollections of the deponent, from
    which portions only are extracted._]

    --One, from about eighteen to nineteen years, named José, and this
    was the man that waited upon his master, Don Alexandro, and who
    speaks well the Spanish, having served him four or five years; * *
    * a mulatto, named Francesco, the cabin steward, of a good person
    and voice, having sung in the Valparaiso churches, native of the
    province of Buenos Ayres, aged about thirty-five years. * * * A
    smart negro, named Dago, who had been for many years a
    grave-digger among the Spaniards, aged forty-six years. * * * Four
    old negroes, born in Africa, from sixty to seventy, but sound,
    calkers by trade, whose names are as follows:--the first was named
    Muri, and he was killed (as was also his son named Diamelo); the
    second, Nacta; the third, Yola, likewise killed; the fourth,
    Ghofan; and six full-grown negroes, aged from thirty to
    forty-five, all raw, and born among the Ashantees--Matiluqui, Yan,
    Leche, Mapenda, Yambaio, Akim; four of whom were killed; * * * a
    powerful negro named Atufal, who being supposed to have been a
    chief in Africa, his owner set great store by him. * * * And a
    small negro of Senegal, but some years among the Spaniards, aged
    about thirty, which negro's name was Babo; * * * that he does not
    remember the names of the others, but that still expecting the
    residue of Don Alexandra's papers will be found, will then take
    due account of them all, and remit to the court; * * * and
    thirty-nine women and children of all ages.

    [_The catalogue over, the deposition goes on_]

    * * * That all the negroes slept upon deck, as is customary in
    this navigation, and none wore fetters, because the owner, his
    friend Aranda, told him that they were all tractable; * * * that
    on the seventh day after leaving port, at three o'clock in the
    morning, all the Spaniards being asleep except the two officers on
    the watch, who were the boatswain, Juan Robles, and the carpenter,
    Juan Bautista Gayete, and the helmsman and his boy, the negroes
    revolted suddenly, wounded dangerously the boatswain and the
    carpenter, and successively killed eighteen men of those who were
    sleeping upon deck, some with hand-spikes and hatchets, and others
    by throwing them alive overboard, after tying them; that of the
    Spaniards upon deck, they left about seven, as he thinks, alive
    and tied, to manoeuvre the ship, and three or four more, who hid
    themselves, remained also alive. Although in the act of revolt the
    negroes made themselves masters of the hatchway, six or seven
    wounded went through it to the cockpit, without any hindrance on
    their part; that during the act of revolt, the mate and another
    person, whose name he does not recollect, attempted to come up
    through the hatchway, but being quickly wounded, were obliged to
    return to the cabin; that the deponent resolved at break of day to
    come up the companion-way, where the negro Babo was, being the
    ringleader, and Atufal, who assisted him, and having spoken to
    them, exhorted them to cease committing such atrocities, asking
    them, at the same time, what they wanted and intended to do,
    offering, himself, to obey their commands; that notwithstanding
    this, they threw, in his presence, three men, alive and tied,
    overboard; that they told the deponent to come up, and that they
    would not kill him; which having done, the negro Babo asked him
    whether there were in those seas any negro countries where they
    might be carried, and he answered them, No; that the negro Babo
    afterwards told him to carry them to Senegal, or to the
    neighboring islands of St. Nicholas; and he answered, that this
    was impossible, on account of the great distance, the necessity
    involved of rounding Cape Horn, the bad condition of the vessel,
    the want of provisions, sails, and water; but that the negro Babo
    replied to him he must carry them in any way; that they would do
    and conform themselves to everything the deponent should require
    as to eating and drinking; that after a long conference, being
    absolutely compelled to please them, for they threatened to kill
    all the whites if they were not, at all events, carried to
    Senegal, he told them that what was most wanting for the voyage
    was water; that they would go near the coast to take it, and
    thence they would proceed on their course; that the negro Babo
    agreed to it; and the deponent steered towards the intermediate
    ports, hoping to meet some Spanish, or foreign vessel that would
    save them; that within ten or eleven days they saw the land, and
    continued their course by it in the vicinity of Nasca; that the
    deponent observed that the negroes were now restless and mutinous,
    because he did not effect the taking in of water, the negro Babo
    having required, with threats, that it should be done, without
    fail, the following day; he told him he saw plainly that the coast
    was steep, and the rivers designated in the maps were not to be
    found, with other reasons suitable to the circumstances; that the
    best way would be to go to the island of Santa Maria, where they
    might water easily, it being a solitary island, as the foreigners
    did; that the deponent did not go to Pisco, that was near, nor
    make any other port of the coast, because the negro Babo had
    intimated to him several times, that he would kill all the whites
    the very moment he should perceive any city, town, or settlement
    of any kind on the shores to which they should be carried: that
    having determined to go to the island of Santa Maria, as the
    deponent had planned, for the purpose of trying whether, on the
    passage or near the island itself, they could find any vessel that
    should favor them, or whether he could escape from it in a boat to
    the neighboring coast of Arruco, to adopt the necessary means he
    immediately changed his course, steering for the island; that the
    negroes Babo and Atufal held daily conferences, in which they
    discussed what was necessary for their design of returning to
    Senegal, whether they were to kill all the Spaniards, and
    particularly the deponent; that eight days after parting from the
    coast of Nasca, the deponent being on the watch a little after
    day-break, and soon after the negroes had their meeting, the negro
    Babo came to the place where the deponent was, and told him that
    he had determined to kill his master, Don Alexandro Aranda, both
    because he and his companions could not otherwise be sure of their
    liberty, and that to keep the seamen in subjection, he wanted to
    prepare a warning of what road they should be made to take did
    they or any of them oppose him; and that, by means of the death of
    Don Alexandro, that warning would best be given; but, that what
    this last meant, the deponent did not at the time comprehend, nor
    could not, further than that the death of Don Alexandro was
    intended; and moreover the negro Babo proposed to the deponent to
    call the mate Raneds, who was sleeping in the cabin, before the
    thing was done, for fear, as the deponent understood it, that the
    mate, who was a good navigator, should be killed with Don
    Alexandro and the rest; that the deponent, who was the friend,
    from youth, of Don Alexandro, prayed and conjured, but all was
    useless; for the negro Babo answered him that the thing could not
    be prevented, and that all the Spaniards risked their death if
    they should attempt to frustrate his will in this matter, or any
    other; that, in this conflict, the deponent called the mate,
    Raneds, who was forced to go apart, and immediately the negro Babo
    commanded the Ashantee Martinqui and the Ashantee Lecbe to go and
    commit the murder; that those two went down with hatchets to the
    berth of Don Alexandro; that, yet half alive and mangled, they
    dragged him on deck; that they were going to throw him overboard
    in that state, but the negro Babo stopped them, bidding the murder
    be completed on the deck before him, which was done, when, by his
    orders, the body was carried below, forward; that nothing more was
    seen of it by the deponent for three days; * * * that Don Alonzo
    Sidonia, an old man, long resident at Valparaiso, and lately
    appointed to a civil office in Peru, whither he had taken passage,
    was at the time sleeping in the berth opposite Don Alexandro's;
    that awakening at his cries, surprised by them, and at the sight
    of the negroes with their bloody hatchets in their hands, he threw
    himself into the sea through a window which was near him, and was
    drowned, without it being in the power of the deponent to assist
    or take him up; * * * that a short time after killing Aranda, they
    brought upon deck his german-cousin, of middle-age, Don Francisco
    Masa, of Mendoza, and the young Don Joaquin, Marques de
    Aramboalaza, then lately from Spain, with his Spanish servant
    Ponce, and the three young clerks of Aranda, José Mozairi Lorenzo
    Bargas, and Hermenegildo Gandix, all of Cadiz; that Don Joaquin
    and Hermenegildo Gandix, the negro Babo, for purposes hereafter to
    appear, preserved alive; but Don Francisco Masa, José Mozairi, and
    Lorenzo Bargas, with Ponce the servant, beside the boatswain, Juan
    Robles, the boatswain's mates, Manuel Viscaya and Roderigo Hurta,
    and four of the sailors, the negro Babo ordered to be thrown alive
    into the sea, although they made no resistance, nor begged for
    anything else but mercy; that the boatswain, Juan Robles, who knew
    how to swim, kept the longest above water, making acts of
    contrition, and, in the last words he uttered, charged this
    deponent to cause mass to be said for his soul to our Lady of
    Succor: * * * that, during the three days which followed, the
    deponent, uncertain what fate had befallen the remains of Don
    Alexandro, frequently asked the negro Babo where they were, and,
    if still on board, whether they were to be preserved for interment
    ashore, entreating him so to order it; that the negro Babo
    answered nothing till the fourth day, when at sunrise, the
    deponent coming on deck, the negro Babo showed him a skeleton,
    which had been substituted for the ship's proper figure-head--the
    image of Christopher Colon, the discoverer of the New World; that
    the negro Babo asked him whose skeleton that was, and whether,
    from its whiteness, he should not think it a white's; that, upon
    discovering his face, the negro Babo, coming close, said words to
    this effect: "Keep faith with the blacks from here to Senegal, or
    you shall in spirit, as now in body, follow your leader," pointing
    to the prow; * * * that the same morning the negro Babo took by
    succession each Spaniard forward, and asked him whose skeleton
    that was, and whether, from its whiteness, he should not think it
    a white's; that each Spaniard covered his face; that then to each
    the negro Babo repeated the words in the first place said to the
    deponent; * * * that they (the Spaniards), being then assembled
    aft, the negro Babo harangued them, saying that he had now done
    all; that the deponent (as navigator for the negroes) might pursue
    his course, warning him and all of them that they should, soul and
    body, go the way of Don Alexandro, if he saw them (the Spaniards)
    speak, or plot anything against them (the negroes)--a threat which
    was repeated every day; that, before the events last mentioned,
    they had tied the cook to throw him overboard, for it is not known
    what thing they heard him speak, but finally the negro Babo
    spared his life, at the request of the deponent; that a few days
    after, the deponent, endeavoring not to omit any means to preserve
    the lives of the remaining whites, spoke to the negroes peace and
    tranquillity, and agreed to draw up a paper, signed by the
    deponent and the sailors who could write, as also by the negro
    Babo, for himself and all the blacks, in which the deponent
    obliged himself to carry them to Senegal, and they not to kill any
    more, and he formally to make over to them the ship, with the
    cargo, with which they were for that time satisfied and quieted. *
    * But the next day, the more surely to guard against the sailors'
    escape, the negro Babo commanded all the boats to be destroyed but
    the long-boat, which was unseaworthy, and another, a cutter in
    good condition, which knowing it would yet be wanted for towing
    the water casks, he had it lowered down into the hold.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [_Various particulars of the prolonged and perplexed navigation
    ensuing here follow, with incidents of a calamitous calm, from
    which portion one passage is extracted, to wit_:]

    --That on the fifth day of the calm, all on board suffering much
    from the heat, and want of water, and five having died in fits,
    and mad, the negroes became irritable, and for a chance gesture,
    which they deemed suspicious--though it was harmless--made by the
    mate, Raneds, to the deponent in the act of handing a quadrant,
    they killed him; but that for this they afterwards were sorry, the
    mate being the only remaining navigator on board, except the
    deponent.

       *       *       *       *       *

    --That omitting other events, which daily happened, and which can
    only serve uselessly to recall past misfortunes and conflicts,
    after seventy-three days' navigation, reckoned from the time they
    sailed from Nasca, during which they navigated under a scanty
    allowance of water, and were afflicted with the calms before
    mentioned, they at last arrived at the island of Santa Maria, on
    the seventeenth of the month of August, at about six o'clock in
    the afternoon, at which hour they cast anchor very near the
    American ship, Bachelor's Delight, which lay in the same bay,
    commanded by the generous Captain Amasa Delano; but at six o'clock
    in the morning, they had already descried the port, and the
    negroes became uneasy, as soon as at distance they saw the ship,
    not having expected to see one there; that the negro Babo pacified
    them, assuring them that no fear need be had; that straightway he
    ordered the figure on the bow to be covered with canvas, as for
    repairs and had the decks a little set in order; that for a time
    the negro Babo and the negro Atufal conferred; that the negro
    Atufal was for sailing away, but the negro Babo would not, and, by
    himself, cast about what to do; that at last he came to the
    deponent, proposing to him to say and do all that the deponent
    declares to have said and done to the American captain; * * * * *
    * * that the negro Babo warned him that if he varied in the least,
    or uttered any word, or gave any look that should give the least
    intimation of the past events or present state, he would instantly
    kill him, with all his companions, showing a dagger, which he
    carried hid, saying something which, as he understood it, meant
    that that dagger would be alert as his eye; that the negro Babo
    then announced the plan to all his companions, which pleased them;
    that he then, the better to disguise the truth, devised many
    expedients, in some of them uniting deceit and defense; that of
    this sort was the device of the six Ashantees before named, who
    were his bravoes; that them he stationed on the break of the poop,
    as if to clean certain hatchets (in cases, which were part of the
    cargo), but in reality to use them, and distribute them at need,
    and at a given word he told them; that, among other devices, was
    the device of presenting Atufal, his right hand man, as chained,
    though in a moment the chains could be dropped; that in every
    particular he informed the deponent what part he was expected to
    enact in every device, and what story he was to tell on every
    occasion, always threatening him with instant death if he varied
    in the least: that, conscious that many of the negroes would be
    turbulent, the negro Babo appointed the four aged negroes, who
    were calkers, to keep what domestic order they could on the decks;
    that again and again he harangued the Spaniards and his
    companions, informing them of his intent, and of his devices, and
    of the invented story that this deponent was to tell; charging
    them lest any of them varied from that story; that these
    arrangements were made and matured during the interval of two or
    three hours, between their first sighting the ship and the arrival
    on board of Captain Amasa Delano; that this happened about
    half-past seven o'clock in the morning, Captain Amasa Delano
    coming in his boat, and all gladly receiving him; that the
    deponent, as well as he could force himself, acting then the part
    of principal owner, and a free captain of the ship, told Captain
    Amasa Delano, when called upon, that he came from Buenos Ayres,
    bound to Lima, with three hundred negroes; that off Cape Horn, and
    in a subsequent fever, many negroes had died; that also, by
    similar casualties, all the sea officers and the greatest part of
    the crew had died.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [_And so the deposition goes on, circumstantially recounting the
    fictitious story dictated to the deponent by Babo, and through the
    deponent imposed upon Captain Delano; and also recounting the
    friendly offers of Captain Delano, with other things, but all of
    which is here omitted. After the fictitious story, etc. the
    deposition proceeds_:]

       *       *       *       *       *

    --that the generous Captain Amasa Delano remained on board all the
    day, till he left the ship anchored at six o'clock in the evening,
    deponent speaking to him always of his pretended misfortunes,
    under the fore-mentioned principles, without having had it in his
    power to tell a single word, or give him the least hint, that he
    might know the truth and state of things; because the negro Babo,
    performing the office of an officious servant with all the
    appearance of submission of the humble slave, did not leave the
    deponent one moment; that this was in order to observe the
    deponent's actions and words, for the negro Babo understands well
    the Spanish; and besides, there were thereabout some others who
    were constantly on the watch, and likewise understood the Spanish;
    * * * that upon one occasion, while deponent was standing on the
    deck conversing with Amasa Delano, by a secret sign the negro Babo
    drew him (the deponent) aside, the act appearing as if originating
    with the deponent; that then, he being drawn aside, the negro Babo
    proposed to him to gain from Amasa Delano full particulars about
    his ship, and crew, and arms; that the deponent asked "For what?"
    that the negro Babo answered he might conceive; that, grieved at
    the prospect of what might overtake the generous Captain Amasa
    Delano, the deponent at first refused to ask the desired
    questions, and used every argument to induce the negro Babo to
    give up this new design; that the negro Babo showed the point of
    his dagger; that, after the information had been obtained the
    negro Babo again drew him aside, telling him that that very night
    he (the deponent) would be captain of two ships, instead of one,
    for that, great part of the American's ship's crew being to be
    absent fishing, the six Ashantees, without any one else, would
    easily take it; that at this time he said other things to the same
    purpose; that no entreaties availed; that, before Amasa Delano's
    coming on board, no hint had been given touching the capture of
    the American ship: that to prevent this project the deponent was
    powerless; * * *--that in some things his memory is confused, he
    cannot distinctly recall every event; * * *--that as soon as they
    had cast anchor at six of the clock in the evening, as has before
    been stated, the American Captain took leave, to return to his
    vessel; that upon a sudden impulse, which the deponent believes to
    have come from God and his angels, he, after the farewell had been
    said, followed the generous Captain Amasa Delano as far as the
    gunwale, where he stayed, under pretense of taking leave, until
    Amasa Delano should have been seated in his boat; that on shoving
    off, the deponent sprang from the gunwale into the boat, and fell
    into it, he knows not how, God guarding him; that--

       *       *       *       *       *

    [_Here, in the original, follows the account of what further
    happened at the escape, and how the San Dominick was retaken, and
    of the passage to the coast; including in the recital many
    expressions of "eternal gratitude" to the "generous Captain Amasa
    Delano." The deposition then proceeds with recapitulatory remarks,
    and a partial renumeration of the negroes, making record of their
    individual part in the past events, with a view to furnishing,
    according to command of the court, the data whereon to found the
    criminal sentences to be pronounced. From this portion is the
    following_;]

    --That he believes that all the negroes, though not in the first
    place knowing to the design of revolt, when it was accomplished,
    approved it. * * * That the negro, José, eighteen years old, and
    in the personal service of Don Alexandro, was the one who
    communicated the information to the negro Babo, about the state of
    things in the cabin, before the revolt; that this is known,
    because, in the preceding midnight, he use to come from his berth,
    which was under his master's, in the cabin, to the deck where the
    ringleader and his associates were, and had secret conversations
    with the negro Babo, in which he was several times seen by the
    mate; that, one night, the mate drove him away twice; * * that
    this same negro José was the one who, without being commanded to
    do so by the negro Babo, as Lecbe and Martinqui were, stabbed his
    master, Don Alexandro, after he had been dragged half-lifeless to
    the deck; * * that the mulatto steward, Francesco, was of the
    first band of revolters, that he was, in all things, the creature
    and tool of the negro Babo; that, to make his court, he, just
    before a repast in the cabin, proposed, to the negro Babo,
    poisoning a dish for the generous Captain Amasa Delano; this is
    known and believed, because the negroes have said it; but that the
    negro Babo, having another design, forbade Francesco; * * that the
    Ashantee Lecbe was one of the worst of them; for that, on the day
    the ship was retaken, he assisted in the defense of her, with a
    hatchet in each hand, with one of which he wounded, in the breast,
    the chief mate of Amasa Delano, in the first act of boarding; this
    all knew; that, in sight of the deponent, Lecbe struck, with a
    hatchet, Don Francisco Masa, when, by the negro Babo's orders, he
    was carrying him to throw him overboard, alive, beside
    participating in the murder, before mentioned, of Don Alexandro
    Aranda, and others of the cabin-passengers; that, owing to the
    fury with which the Ashantees fought in the engagement with the
    boats, but this Lecbe and Yan survived; that Yan was bad as Lecbe;
    that Yan was the man who, by Babo's command, willingly prepared
    the skeleton of Don Alexandro, in a way the negroes afterwards
    told the deponent, but which he, so long as reason is left him,
    can never divulge; that Yan and Lecbe were the two who, in a calm
    by night, riveted the skeleton to the bow; this also the negroes
    told him; that the negro Babo was he who traced the inscription
    below it; that the negro Babo was the plotter from first to last;
    he ordered every murder, and was the helm and keel of the revolt;
    that Atufal was his lieutenant in all; but Atufal, with his own
    hand, committed no murder; nor did the negro Babo; * * that Atufal
    was shot, being killed in the fight with the boats, ere boarding;
    * * that the negresses, of age, were knowing to the revolt, and
    testified themselves satisfied at the death of their master, Don
    Alexandro; that, had the negroes not restrained them, they would
    have tortured to death, instead of simply killing, the Spaniards
    slain by command of the negro Babo; that the negresses used their
    utmost influence to have the deponent made away with; that, in the
    various acts of murder, they sang songs and danced--not gaily, but
    solemnly; and before the engagement with the boats, as well as
    during the action, they sang melancholy songs to the negroes, and
    that this melancholy tone was more inflaming than a different one
    would have been, and was so intended; that all this is believed,
    because the negroes have said it.--that of the thirty-six men of
    the crew, exclusive of the passengers (all of whom are now dead),
    which the deponent had knowledge of, six only remained alive, with
    four cabin-boys and ship-boys, not included with the crew; *
    *--that the negroes broke an arm of one of the cabin-boys and gave
    him strokes with hatchets.

    [_Then follow various random disclosures referring to various
    periods of time. The following are extracted_;]

    --That during the presence of Captain Amasa Delano on board, some
    attempts were made by the sailors, and one by Hermenegildo Gandix,
    to convey hints to him of the true state of affairs; but that
    these attempts were ineffectual, owing to fear of incurring death,
    and, futhermore, owing to the devices which offered contradictions
    to the true state of affairs, as well as owing to the generosity
    and piety of Amasa Delano incapable of sounding such wickedness; *
    * * that Luys Galgo, a sailor about sixty years of age, and
    formerly of the king's navy, was one of those who sought to convey
    tokens to Captain Amasa Delano; but his intent, though
    undiscovered, being suspected, he was, on a pretense, made to
    retire out of sight, and at last into the hold, and there was made
    away with. This the negroes have since said; * * * that one of the
    ship-boys feeling, from Captain Amasa Delano's presence, some
    hopes of release, and not having enough prudence, dropped some
    chance-word respecting his expectations, which being overheard and
    understood by a slave-boy with whom he was eating at the time, the
    latter struck him on the head with a knife, inflicting a bad
    wound, but of which the boy is now healing; that likewise, not
    long before the ship was brought to anchor, one of the seamen,
    steering at the time, endangered himself by letting the blacks
    remark some expression in his countenance, arising from a cause
    similar to the above; but this sailor, by his heedful after
    conduct, escaped; * * * that these statements are made to show the
    court that from the beginning to the end of the revolt, it was
    impossible for the deponent and his men to act otherwise than they
    did; * * *--that the third clerk, Hermenegildo Gandix, who before
    had been forced to live among the seamen, wearing a seaman's
    habit, and in all respects appearing to be one for the time; he,
    Gandix, was killed by a musket ball fired through mistake from the
    boats before boarding; having in his fright run up the
    mizzen-rigging, calling to the boats--"don't board," lest upon
    their boarding the negroes should kill him; that this inducing the
    Americans to believe he some way favored the cause of the negroes,
    they fired two balls at him, so that he fell wounded from the
    rigging, and was drowned in the sea; * * *--that the young Don
    Joaquin, Marques de Aramboalaza, like Hermenegildo Gandix, the
    third clerk, was degraded to the office and appearance of a common
    seaman; that upon one occasion when Don Joaquin shrank, the negro
    Babo commanded the Ashantee Lecbe to take tar and heat it, and
    pour it upon Don Joaquin's hands; * * *--that Don Joaquin was
    killed owing to another mistake of the Americans, but one
    impossible to be avoided, as upon the approach of the boats, Don
    Joaquin, with a hatchet tied edge out and upright to his hand, was
    made by the negroes to appear on the bulwarks; whereupon, seen
    with arms in his hands and in a questionable attitude, he was shot
    for a renegade seaman; * * *--that on the person of Don Joaquin
    was found secreted a jewel, which, by papers that were discovered,
    proved to have been meant for the shrine of our Lady of Mercy in
    Lima; a votive offering, beforehand prepared and guarded, to
    attest his gratitude, when he should have landed in Peru, his last
    destination, for the safe conclusion of his entire voyage from
    Spain; * * *--that the jewel, with the other effects of the late
    Don Joaquin, is in the custody of the brethren of the Hospital de
    Sacerdotes, awaiting the disposition of the honorable court; * *
    *--that, owing to the condition of the deponent, as well as the
    haste in which the boats departed for the attack, the Americans
    were not forewarned that there were, among the apparent crew, a
    passenger and one of the clerks disguised by the negro Babo; * *
    *--that, beside the negroes killed in the action, some were killed
    after the capture and re-anchoring at night, when shackled to the
    ring-bolts on deck; that these deaths were committed by the
    sailors, ere they could be prevented. That so soon as informed of
    it, Captain Amasa Delano used all his authority, and, in
    particular with his own hand, struck down Martinez Gola, who,
    having found a razor in the pocket of an old jacket of his, which
    one of the shackled negroes had on, was aiming it at the negro's
    throat; that the noble Captain Amasa Delano also wrenched from the
    hand of Bartholomew Barlo a dagger, secreted at the time of the
    massacre of the whites, with which he was in the act of stabbing a
    shackled negro, who, the same day, with another negro, had thrown
    him down and jumped upon him; * * *--that, for all the events,
    befalling through so long a time, during which the ship was in the
    hands of the negro Babo, he cannot here give account; but that,
    what he has said is the most substantial of what occurs to him at
    present, and is the truth under the oath which he has taken; which
    declaration he affirmed and ratified, after hearing it read to
    him.

    He said that he is twenty-nine years of age, and broken in body
    and mind; that when finally dismissed by the court, he shall not
    return home to Chili, but betake himself to the monastery on Mount
    Agonia without; and signed with his honor, and crossed himself,
    and, for the time, departed as he came, in his litter, with the
    monk Infelez, to the Hospital de Sacerdotes.

    BENITO CERENO.

    DOCTOR ROZAS.

If the Deposition have served as the key to fit into the lock of the
complications which precede it, then, as a vault whose door has been
flung back, the San Dominick's hull lies open to-day.

Hitherto the nature of this narrative, besides rendering the intricacies
in the beginning unavoidable, has more or less required that many
things, instead of being set down in the order of occurrence, should be
retrospectively, or irregularly given; this last is the case with the
following passages, which will conclude the account:

During the long, mild voyage to Lima, there was, as before hinted, a
period during which the sufferer a little recovered his health, or, at
least in some degree, his tranquillity. Ere the decided relapse which
came, the two captains had many cordial conversations--their fraternal
unreserve in singular contrast with former withdrawments.

Again and again it was repeated, how hard it had been to enact the part
forced on the Spaniard by Babo.

"Ah, my dear friend," Don Benito once said, "at those very times when
you thought me so morose and ungrateful, nay, when, as you now admit,
you half thought me plotting your murder, at those very times my heart
was frozen; I could not look at you, thinking of what, both on board
this ship and your own, hung, from other hands, over my kind benefactor.
And as God lives, Don Amasa, I know not whether desire for my own safety
alone could have nerved me to that leap into your boat, had it not been
for the thought that, did you, unenlightened, return to your ship, you,
my best friend, with all who might be with you, stolen upon, that night,
in your hammocks, would never in this world have wakened again. Do but
think how you walked this deck, how you sat in this cabin, every inch of
ground mined into honey-combs under you. Had I dropped the least hint,
made the least advance towards an understanding between us, death,
explosive death--yours as mine--would have ended the scene."

"True, true," cried Captain Delano, starting, "you have saved my life,
Don Benito, more than I yours; saved it, too, against my knowledge and
will."

"Nay, my friend," rejoined the Spaniard, courteous even to the point of
religion, "God charmed your life, but you saved mine. To think of some
things you did--those smilings and chattings, rash pointings and
gesturings. For less than these, they slew my mate, Raneds; but you had
the Prince of Heaven's safe-conduct through all ambuscades."

"Yes, all is owing to Providence, I know: but the temper of my mind that
morning was more than commonly pleasant, while the sight of so much
suffering, more apparent than real, added to my good-nature, compassion,
and charity, happily interweaving the three. Had it been otherwise,
doubtless, as you hint, some of my interferences might have ended
unhappily enough. Besides, those feelings I spoke of enabled me to get
the better of momentary distrust, at times when acuteness might have
cost me my life, without saving another's. Only at the end did my
suspicions get the better of me, and you know how wide of the mark they
then proved."

"Wide, indeed," said Don Benito, sadly; "you were with me all day; stood
with me, sat with me, talked with me, looked at me, ate with me, drank
with me; and yet, your last act was to clutch for a monster, not only an
innocent man, but the most pitiable of all men. To such degree may
malign machinations and deceptions impose. So far may even the best man
err, in judging the conduct of one with the recesses of whose condition
he is not acquainted. But you were forced to it; and you were in time
undeceived. Would that, in both respects, it was so ever, and with all
men."

"You generalize, Don Benito; and mournfully enough. But the past is
passed; why moralize upon it? Forget it. See, yon bright sun has
forgotten it all, and the blue sea, and the blue sky; these have turned
over new leaves."

"Because they have no memory," he dejectedly replied; "because they are
not human."

"But these mild trades that now fan your cheek, do they not come with a
human-like healing to you? Warm friends, steadfast friends are the
trades."

"With their steadfastness they but waft me to my tomb, Señor," was the
foreboding response.

"You are saved," cried Captain Delano, more and more astonished and
pained; "you are saved: what has cast such a shadow upon you?"

"The negro."

There was silence, while the moody man sat, slowly and unconsciously
gathering his mantle about him, as if it were a pall.

There was no more conversation that day.

But if the Spaniard's melancholy sometimes ended in muteness upon topics
like the above, there were others upon which he never spoke at all; on
which, indeed, all his old reserves were piled. Pass over the worst,
and, only to elucidate let an item or two of these be cited. The dress,
so precise and costly, worn by him on the day whose events have been
narrated, had not willingly been put on. And that silver-mounted sword,
apparent symbol of despotic command, was not, indeed, a sword, but the
ghost of one. The scabbard, artificially stiffened, was empty.

As for the black--whose brain, not body, had schemed and led the revolt,
with the plot--his slight frame, inadequate to that which it held, had
at once yielded to the superior muscular strength of his captor, in the
boat. Seeing all was over, he uttered no sound, and could not be forced
to. His aspect seemed to say, since I cannot do deeds, I will not speak
words. Put in irons in the hold, with the rest, he was carried to Lima.
During the passage, Don Benito did not visit him. Nor then, nor at any
time after, would he look at him. Before the tribunal he refused. When
pressed by the judges he fainted. On the testimony of the sailors alone
rested the legal identity of Babo.

Some months after, dragged to the gibbet at the tail of a mule, the
black met his voiceless end. The body was burned to ashes; but for many
days, the head, that hive of subtlety, fixed on a pole in the Plaza,
met, unabashed, the gaze of the whites; and across the Plaza looked
towards St. Bartholomew's church, in whose vaults slept then, as now,
the recovered bones of Aranda: and across the Rimac bridge looked
towards the monastery, on Mount Agonia without; where, three months
after being dismissed by the court, Benito Cereno, borne on the bier,
did, indeed, follow his leader.




THE LIGHTNING-ROD MAN.


What grand irregular thunder, thought I, standing on my hearth-stone
among the Acroceraunian hills, as the scattered bolts boomed overhead,
and crashed down among the valleys, every bolt followed by zigzag
irradiations, and swift slants of sharp rain, which audibly rang, like a
charge of spear-points, on my low shingled roof. I suppose, though, that
the mountains hereabouts break and churn up the thunder, so that it is
far more glorious here than on the plain. Hark!--someone at the door.
Who is this that chooses a time of thunder for making calls? And why
don't he, man-fashion, use the knocker, instead of making that doleful
undertaker's clatter with his fist against the hollow panel? But let him
in. Ah, here he comes. "Good day, sir:" an entire stranger. "Pray be
seated." What is that strange-looking walking-stick he carries: "A fine
thunder-storm, sir."

"Fine?--Awful!"

"You are wet. Stand here on the hearth before the fire."

"Not for worlds!"

The stranger still stood in the exact middle of the cottage, where he
had first planted himself. His singularity impelled a closer scrutiny. A
lean, gloomy figure. Hair dark and lank, mattedly streaked over his
brow. His sunken pitfalls of eyes were ringed by indigo halos, and
played with an innocuous sort of lightning: the gleam without the bolt.
The whole man was dripping. He stood in a puddle on the bare oak floor:
his strange walking-stick vertically resting at his side.

It was a polished copper rod, four feet long, lengthwise attached to a
neat wooden staff, by insertion into two balls of greenish glass, ringed
with copper bands. The metal rod terminated at the top tripodwise, in
three keen tines, brightly gilt. He held the thing by the wooden part
alone.

"Sir," said I, bowing politely, "have I the honor of a visit from that
illustrious god, Jupiter Tonans? So stood he in the Greek statue of old,
grasping the lightning-bolt. If you be he, or his viceroy, I have to
thank you for this noble storm you have brewed among our mountains.
Listen: That was a glorious peal. Ah, to a lover of the majestic, it is
a good thing to have the Thunderer himself in one's cottage. The thunder
grows finer for that. But pray be seated. This old rush-bottomed
arm-chair, I grant, is a poor substitute for your evergreen throne on
Olympus; but, condescend to be seated."

While I thus pleasantly spoke, the stranger eyed me, half in wonder, and
half in a strange sort of horror; but did not move a foot.

"Do, sir, be seated; you need to be dried ere going forth again."

I planted the chair invitingly on the broad hearth, where a little fire
had been kindled that afternoon to dissipate the dampness, not the cold;
for it was early in the month of September.

But without heeding my solicitation, and still standing in the middle of
the floor, the stranger gazed at me portentously and spoke.

"Sir," said he, "excuse me; but instead of my accepting your invitation
to be seated on the hearth there, I solemnly warn _you_, that you had
best accept _mine_, and stand with me in the middle of the room. Good
heavens!" he cried, starting--"there is another of those awful crashes.
I warn you, sir, quit the hearth."

"Mr. Jupiter Tonans," said I, quietly rolling my body on the stone, "I
stand very well here."

"Are you so horridly ignorant, then," he cried, "as not to know, that by
far the most dangerous part of a house, during such a terrific tempest
as this, is the fire-place?"

"Nay, I did not know that," involuntarily stepping upon the first board
next to the stone.

The stranger now assumed such an unpleasant air of successful
admonition, that--quite involuntarily again--I stepped back upon the
hearth, and threw myself into the erectest, proudest posture I could
command. But I said nothing.

"For Heaven's sake," he cried, with a strange mixture of alarm and
intimidation--"for Heaven's sake, get off the hearth! Know you not, that
the heated air and soot are conductors;--to say nothing of those
immense iron fire-dogs? Quit the spot--I conjure--I command you."

"Mr. Jupiter Tonans, I am not accustomed to be commanded in my own
house."

"Call me not by that pagan name. You are profane in this time of
terror."

"Sir, will you be so good as to tell me your business? If you seek
shelter from the storm, you are welcome, so long as you be civil; but if
you come on business, open it forthwith. Who are you?"

"I am a dealer in lightning-rods," said the stranger, softening his
tone; "my special business is--Merciful heaven! what a crash!--Have you
ever been struck--your premises, I mean? No? It's best to be
provided;"--significantly rattling his metallic staff on the floor;--"by
nature, there are no castles in thunder-storms; yet, say but the word,
and of this cottage I can make a Gibraltar by a few waves of this wand.
Hark, what Himalayas of concussions!"

"You interrupted yourself; your special business you were about to speak
of."

"My special business is to travel the country for orders for
lightning-rods. This is my specimen-rod;" tapping his staff; "I have the
best of references"--fumbling in his pockets. "In Criggan last month, I
put up three-and-twenty rods on only five buildings."

"Let me see. Was it not at Criggan last week, about midnight on
Saturday, that the steeple, the big elm, and the assembly-room cupola
were struck? Any of your rods there?"

"Not on the tree and cupola, but the steeple."

"Of what use is your rod, then?"

"Of life-and-death use. But my workman was heedless. In fitting the rod
at top to the steeple, he allowed a part of the metal to graze the tin
sheeting. Hence the accident. Not my fault, but his. Hark!"

"Never mind. That clap burst quite loud enough to be heard without
finger-pointing. Did you hear of the event at Montreal last year? A
servant girl struck at her bed-side with a rosary in her hand; the beads
being metal. Does your beat extend into the Canadas?"

"No. And I hear that there, iron rods only are in use. They should have
_mine_, which are copper. Iron is easily fused. Then they draw out the
rod so slender, that it has not body enough to conduct the full electric
current. The metal melts; the building is destroyed. My copper rods
never act so. Those Canadians are fools. Some of them knob the rod at
the top, which risks a deadly explosion, instead of imperceptibly
carrying down the current into the earth, as this sort of rod does.
_Mine_ is the only true rod. Look at it. Only one dollar a foot."

"This abuse of your own calling in another might make one distrustful
with respect to yourself."

"Hark! The thunder becomes less muttering. It is nearing us, and nearing
the earth, too. Hark! One crammed crash! All the vibrations made one by
nearness. Another flash. Hold!"

"What do you?" I said, seeing him now, instantaneously relinquishing his
staff, lean intently forward towards the window, with his right fore and
middle fingers on his left wrist. But ere the words had well escaped
me, another exclamation escaped him.

"Crash! only three pulses--less than a third of a mile off--yonder,
somewhere in that wood. I passed three stricken oaks there, ripped out
new and glittering. The oak draws lightning more than other timber,
having iron in solution in its sap. Your floor here seems oak.

"Heart-of-oak. From the peculiar time of your call upon me, I suppose
you purposely select stormy weather for your journeys. When the thunder
is roaring, you deem it an hour peculiarly favorable for producing
impressions favorable to your trade."

"Hark!--Awful!"

"For one who would arm others with fear you seem unbeseemingly timorous
yourself. Common men choose fair weather for their travels: you choose
thunder-storms; and yet--"

"That I travel in thunder-storms, I grant; but not without particular
precautions, such as only a lightning-rod man may know. Hark!
Quick--look at my specimen rod. Only one dollar a foot."

"A very fine rod, I dare say. But what are these particular precautions
of yours? Yet first let me close yonder shutters; the slanting rain is
beating through the sash. I will bar up."

"Are you mad? Know you not that yon iron bar is a swift conductor?
Desist."

"I will simply close the shutters, then, and call my boy to bring me a
wooden bar. Pray, touch the bell-pull there.

"Are you frantic? That bell-wire might blast you. Never touch bell-wire
in a thunder-storm, nor ring a bell of any sort."

"Nor those in belfries? Pray, will you tell me where and how one may be
safe in a time like this? Is there any part of my house I may touch with
hopes of my life?"

"There is; but not where you now stand. Come away from the wall. The
current will sometimes run down a wall, and--a man being a better
conductor than a wall--it would leave the wall and run into him. Swoop!
_That_ must have fallen very nigh. That must have been globular
lightning."

"Very probably. Tell me at once, which is, in your opinion, the safest
part of this house?

"This room, and this one spot in it where I stand. Come hither."

"The reasons first."

"Hark!--after the flash the gust--the sashes shiver--the house, the
house!--Come hither to me!"

"The reasons, if you please."

"Come hither to me!"

"Thank you again, I think I will try my old stand--the hearth. And now,
Mr. Lightning-rod-man, in the pauses of the thunder, be so good as to
tell me your reasons for esteeming this one room of the house the
safest, and your own one stand-point there the safest spot in it."

There was now a little cessation of the storm for a while. The
Lightning-rod man seemed relieved, and replied:--

"Your house is a one-storied house, with an attic and a cellar; this
room is between. Hence its comparative safety. Because lightning
sometimes passes from the clouds to the earth, and sometimes from the
earth to the clouds. Do you comprehend?--and I choose the middle of the
room, because if the lightning should strike the house at all, it would
come down the chimney or walls; so, obviously, the further you are from
them, the better. Come hither to me, now."

"Presently. Something you just said, instead of alarming me, has
strangely inspired confidence."

"What have I said?"

"You said that sometimes lightning flashes from the earth to the
clouds."

"Aye, the returning-stroke, as it is called; when the earth, being
overcharged with the fluid, flashes its surplus upward."

"The returning-stroke; that is, from earth to sky. Better and better.
But come here on the hearth and dry yourself."

"I am better here, and better wet."

"How?"

"It is the safest thing you can do--Hark, again!--to get yourself
thoroughly drenched in a thunder-storm. Wet clothes are better
conductors than the body; and so, if the lightning strike, it might pass
down the wet clothes without touching the body. The storm deepens
again. Have you a rug in the house? Rugs are non-conductors. Get one,
that I may stand on it here, and you, too. The skies blacken--it is dusk
at noon. Hark!--the rug, the rug!"

I gave him one; while the hooded mountains seemed closing and tumbling
into the cottage.

"And now, since our being dumb will not help us," said I, resuming my
place, "let me hear your precautions in traveling during
thunder-storms."

"Wait till this one is passed."

"Nay, proceed with the precautions. You stand in the safest possible
place according to your own account. Go on."

"Briefly, then. I avoid pine-trees, high houses, lonely barns, upland
pastures, running water, flocks of cattle and sheep, a crowd of men. If
I travel on foot--as to-day--I do not walk fast; if in my buggy, I touch
not its back or sides; if on horseback, I dismount and lead the horse.
But of all things, I avoid tall men."

"Do I dream? Man avoid man? and in danger-time, too."

"Tall men in a thunder-storm I avoid. Are you so grossly ignorant as not
to know, that the height of a six-footer is sufficient to discharge an
electric cloud upon him? Are not lonely Kentuckians, ploughing, smit in
the unfinished furrow? Nay, if the six-footer stand by running water,
the cloud will sometimes _select_ him as its conductor to that running
water. Hark! Sure, yon black pinnacle is split. Yes, a man is a good
conductor. The lightning goes through and through a man, but only peels
a tree. But sir, you have kept me so long answering your questions, that
I have not yet come to business. Will you order one of my rods? Look at
this specimen one? See: it is of the best of copper. Copper's the best
conductor. Your house is low; but being upon the mountains, that lowness
does not one whit depress it. You mountaineers are most exposed. In
mountainous countries the lightning-rod man should have most business.
Look at the specimen, sir. One rod will answer for a house so small as
this. Look over these recommendations. Only one rod, sir; cost, only
twenty dollars. Hark! There go all the granite Taconics and Hoosics
dashed together like pebbles. By the sound, that must have struck
something. An elevation of five feet above the house, will protect
twenty feet radius all about the rod. Only twenty dollars, sir--a dollar
a foot. Hark!--Dreadful!--Will you order? Will you buy? Shall I put down
your name? Think of being a heap of charred offal, like a haltered horse
burnt in his stall; and all in one flash!"

"You pretended envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to and
from Jupiter Tonans," laughed I; "you mere man who come here to put you
and your pipestem between clay and sky, do you think that because you
can strike a bit of green light from the Leyden jar, that you can
thoroughly avert the supernal bolt? Your rod rusts, or breaks, and where
are you? Who has empowered you, you Tetzel, to peddle round your
indulgences from divine ordinations? The hairs of our heads are
numbered, and the days of our lives. In thunder as in sunshine, I stand
at ease in the hands of my God. False negotiator, away! See, the scroll
of the storm is rolled back; the house is unharmed; and in the blue
heavens I read in the rainbow, that the Deity will not, of purpose, make
war on man's earth."

"Impious wretch!" foamed the stranger, blackening in the face as the
rainbow beamed, "I will publish your infidel notions."

The scowl grew blacker on his face; the indigo-circles enlarged round
his eyes as the storm-rings round the midnight moon. He sprang upon me;
his tri-forked thing at my heart.

I seized it; I snapped it; I dashed it; I trod it; and dragging the dark
lightning-king out of my door, flung his elbowed, copper sceptre after
him.

But spite of my treatment, and spite of my dissuasive talk of him to my
neighbors, the Lightning-rod man still dwells in the land; still travels
in storm-time, and drives a brave trade with the fears of man.




THE ENCANTADAS; OR, ENCHANTED ISLES

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH FIRST.

THE ISLES AT LARGE.

  --"That may not be, said then the ferryman,
  Least we unweeting hap to be fordonne;
  For those same islands seeming now and than,
  Are not firme land, nor any certein wonne,
  But stragling plots which to and fro do ronne
  In the wide waters; therefore are they hight
  The Wandering Islands; therefore do them shonne;
  For they have oft drawne many a wandring wight
  Into most deadly daunger and distressed plight;
  For whosoever once hath fastened
  His foot thereon may never it secure
  But wandreth evermore uncertein and unsure."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave,
  That still for carrion carcasses doth crave;
  On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl,
  Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave
  Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl,
  And all about it wandring ghosts did wayle and howl."


Take five-and-twenty heaps of cinders dumped here and there in an
outside city lot; imagine some of them magnified into mountains, and
the vacant lot the sea; and you will have a fit idea of the general
aspect of the Encantadas, or Enchanted Isles. A group rather of extinct
volcanoes than of isles; looking much as the world at large might, after
a penal conflagration.

It is to be doubted whether any spot of earth can, in desolateness,
furnish a parallel to this group. Abandoned cemeteries of long ago, old
cities by piecemeal tumbling to their ruin, these are melancholy enough;
but, like all else which has but once been associated with humanity,
they still awaken in us some thoughts of sympathy, however sad. Hence,
even the Dead Sea, along with whatever other emotions it may at times
inspire, does not fail to touch in the pilgrim some of his less
unpleasurable feelings.

And as for solitariness; the great forests of the north, the expanses of
unnavigated waters, the Greenland ice-fields, are the profoundest of
solitudes to a human observer; still the magic of their changeable tides
and seasons mitigates their terror; because, though unvisited by men,
those forests are visited by the May; the remotest seas reflect familiar
stars even as Lake Erie does; and in the clear air of a fine Polar day,
the irradiated, azure ice shows beautifully as malachite.

But the special curse, as one may call it, of the Encantadas, that which
exalts them in desolation above Idumea and the Pole, is, that to them
change never comes; neither the change of seasons nor of sorrows. Cut by
the Equator, they know not autumn, and they know not spring; while
already reduced to the lees of fire, ruin itself can work little more
upon them. The showers refresh the deserts; but in these isles, rain
never falls. Like split Syrian gourds left withering in the sun, they
are cracked by an everlasting drought beneath a torrid sky. "Have mercy
upon me," the wailing spirit of the Encantadas seems to cry, "and send
Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my
tongue, for I am tormented in this flame."

Another feature in these isles is their emphatic uninhabitableness. It
is deemed a fit type of all-forsaken overthrow, that the jackal should
den in the wastes of weedy Babylon; but the Encantadas refuse to harbor
even the outcasts of the beasts. Man and wolf alike disown them. Little
but reptile life is here found: tortoises, lizards, immense spiders,
snakes, and that strangest anomaly of outlandish nature, the _aguano_.
No voice, no low, no howl is heard; the chief sound of life here is a
hiss.

On most of the isles where vegetation is found at all, it is more
ungrateful than the blankness of Aracama. Tangled thickets of wiry
bushes, without fruit and without a name, springing up among deep
fissures of calcined rock, and treacherously masking them; or a parched
growth of distorted cactus trees.

In many places the coast is rock-bound, or, more properly,
clinker-bound; tumbled masses of blackish or greenish stuff like the
dross of an iron-furnace, forming dark clefts and caves here and there,
into which a ceaseless sea pours a fury of foam; overhanging them with a
swirl of gray, haggard mist, amidst which sail screaming flights of
unearthly birds heightening the dismal din. However calm the sea
without, there is no rest for these swells and those rocks; they lash
and are lashed, even when the outer ocean is most at peace with, itself.
On the oppressive, clouded days, such as are peculiar to this part of
the watery Equator, the dark, vitrified masses, many of which raise
themselves among white whirlpools and breakers in detached and perilous
places off the shore, present a most Plutonian sight. In no world but a
fallen one could such lands exist.

Those parts of the strand free from the marks of fire, stretch away in
wide level beaches of multitudinous dead shells, with here and there
decayed bits of sugar-cane, bamboos, and cocoanuts, washed upon this
other and darker world from the charming palm isles to the westward and
southward; all the way from Paradise to Tartarus; while mixed with the
relics of distant beauty you will sometimes see fragments of charred
wood and mouldering ribs of wrecks. Neither will any one be surprised at
meeting these last, after observing the conflicting currents which eddy
throughout nearly all the wide channels of the entire group. The
capriciousness of the tides of air sympathizes with those of the sea.
Nowhere is the wind so light, baffling, and every way unreliable, and so
given to perplexing calms, as at the Encantadas. Nigh a month has been
spent by a ship going from one isle to another, though but ninety miles
between; for owing to the force of the current, the boats employed to
tow barely suffice to keep the craft from sweeping upon the cliffs, but
do nothing towards accelerating her voyage. Sometimes it is impossible
for a vessel from afar to fetch up with the group itself, unless large
allowances for prospective lee-way have been made ere its coming in
sight. And yet, at other times, there is a mysterious indraft, which
irresistibly draws a passing vessel among the isles, though not bound to
them.

True, at one period, as to some extent at the present day, large fleets
of whalemen cruised for spermaceti upon what some seamen call the
Enchanted Ground. But this, as in due place will be described, was off
the great outer isle of Albemarle, away from the intricacies of the
smaller isles, where there is plenty of sea-room; and hence, to that
vicinity, the above remarks do not altogether apply; though even there
the current runs at times with singular force, shifting, too, with as
singular a caprice.

Indeed, there are seasons when currents quite unaccountable prevail for
a great distance round about the total group, and are so strong and
irregular as to change a vessel's course against the helm, though
sailing at the rate of four or five miles the hour. The difference in
the reckonings of navigators, produced by these causes, along with the
light and variable winds, long nourished a persuasion, that there
existed two distinct clusters of isles in the parallel of the
Encantadas, about a hundred leagues apart. Such was the idea of their
earlier visitors, the Buccaneers; and as late as 1750, the charts of
that part of the Pacific accorded with the strange delusion. And this
apparent fleetingness and unreality of the locality of the isles was
most probably one reason for the Spaniards calling them the Encantada,
or Enchanted Group.

But not uninfluenced by their character, as they now confessedly exist,
the modern voyager will be inclined to fancy that the bestowal of this
name might have in part originated in that air of spell-bound desertness
which so significantly invests the isles. Nothing can better suggest the
aspect of once living things malignly crumbled from ruddiness into
ashes. Apples of Sodom, after touching, seem these isles.

However wavering their place may seem by reason of the currents, they
themselves, at least to one upon the shore, appear invariably the same:
fixed, cast, glued into the very body of cadaverous death.

Nor would the appellation, enchanted, seem misapplied in still another
sense. For concerning the peculiar reptile inhabitant of these
wilds--whose presence gives the group its second Spanish name,
Gallipagos--concerning the tortoises found here, most mariners have long
cherished a superstition, not more frightful than grotesque. They
earnestly believe that all wicked sea-officers, more especially
commodores and captains, are at death (and, in some cases, before death)
transformed into tortoises; thenceforth dwelling upon these hot
aridities, sole solitary lords of Asphaltum.

Doubtless, so quaintly dolorous a thought was originally inspired by the
woe-begone landscape itself; but more particularly, perhaps, by the
tortoises. For, apart from their strictly physical features, there is
something strangely self-condemned in the appearance of these creatures.
Lasting sorrow and penal hopelessness are in no animal form so
suppliantly expressed as in theirs; while the thought of their wonderful
longevity does not fail to enhance the impression.

Nor even at the risk of meriting the charge of absurdly believing in
enchantments, can I restrain the admission that sometimes, even now,
when leaving the crowded city to wander out July and August among the
Adirondack Mountains, far from the influences of towns and
proportionally nigh to the mysterious ones of nature; when at such times
I sit me down in the mossy head of some deep-wooded gorge, surrounded by
prostrate trunks of blasted pines and recall, as in a dream, my other
and far-distant rovings in the baked heart of the charmed isles; and
remember the sudden glimpses of dusky shells, and long languid necks
protruded from the leafless thickets; and again have beheld the
vitreous inland rocks worn down and grooved into deep ruts by ages and
ages of the slow draggings of tortoises in quest of pools of scanty
water; I can hardly resist the feeling that in my time I have indeed
slept upon evilly enchanted ground.

Nay, such is the vividness of my memory, or the magic of my fancy, that
I know not whether I am not the occasional victim of optical delusion
concerning the Gallipagos. For, often in scenes of social merriment, and
especially at revels held by candle-light in old-fashioned mansions, so
that shadows are thrown into the further recesses of an angular and
spacious room, making them put on a look of haunted undergrowth of
lonely woods, I have drawn the attention of my comrades by my fixed gaze
and sudden change of air, as I have seemed to see, slowly emerging from
those imagined solitudes, and heavily crawling along the floor, the
ghost of a gigantic tortoise, with "Memento * * * * *" burning in live
letters upon his back.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH SECOND.

TWO SIDES TO A TORTOISE.

  "Most ugly shapes and horrible aspects,
  Such as Dame Nature selfe mote feare to see,
  Or shame, that ever should so fowle defects
  From her most cunning hand escaped bee;
  All dreadfull pourtraicts of deformitee.
  No wonder if these do a man appall;
  For all that here at home we dreadfull hold
  Be but as bugs to fearen babes withall
  Compared to the creatures in these isles' entrall

         *       *       *       *       *

  "Fear naught, then said the palmer, well avized,
  For these same monsters are not there indeed,
  But are into these fearful shapes disguized.

         *       *       *       *       *

  "And lifting up his vertuous staffe on high,
  Then all that dreadful armie fast gan flye
  Into great Zethy's bosom, where they hidden lye."


In view of the description given, may one be gay upon the Encantadas?
Yes: that is, find one the gayety, and he will be gay. And, indeed,
sackcloth and ashes as they are, the isles are not perhaps unmitigated
gloom. For while no spectator can deny their claims to a most solemn and
superstitious consideration, no more than my firmest resolutions can
decline to behold the spectre-tortoise when emerging from its shadowy
recess; yet even the tortoise, dark and melancholy as it is upon the
back, still possesses a bright side; its calipee or breast-plate being
sometimes of a faint yellowish or golden tinge. Moreover, every one
knows that tortoises as well as turtle are of such a make, that if you
but put them on their backs you thereby expose their bright sides
without the possibility of their recovering themselves, and turning into
view the other. But after you have done this, and because you have done
this, you should not swear that the tortoise has no dark side. Enjoy the
bright, keep it turned up perpetually if you can, but be honest, and
don't deny the black. Neither should he, who cannot turn the tortoise
from its natural position so as to hide the darker and expose his
livelier aspect, like a great October pumpkin in the sun, for that cause
declare the creature to be one total inky blot. The tortoise is both
black and bright. But let us to particulars.

Some months before my first stepping ashore upon the group, my ship was
cruising in its close vicinity. One noon we found ourselves off the
South Head of Albemarle, and not very far from the land. Partly by way
of freak, and partly by way of spying out so strange a country, a boat's
crew was sent ashore, with orders to see all they could, and besides,
bring back whatever tortoises they could conveniently transport.

It was after sunset, when the adventurers returned. I looked down over
the ship's high side as if looking down over the curb of a well, and
dimly saw the damp boat, deep in the sea with some unwonted weight.
Ropes were dropt over, and presently three huge antediluvian-looking
tortoises, after much straining, were landed on deck. They seemed hardly
of the seed of earth. We had been broad upon the waters for five long
months, a period amply sufficient to make all things of the land wear a
fabulous hue to the dreamy mind. Had three Spanish custom-house officers
boarded us then, it is not unlikely that I should have curiously stared
at them, felt of them, and stroked them much as savages serve civilized
guests. But instead of three custom-house officers, behold these really
wondrous tortoises--none of your schoolboy mud-turtles--but black as
widower's weeds, heavy as chests of plate, with vast shells medallioned
and orbed like shields, and dented and blistered like shields that have
breasted a battle, shaggy, too, here and there, with dark green moss,
and slimy with the spray of the sea. These mystic creatures, suddenly
translated by night from unutterable solitudes to our peopled deck,
affected me in a manner not easy to unfold. They seemed newly crawled
forth from beneath the foundations of the world. Yea, they seemed the
identical tortoises whereon the Hindoo plants this total sphere. With a
lantern I inspected them more closely. Such worshipful venerableness of
aspect! Such furry greenness mantling the rude peelings and healing the
fissures of their shattered shells. I no more saw three tortoises. They
expanded--became transfigured. I seemed to see three Roman Coliseums in
magnificent decay.

Ye oldest inhabitants of this, or any other isle, said I, pray, give me
the freedom of your three-walled towns.

The great feeling inspired by these creatures was that of
age:--dateless, indefinite endurance. And in fact that any other
creature can live and breathe as long as the tortoise of the Encantadas,
I will not readily believe. Not to hint of their known capacity of
sustaining life, while going without food for an entire year, consider
that impregnable armor of their living mail. What other bodily being
possesses such a citadel wherein to resist the assaults of Time?

As, lantern in hand, I scraped among the moss and beheld the ancient
scars of bruises received in many a sullen fall among the marly
mountains of the isle--scars strangely widened, swollen, half
obliterate, and yet distorted like those sometimes found in the bark of
very hoary trees, I seemed an antiquary of a geologist, studying the
bird-tracks and ciphers upon the exhumed slates trod by incredible
creatures whose very ghosts are now defunct.

As I lay in my hammock that night, overhead I heard the slow weary
draggings of the three ponderous strangers along the encumbered deck.
Their stupidity or their resolution was so great, that they never went
aside for any impediment. One ceased his movements altogether just
before the mid-watch. At sunrise I found him butted like a battering-ram
against the immovable foot of the foremast, and still striving, tooth
and nail, to force the impossible passage. That these tortoises are the
victims of a penal, or malignant, or perhaps a downright diabolical
enchanter, seems in nothing more likely than in that strange infatuation
of hopeless toil which so often possesses them. I have known them in
their journeyings ram themselves heroically against rocks, and long
abide there, nudging, wriggling, wedging, in order to displace them, and
so hold on their inflexible path. Their crowning curse is their drudging
impulse to straightforwardness in a belittered world.

Meeting with no such hinderance as their companion did, the other
tortoises merely fell foul of small stumbling-blocks--buckets, blocks,
and coils of rigging--and at times in the act of crawling over them
would slip with an astounding rattle to the deck. Listening to these
draggings and concussions, I thought me of the haunt from which they
came; an isle full of metallic ravines and gulches, sunk bottomlessly
into the hearts of splintered mountains, and covered for many miles
with inextricable thickets. I then pictured these three straight-forward
monsters, century after century, writhing through the shades, grim as
blacksmiths; crawling so slowly and ponderously, that not only did
toad-stools and all fungus things grow beneath their feet, but a sooty
moss sprouted upon their backs. With them I lost myself in volcanic
mazes; brushed away endless boughs of rotting thickets; till finally in
a dream I found myself sitting crosslegged upon the foremost, a Brahmin
similarly mounted upon either side, forming a tripod of foreheads which
upheld the universal cope.

Such was the wild nightmare begot by my first impression of the
Encantadas tortoise. But next evening, strange to say, I sat down with
my shipmates, and made a merry repast from tortoise steaks, and tortoise
stews; and supper over, out knife, and helped convert the three mighty
concave shells into three fanciful soup-tureens, and polished the three
flat yellowish calipees into three gorgeous salvers.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH THIRD.

ROCK RODONDO.

  "For they this tight the Rock of vile Reproach,
  A dangerous and dreadful place,
  To which nor fish nor fowl did once approach,
  But yelling meaws with sea-gulls hoars and bace
  And cormoyrants with birds of ravenous race,
  Which still sit waiting on that dreadful clift."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "With that the rolling sea resounding soft
  In his big base them fitly answered,
  And on the Rock, the waves breaking aloft,
  A solemn ineane unto them measured."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "Then he the boteman bad row easily,
  And let him heare some part of that rare melody."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "Suddeinly an innumerable flight
  Of harmefull fowles about them fluttering cride,
  And with their wicked wings them oft did smight
  And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "Even all the nation of unfortunate
  And fatal birds about them flocked were."


To go up into a high stone tower is not only a very fine thing in
itself, but the very best mode of gaining a comprehensive view of the
region round about. It is all the better if this tower stand solitary
and alone, like that mysterious Newport one, or else be sole survivor
of some perished castle.

Now, with reference to the Enchanted Isles, we are fortunately supplied
with just such a noble point of observation in a remarkable rock, from
its peculiar figure called of old by the Spaniards, Rock Rodondo, or
Round Rock. Some two hundred and fifty feet high, rising straight from
the sea ten miles from land, with the whole mountainous group to the
south and east. Rock Rodondo occupies, on a large scale, very much the
position which the famous Campanile or detached Bell Tower of St. Mark
does with respect to the tangled group of hoary edifices around it.

Ere ascending, however, to gaze abroad upon the Encantadas, this
sea-tower itself claims attention. It is visible at the distance of
thirty miles; and, fully participating in that enchantment which
pervades the group, when first seen afar invariably is mistaken for a
sail. Four leagues away, of a golden, hazy noon, it seems some Spanish
Admiral's ship, stacked up with glittering canvas. Sail ho! Sail ho!
Sail ho! from all three masts. But coming nigh, the enchanted frigate
is transformed apace into a craggy keep.

My first visit to the spot was made in the gray of the morning. With a
view of fishing, we had lowered three boats and pulling some two miles
from our vessel, found ourselves just before dawn of day close under the
moon-shadow of Rodondo. Its aspect was heightened, and yet softened, by
the strange double twilight of the hour. The great full moon burnt in
the low west like a half-spent beacon, casting a soft mellow tinge upon
the sea like that cast by a waning fire of embers upon a midnight
hearth; while along the entire east the invisible sun sent pallid
intimations of his coming. The wind was light; the waves languid; the
stars twinkled with a faint effulgence; all nature seemed supine with
the long night watch, and half-suspended in jaded expectation of the
sun. This was the critical hour to catch Rodondo in his perfect mood.
The twilight was just enough to reveal every striking point, without
tearing away the dim investiture of wonder.

From a broken stair-like base, washed, as the steps of a water-palace,
by the waves, the tower rose in entablatures of strata to a shaven
summit. These uniform layers, which compose the mass, form its most
peculiar feature. For at their lines of junction they project flatly
into encircling shelves, from top to bottom, rising one above another in
graduated series. And as the eaves of any old barn or abbey are alive
with swallows, so were all these rocky ledges with unnumbered sea-fowl.
Eaves upon eaves, and nests upon nests. Here and there were long
birdlime streaks of a ghostly white staining the tower from sea to air,
readily accounting for its sail-like look afar. All would have been
bewitchingly quiescent, were it not for the demoniac din created by the
birds. Not only were the eaves rustling with them, but they flew densely
overhead, spreading themselves into a winged and continually shifting
canopy. The tower is the resort of aquatic birds for hundreds of leagues
around. To the north, to the east, to the west, stretches nothing but
eternal ocean; so that the man-of-war hawk coming from the coasts of
North America, Polynesia, or Peru, makes his first land at Rodondo. And
yet though Rodondo be terra-firma, no land-bird ever lighted on it.
Fancy a red-robin or a canary there! What a falling into the hands of
the Philistines, when the poor warbler should be surrounded by such
locust-flights of strong bandit birds, with long bills cruel as daggers.

I know not where one can better study the Natural History of strange
sea-fowl than at Rodondo. It is the aviary of Ocean. Birds light here
which never touched mast or tree; hermit-birds, which ever fly alone;
cloud-birds, familiar with unpierced zones of air.

Let us first glance low down to the lowermost shelf of all, which is the
widest, too, and but a little space from high-water mark. What
outlandish beings are these? Erect as men, but hardly as symmetrical,
they stand all round the rock like sculptured caryatides, supporting the
next range of eaves above. Their bodies are grotesquely misshapen; their
bills short; their feet seemingly legless; while the members at their
sides are neither fin, wing, nor arm. And truly neither fish, flesh, nor
fowl is the penguin; as an edible, pertaining neither to Carnival nor
Lent; without exception the most ambiguous and least lovely creature yet
discovered by man. Though dabbling in all three elements, and indeed
possessing some rudimental claims to all, the penguin is at home in
none. On land it stumps; afloat it sculls; in the air it flops. As if
ashamed of her failure, Nature keeps this ungainly child hidden away at
the ends of the earth, in the Straits of Magellan, and on the abased
sea-story of Rodondo.

But look, what are yon wobegone regiments drawn up on the next shelf
above? what rank and file of large strange fowl? what sea Friars of
Orders Gray? Pelicans. Their elongated bills, and heavy leathern pouches
suspended thereto, give them the most lugubrious expression. A pensive
race, they stand for hours together without motion. Their dull, ashy
plumage imparts an aspect as if they had been powdered over with
cinders. A penitential bird, indeed, fitly haunting the shores of the
clinkered Encantadas, whereon tormented Job himself might have well sat
down and scraped himself with potsherds.

Higher up now we mark the gony, or gray albatross, anomalously so
called, an unsightly unpoetic bird, unlike its storied kinsman, which is
the snow-white ghost of the haunted Capes of Hope and Horn.

As we still ascend from shelf to shelf, we find the tenants of the tower
serially disposed in order of their magnitude:--gannets, black and
speckled haglets, jays, sea-hens, sperm-whale-birds, gulls of all
varieties:--thrones, princedoms, powers, dominating one above another in
senatorial array; while, sprinkled over all, like an ever-repeated fly
in a great piece of broidery, the stormy petrel or Mother Cary's chicken
sounds his continual challenge and alarm. That this mysterious
hummingbird of ocean--which, had it but brilliancy of hue, might, from
its evanescent liveliness, be almost called its butterfly, yet whose
chirrup under the stern is ominous to mariners as to the peasant the
death-tick sounding from behind the chimney jamb--should have its
special haunt at the Encantadas, contributes, in the seaman's mind, not
a little to their dreary spell.

As day advances the dissonant din augments. With ear-splitting cries the
wild birds celebrate their matins. Each moment, flights push from the
tower, and join the aerial choir hovering overhead, while their places
below are supplied by darting myriads. But down through all this discord
of commotion, I hear clear, silver, bugle-like notes unbrokenly falling,
like oblique lines of swift-slanting rain in a cascading shower. I gaze
far up, and behold a snow-white angelic thing, with one long, lance-like
feather thrust out behind. It is the bright, inspiriting chanticleer of
ocean, the beauteous bird, from its bestirring whistle of musical
invocation, fitly styled the "Boatswain's Mate."

The winged, life-clouding Rodondo had its full counterpart in the finny
hosts which peopled the waters at its base. Below the water-line, the
rock seemed one honey-comb of grottoes, affording labyrinthine
lurking-places for swarms of fairy fish. All were strange; many
exceedingly beautiful; and would have well graced the costliest glass
globes in which gold-fish are kept for a show. Nothing was more striking
than the complete novelty of many individuals of this multitude. Here
hues were seen as yet unpainted, and figures which are unengraved.

To show the multitude, avidity, and nameless fearlessness and tameness
of these fish, let me say, that often, marking through clear spaces of
water--temporarily made so by the concentric dartings of the fish above
the surface--certain larger and less unwary wights, which swam slow and
deep; our anglers would cautiously essay to drop their lines down to
these last. But in vain; there was no passing the uppermost zone. No
sooner did the hook touch the sea, than a hundred infatuates contended
for the honor of capture. Poor fish of Rodondo! in your victimized
confidence, you are of the number of those who inconsiderately trust,
while they do not understand, human nature.

But the dawn is now fairly day. Band after band, the sea-fowl sail away
to forage the deep for their food. The tower is left solitary save the
fish-caves at its base. Its birdlime gleams in the golden rays like the
whitewash of a tall light-house, or the lofty sails of a cruiser. This
moment, doubtless, while we know it to be a dead desert rock other
voyagers are taking oaths it is a glad populous ship.

But ropes now, and let us ascend. Yet soft, this is not so easy.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH FOURTH.

A PISGAH VIEW FROM THE ROCK.

  --"That done, he leads him to the highest mount,
  From whence, far off he unto him did show:"--


If you seek to ascend Rock Rodondo, take the following prescription. Go
three voyages round the world as a main-royal-man of the tallest frigate
that floats; then serve a year or two apprenticeship to the guides who
conduct strangers up the Peak of Teneriffe; and as many more
respectively to a rope-dancer, an Indian juggler, and a chamois. This
done, come and be rewarded by the view from our tower. How we get there,
we alone know. If we sought to tell others, what the wiser were they?
Suffice it, that here at the summit you and I stand. Does any
balloonist, does the outlooking man in the moon, take a broader view of
space? Much thus, one fancies, looks the universe from Milton's
celestial battlements. A boundless watery Kentucky. Here Daniel Boone
would have dwelt content.

Never heed for the present yonder Burnt District of the Enchanted Isles.
Look edgeways, as it were, past them, to the south. You see nothing; but
permit me to point out the direction, if not the place, of certain
interesting objects in the vast sea, which, kissing this tower's base,
we behold unscrolling itself towards the Antarctic Pole.

We stand now ten miles from the Equator. Yonder, to the East, some six
hundred miles, lies the continent; this Rock being just about on the
parallel of Quito.

Observe another thing here. We are at one of three uninhabited clusters,
which, at pretty nearly uniform distances from the main, sentinel, at
long intervals from each other, the entire coast of South America. In a
peculiar manner, also, they terminate the South American character of
country. Of the unnumbered Polynesian chains to the westward, not one
partakes of the qualities of the Encantadas or Gallipagos, the isles of
St. Felix and St. Ambrose, the isles Juan-Fernandez and Massafuero. Of
the first, it needs not here to speak. The second lie a little above the
Southern Tropic; lofty, inhospitable, and uninhabitable rocks, one of
which, presenting two round hummocks connected by a low reef, exactly
resembles a huge double-headed shot. The last lie in the latitude of
33°; high, wild and cloven. Juan Fernandez is sufficiently famous
without further description. Massafuero is a Spanish name, expressive of
the fact, that the isle so called lies _more without_, that is, further
off the main than its neighbor Juan. This isle Massafuero has a very
imposing aspect at a distance of eight or ten miles. Approached in one
direction, in cloudy weather, its great overhanging height and rugged
contour, and more especially a peculiar slope of its broad summits, give
it much the air of a vast iceberg drifting in tremendous poise. Its
sides are split with dark cavernous recesses, as an old cathedral with
its gloomy lateral chapels. Drawing nigh one of these gorges from sea,
after a long voyage, and beholding some tatterdemalion outlaw, staff in
hand, descending its steep rocks toward you, conveys a very queer
emotion to a lover of the picturesque.

On fishing parties from ships, at various times, I have chanced to
visit each of these groups. The impression they give to the stranger
pulling close up in his boat under their grim cliffs is, that surely he
must be their first discoverer, such, for the most part, is the
unimpaired ... silence and solitude. And here, by the way, the mode in
which these isles were really first lighted upon by Europeans is not
unworthy of mention, especially as what is about to be said, likewise
applies to the original discovery of our Encantadas.

Prior to the year 1563, the voyages made by Spanish ships from Peru to
Chili, were full of difficulty. Along this coast, the winds from the
South most generally prevail; and it had been an invariable custom to
keep close in with the land, from a superstitious conceit on the part of
the Spaniards, that were they to lose sight of it, the eternal
trade-wind would waft them into unending waters, from whence would be no
return. Here, involved among tortuous capes and headlands, shoals and
reefs, beating, too, against a continual head wind, often light, and
sometimes for days and weeks sunk into utter calm, the provincial
vessels, in many cases, suffered the extremest hardships, in passages,
which at the present day seem to have been incredibly protracted. There
is on record in some collections of nautical disasters, an account of
one of these ships, which, starting on a voyage whose duration was
estimated at ten days, spent four months at sea, and indeed never again
entered harbor, for in the end she was cast away. Singular to tell, this
craft never encountered a gale, but was the vexed sport of malicious
calms and currents. Thrice, out of provisions, she put back to an
intermediate port, and started afresh, but only yet again to return.
Frequent fogs enveloped her; so that no observation could be had of her
place, and once, when all hands were joyously anticipating sight of
their destination, lo! the vapors lifted and disclosed the mountains
from which they had taken their first departure. In the like deceptive
vapors she at last struck upon a reef, whence ensued a long series of
calamities too sad to detail.

It was the famous pilot, Juan Fernandez, immortalized by the island
named after him, who put an end to these coasting tribulations, by
boldly venturing the experiment--as De Gama did before him with respect
to Europe--of standing broad out from land. Here he found the winds
favorable for getting to the South, and by running westward till beyond
the influences of the trades, he regained the coast without difficulty;
making the passage which, though in a high degree circuitous, proved far
more expeditious than the nominally direct one. Now it was upon these
new tracks, and about the year 1670, or thereabouts, that the Enchanted
Isles, and the rest of the sentinel groups, as they may be called, were
discovered. Though I know of no account as to whether any of them were
found inhabited or no, it may be reasonably concluded that they have
been immemorial solitudes. But let us return to Redondo.

Southwest from our tower lies all Polynesia, hundreds of leagues away;
but straight west, on the precise line of his parallel, no land rises
till your keel is beached upon the Kingsmills, a nice little sail of,
say 5000 miles.

Having thus by such distant references--with Rodondo the only possible
ones--settled our relative place on the sea, let us consider objects not
quite so remote. Behold the grim and charred Enchanted Isles. This
nearest crater-shaped headland is part of Albemarle, the largest of the
group, being some sixty miles or more long, and fifteen broad. Did you
ever lay eye on the real genuine Equator? Have you ever, in the largest
sense, toed the Line? Well, that identical crater-shaped headland there,
all yellow lava, is cut by the Equator exactly as a knife cuts straight
through the centre of a pumpkin pie. If you could only see so far, just
to one side of that same headland, across yon low dikey ground, you
would catch sight of the isle of Narborough, the loftiest land of the
cluster; no soil whatever; one seamed clinker from top to bottom;
abounding in black caves like smithies; its metallic shore ringing under
foot like plates of iron; its central volcanoes standing grouped like a
gigantic chimney-stack.

Narborough and Albemarle are neighbors after a quite curious fashion. A
familiar diagram will illustrate this strange neighborhood:

[Illustration]

Cut a channel at the above letter joint, and the middle transverse limb
is Narborough, and all the rest is Albemarle. Volcanic Narborough lies
in the black jaws of Albemarle like a wolf's red tongue in his open
month.

If now you desire the population of Albemarle, I will give you, in round
numbers, the statistics, according to the most reliable estimates made
upon the spot:

Men,                          none.
Ant-eaters,                unknown.
Man-haters,                unknown.
Lizards,                   500,000.
Snakes,                    500,000.
Spiders,                10,000,000.
Salamanders,               unknown.
Devils,                         do.
Making a clean total of 11,000,000,

exclusive of an incomputable host of fiends, ant-eaters, man-haters, and
salamanders.

Albemarle opens his mouth towards the setting sun. His distended jaws
form a great bay, which Narborough, his tongue, divides into halves, one
whereof is called Weather Bay, the other Lee Bay; while the volcanic
promontories, terminating his coasts, are styled South Head and North
Head. I note this, because these bays are famous in the annals of the
Sperm Whale Fishery. The whales come here at certain seasons to calve.
When ships first cruised hereabouts, I am told, they used to blockade
the entrance of Lee Bay, when their boats going round by Weather Bay,
passed through Narborough channel, and so had the Leviathans very neatly
in a pen.

The day after we took fish at the base of this Round Tower, we had a
fine wind, and shooting round the north headland, suddenly descried a
fleet of full thirty sail, all beating to windward like a squadron in
line. A brave sight as ever man saw. A most harmonious concord of
rushing keels. Their thirty kelsons hummed like thirty harp-strings, and
looked as straight whilst they left their parallel traces on the sea.
But there proved too many hunters for the game. The fleet broke up, and
went their separate ways out of sight, leaving my own ship and two trim
gentlemen of London. These last, finding no luck either, likewise
vanished; and Lee Bay, with all its appurtenances, and without a rival,
devolved to us.

The way of cruising here is this. You keep hovering about the entrance
of the bay, in one beat and out the next. But at times--not always, as
in other parts of the group--a racehorse of a current sweeps right
across its mouth. So, with all sails set, you carefully ply your tacks.
How often, standing at the foremast head at sunrise, with our patient
prow pointed in between these isles, did I gaze upon that land, not of
cakes, but of clinkers, not of streams of sparkling water, but arrested
torrents of tormented lava.

As the ship runs in from the open sea, Narborough presents its side in
one dark craggy mass, soaring up some five or six thousand feet, at
which point it hoods itself in heavy clouds, whose lowest level fold is
as clearly defined against the rocks as the snow-line against the Andes.
There is dire mischief going on in that upper dark. There toil the
demons of fire, who, at intervals, irradiate the nights with a strange
spectral illumination for miles and miles around, but unaccompanied by
any further demonstration; or else, suddenly announce themselves by
terrific concussions, and the full drama of a volcanic eruption. The
blacker that cloud by day, the more may you look for light by night.
Often whalemen have found themselves cruising nigh that burning mountain
when all aglow with a ball-room blaze. Or, rather, glass-works, you may
call this same vitreous isle of Narborough, with its tall
chimney-stacks.

Where we still stand, here on Rodondo, we cannot see all the other
isles, but it is a good place from which to point out where they lie.
Yonder, though, to the E.N.E., I mark a distant dusky ridge. It is
Abington Isle, one of the most northerly of the group; so solitary,
remote, and blank, it looks like No-Man's Land seen off our northern
shore. I doubt whether two human beings ever touched upon that spot. So
far as yon Abington Isle is concerned, Adam and his billions of
posterity remain uncreated.

Ranging south of Abington, and quite out of sight behind the long spine
of Albemarle, lies James's Isle, so called by the early Buccaneers after
the luckless Stuart, Duke of York. Observe here, by the way, that,
excepting the isles particularized in comparatively recent times, and
which mostly received the names of famous Admirals, the Encantadas were
first christened by the Spaniards; but these Spanish names were
generally effaced on English charts by the subsequent christenings of
the Buccaneers, who, in the middle of the seventeenth century, called
them after English noblemen and kings. Of these loyal freebooters and
the things which associate their name with the Encantadas, we shall hear
anon. Nay, for one little item, immediately; for between James's Isle
and Albemarle, lies a fantastic islet, strangely known as "Cowley's
Enchanted Isle." But, as all the group is deemed enchanted, the reason
must be given for the spell within a spell involved by this particular
designation. The name was bestowed by that excellent Buccaneer himself,
on his first visit here. Speaking in his published voyages of this spot,
he says--"My fancy led me to call it Cowley's Enchanted Isle, for, we
having had a sight of it upon several points of the compass, it appeared
always in so many different forms; sometimes like a ruined
fortification; upon another point like a great city," etc. No wonder
though, that among the Encantadas all sorts of ocular deceptions and
mirages should be met.

That Cowley linked his name with this self-transforming and bemocking
isle, suggests the possibility that it conveyed to him some meditative
image of himself. At least, as is not impossible, if he were any
relative of the mildly-thoughtful and self-upbraiding poet Cowley, who
lived about his time, the conceit might seem unwarranted; for that sort
of thing evinced in the naming of this isle runs in the blood, and may
be seen in pirates as in poets.

Still south of James's Isle lie Jervis Isle, Duncan Isle, Grossman's
Isle, Brattle Isle, Wood's Isle, Chatham Isle, and various lesser isles,
for the most part an archipelago of aridities, without inhabitant,
history, or hope of either in all time to come. But not far from these
are rather notable isles--Barrington, Charles's, Norfolk, and Hood's.
Succeeding chapters will reveal some ground for their notability.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH FIFTH.

THE FRIGATE, AND SHIP FLYAWAY.

  "Looking far forth into the ocean wide,
  A goodly ship with banners bravely dight,
  And flag in her top-gallant I espide,
  Through the main sea making her merry flight."


Ere quitting Rodondo, it must not be omitted that here, in 1813, the
U.S. frigate Essex, Captain David Porter, came near leaving her bones.
Lying becalmed one morning with a strong current setting her rapidly
towards the rock, a strange sail was descried, which--not out of keeping
with alleged enchantments of the neighborhood--seemed to be staggering
under a violent wind, while the frigate lay lifeless as if spell-bound.
But a light air springing up, all sail was made by the frigate in chase
of the enemy, as supposed--he being deemed an English whale-ship--but
the rapidity of the current was so great, that soon all sight was lost
of him; and, at meridian, the Essex, spite of her drags, was driven so
close under the foam-lashed cliffs of Rodondo that, for a time, all
hands gave her up. A smart breeze, however, at last helped her off,
though the escape was so critical as to seem almost miraculous.

Thus saved from destruction herself, she now made use of that salvation
to destroy the other vessel, if possible. Renewing the chase in the
direction in which the stranger had disappeared, sight was caught of him
the following morning. Upon being descried he hoisted American colors
and stood away from the Essex. A calm ensued; when, still confident that
the stranger was an Englishman, Porter dispatched a cutter, not to board
the enemy, but drive back his boats engaged in towing him. The cutter
succeeded. Cutters were subsequently sent to capture him; the stranger
now showing English colors in place of American. But, when the frigate's
boats were within a short distance of their hoped-for prize, another
sudden breeze sprang up; the stranger, under all sail, bore off to the
westward, and, ere night, was hull down ahead of the Essex, which, all
this time, lay perfectly becalmed.

This enigmatic craft--American in the morning, and English in the
evening--her sails full of wind in a calm--was never again beheld. An
enchanted ship no doubt. So, at least, the sailors swore.

This cruise of the Essex in the Pacific during the war of 1812, is,
perhaps, the strangest and most stirring to be found in the history of
the American navy. She captured the furthest wandering vessels; visited
the remotest seas and isles; long hovered in the charmed vicinity of the
enchanted group; and, finally, valiantly gave up the ghost fighting two
English frigates in the harbor of Valparaiso. Mention is made of her
here for the same reason that the Buccaneers will likewise receive
record; because, like them, by long cruising among the isles,
tortoise-hunting upon their shores, and generally exploring them; for
these and other reasons, the Essex is peculiarly associated with the
Encantadas.

Here be it said that you have but three, eye-witness authorities worth
mentioning touching the Enchanted Isles:--Cowley, the Buccaneer (1684);
Colnet the whaling-ground explorer (1798); Porter, the post captain
(1813). Other than these you have but barren, bootless allusions from
some few passing voyagers or compilers.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH SIXTH.

BARRINGTON ISLE AND THE BUCCANEERS.

  "Let us all servile base subjection scorn,
  And as we be sons of the earth so wide,
  Let us our father's heritage divide,
  And challenge to ourselves our portions dew
  Of all the patrimony, which a few
  hold on hugger-mugger in their hand."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "Lords of the world, and so will wander free,
  Whereso us listeth, uncontroll'd of any."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "How bravely now we live, how jocund, how near the
  first inheritance, without fear, how free from little troubles!"


Near two centuries ago Barrington Isle was the resort of that famous
wing of the West Indian Buccaneers, which, upon their repulse from the
Cuban waters, crossing the Isthmus of Darien, ravaged the Pacific side
of the Spanish colonies, and, with the regularity and timing of a modern
mail, waylaid the royal treasure-ships plying between Manilla and
Acapulco. After the toils of piratic war, here they came to say their
prayers, enjoy their free-and-easies, count their crackers from the
cask, their doubloons from the keg, and measure their silks of Asia with
long Toledos for their yard-sticks.

As a secure retreat, an undiscoverable hiding-place, no spot in those
days could have been better fitted. In the centre of a vast and silent
sea, but very little traversed--surrounded by islands, whose
inhospitable aspect might well drive away the chance navigator--and yet
within a few days' sail of the opulent countries which they made their
prey--the unmolested Buccaneers found here that tranquillity which they
fiercely denied to every civilized harbor in that part of the world.
Here, after stress of weather, or a temporary drubbing at the hands of
their vindictive foes, or in swift flight with golden booty, those old
marauders came, and lay snugly out of all harm's reach. But not only was
the place a harbor of safety, and a bower of ease, but for utility in
other things it was most admirable.

Barrington Isle is, in many respects, singularly adapted to careening,
refitting, refreshing, and other seamen's purposes. Not only has it good
water, and good anchorage, well sheltered from all winds by the high
land of Albemarle, but it is the least unproductive isle of the group.
Tortoises good for food, trees good for fuel, and long grass good for
bedding, abound here, and there are pretty natural walks, and several
landscapes to be seen. Indeed, though in its locality belonging to the
Enchanted group, Barrington Isle is so unlike most of its neighbors,
that it would hardly seem of kin to them.

"I once landed on its western side," says a sentimental voyager long
ago, "where it faces the black buttress of Albemarle. I walked beneath
groves of trees--not very lofty, and not palm trees, or orange trees, or
peach trees, to be sure--but, for all that, after long sea-faring, very
beautiful to walk under, even though they supplied no fruit. And here,
in calm spaces at the heads of glades, and on the shaded tops of slopes
commanding the most quiet scenery--what do you think I saw? Seats which
might have served Brahmins and presidents of peace societies. Fine old
ruins of what had once been symmetric lounges of stone and turf, they
bore every mark both of artificialness and age, and were, undoubtedly,
made by the Buccaneers. One had been a long sofa, with back and arms,
just such a sofa as the poet Gray might have loved to throw himself
upon, his Crebillon in hand.

"Though they sometimes tarried here for months at a time, and used the
spot for a storing-place for spare spars, sails, and casks; yet it is
highly improbable that the Buccaneers ever erected dwelling-houses upon
the isle. They never were here except their ships remained, and they
would most likely have slept on board. I mention this, because I cannot
avoid the thought, that it is hard to impute the construction of these
romantic seats to any other motive than one of pure peacefulness and
kindly fellowship with nature. That the Buccaneers perpetrated the
greatest outrages is very true--that some of them were mere cutthroats
is not to be denied; but we know that here and there among their host
was a Dampier, a Wafer, and a Cowley, and likewise other men, whose
worst reproach was their desperate fortunes--whom persecution, or
adversity, or secret and unavengeable wrongs, had driven from Christian
society to seek the melancholy solitude or the guilty adventures of the
sea. At any rate, long as those ruins of seats on Barrington remain,
the most singular monuments are furnished to the fact, that all of the
Buccaneers were not unmitigated monsters.

"But during my ramble on the isle I was not long in discovering other
tokens, of things quite in accordance with those wild traits, popularly,
and no doubt truly enough, imputed to the freebooters at large. Had I
picked up old sails and rusty hoops I would only have thought of the
ship's carpenter and cooper. But I found old cutlasses and daggers
reduced to mere threads of rust, which, doubtless, had stuck between
Spanish ribs ere now. These were signs of the murderer and robber; the
reveler likewise had left his trace. Mixed with shells, fragments of
broken jars were lying here and there, high up upon the beach. They were
precisely like the jars now used upon the Spanish coast for the wine and
Pisco spirits of that country.

"With a rusty dagger-fragment in one hand, and a bit of a wine-jar in
another, I sat me down on the ruinous green sofa I have spoken of, and
bethought me long and deeply of these same Buccaneers. Could it be
possible, that they robbed and murdered one day, reveled the next, and
rested themselves by turning meditative philosophers, rural poets, and
seat-builders on the third? Not very improbable, after all. For consider
the vacillations of a man. Still, strange as it may seem, I must also
abide by the more charitable thought; namely, that among these
adventurers were some gentlemanly, companionable souls, capable of
genuine tranquillity and virtue."

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH SEVENTH.

CHARLES'S ISLE AND THE DOG-KING.

  --So with outragious cry,
  A thousand villeins round about him swarmed
  Out of the rocks and caves adjoining nye;
  Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed;
  All threatning death, all in straunge manner armed;
  Some with unweldy clubs, some with long speares.
  Some rusty knives, some staves in fier warmd.

         *       *       *       *       *

  We will not be of any occupation,
  Let such vile vassals, born to base vocation,
  Drudge in the world, and for their living droyle,
  Which have no wit to live withouten toyle.


Southwest of Barrington lies Charles's Isle. And hereby hangs a history
which I gathered long ago from a shipmate learned in all the lore of
outlandish life.

During the successful revolt of the Spanish provinces from Old Spain,
there fought on behalf of Peru a certain Creole adventurer from Cuba,
who, by his bravery and good fortune, at length advanced himself to high
rank in the patriot army. The war being ended, Peru found itself like
many valorous gentlemen, free and independent enough, but with few shot
in the locker. In other words, Peru had not wherewithal to pay off its
troops. But the Creole--I forget his name--volunteered to take his pay
in lands. So they told him he might have his pick of the Enchanted
Isles, which were then, as they still remain, the nominal appanage of
Peru. The soldier straightway embarks thither, explores the group,
returns to Callao, and says he will take a deed of Charles's Isle.
Moreover, this deed must stipulate that thenceforth Charles's Isle is
not only the sole property of the Creole, but is forever free of Peru,
even as Peru of Spain. To be short, this adventurer procures himself to
be made in effect Supreme Lord of the Island, one of the princes of the
powers of the earth.[A]

[Footnote A: The American Spaniards have long been in the habit of
making presents of islands to deserving individuals. The pilot Juan
Fernandez procured a deed of the isle named after him, and for some
years resided there before Selkirk came. It is supposed, however, that
he eventually contracted the blues upon his princely property, for after
a time he returned to the main, and as report goes, became a very
garrulous barber in the city of Lima.]

He now sends forth a proclamation inviting subjects to his as yet
unpopulated kingdom. Some eighty souls, men and women, respond; and
being provided by their leader with necessaries, and tools of various
sorts, together with a few cattle and goats, take ship for the promised
land; the last arrival on board, prior to sailing, being the Creole
himself, accompanied, strange to say, by a disciplined cavalry company
of large grim dogs. These, it was observed on the passage, refusing to
consort with the emigrants, remained aristocratically grouped around
their master on the elevated quarter-deck, casting disdainful glances
forward upon the inferior rabble there; much as, from the ramparts, the
soldiers of a garrison, thrown into a conquered town, eye the inglorious
citizen-mob over which they are set to watch.

Now Charles's Isle not only resembles Barrington Isle in being much more
inhabitable than other parts of the group, but it is double the size of
Barrington, say forty or fifty miles in circuit.

Safely debarked at last, the company, under direction of their lord and
patron, forthwith proceeded to build their capital city. They make
considerable advance in the way of walls of clinkers, and lava floors,
nicely sanded with cinders. On the least barren hills they pasture
their cattle, while the goats, adventurers by nature, explore the far
inland solitudes for a scanty livelihood of lofty herbage. Meantime,
abundance of fish and tortoises supply their other wants.

The disorders incident to settling all primitive regions, in the present
case were heightened by the peculiarly untoward character of many of the
pilgrims. His Majesty was forced at last to proclaim martial law, and
actually hunted and shot with his own hand several of his rebellious
subjects, who, with most questionable intentions, had clandestinely
encamped in the interior, whence they stole by night, to prowl
barefooted on tiptoe round the precincts of the lava-palace. It is to be
remarked, however, that prior to such stern proceedings, the more
reliable men had been judiciously picked out for an infantry body-guard,
subordinate to the cavalry body-guard of dogs. But the state of politics
in this unhappy nation may be somewhat imagined, from the circumstance
that all who were not of the body-guard were downright plotters and
malignant traitors. At length the death penalty was tacitly abolished,
owing to the timely thought, that were strict sportsman's justice to be
dispensed among such subjects, ere long the Nimrod King would have
little or no remaining game to shoot. The human part of the life-guard
was now disbanded, and set to work cultivating the soil, and raising
potatoes; the regular army now solely consisting of the dog-regiment.
These, as I have heard, were of a singularly ferocious character, though
by severe training rendered docile to their master. Armed to the teeth,
the Creole now goes in state, surrounded by his canine janizaries, whose
terrific bayings prove quite as serviceable as bayonets in keeping down
the surgings of revolt.

But the census of the isle, sadly lessened by the dispensation of
justice, and not materially recruited by matrimony, began to fill his
mind with sad mistrust. Some way the population must be increased. Now,
from its possessing a little water, and its comparative pleasantness of
aspect, Charles's Isle at this period was occasionally visited by
foreign whalers. These His Majesty had always levied upon for port
charges, thereby contributing to his revenue. But now he had additional
designs. By insidious arts he, from time to time, cajoles certain
sailors to desert their ships, and enlist beneath his banner. Soon as
missed, their captains crave permission to go and hunt them up.
Whereupon His Majesty first hides them very carefully away, and then
freely permits the search. In consequence, the delinquents are never
found, and the ships retire without them.

Thus, by a two-edged policy of this crafty monarch, foreign nations were
crippled in the number of their subjects, and his own were greatly
multiplied. He particularly petted these renegado strangers. But alas
for the deep-laid schemes of ambitious princes, and alas for the vanity
of glory. As the foreign-born Pretorians, unwisely introduced into the
Roman state, and still more unwisely made favorites of the Emperors, at
last insulted and overturned the throne, even so these lawless mariners,
with all the rest of the body-guard and all the populace, broke out into
a terrible mutiny, and defied their master. He marched against them with
all his dogs. A deadly battle ensued upon the beach. It raged for three
hours, the dogs fighting with determined valor, and the sailors reckless
of everything but victory. Three men and thirteen dogs were left dead
upon the field, many on both sides were wounded, and the king was forced
to fly with the remainder of his canine regiment. The enemy pursued,
stoning the dogs with their master into the wilderness of the interior.
Discontinuing the pursuit, the victors returned to the village on the
shore, stove the spirit casks, and proclaimed a Republic. The dead men
were interred with the honors of war, and the dead dogs ignominiously
thrown into the sea. At last, forced by stress of suffering, the
fugitive Creole came down from the hills and offered to treat for peace.
But the rebels refused it on any other terms than his unconditional
banishment. Accordingly, the next ship that arrived carried away the
ex-king to Peru.

The history of the king of Charles's Island furnishes another
illustration of the difficulty of colonizing barren islands with
unprincipled pilgrims.

Doubtless for a long time the exiled monarch, pensively ruralizing in
Peru, which afforded him a safe asylum in his calamity, watched every
arrival from the Encantadas, to hear news of the failure of the
Republic, the consequent penitence of the rebels, and his own recall to
royalty. Doubtless he deemed the Republic but a miserable experiment
which would soon explode. But no, the insurgents had confederated
themselves into a democracy neither Grecian, Roman, nor American. Nay,
it was no democracy at all, but a permanent _Riotocracy_, which gloried
in having no law but lawlessness. Great inducements being offered to
deserters, their ranks were swelled by accessions of scamps from every
ship which touched their shores. Charles's Island was proclaimed the
asylum of the oppressed of all navies. Each runaway tar was hailed as a
martyr in the cause of freedom, and became immediately installed a
ragged citizen of this universal nation. In vain the captains of
absconding seamen strove to regain them. Their new compatriots were
ready to give any number of ornamental eyes in their behalf. They had
few cannon, but their fists were not to be trifled with. So at last it
came to pass that no vessels acquainted with the character of that
country durst touch there, however sorely in want of refreshment. It
became Anathema--a sea Alsatia--the unassailed lurking-place of all
sorts of desperadoes, who in the name of liberty did just what they
pleased. They continually fluctuated in their numbers. Sailors,
deserting ships at other islands, or in boats at sea anywhere in that
vicinity, steered for Charles's Isle, as to their sure home of refuge;
while, sated with the life of the isle, numbers from time to time
crossed the water to the neighboring ones, and there presenting
themselves to strange captains as shipwrecked seamen, often succeeded in
getting on board vessels bound to the Spanish coast, and having a
compassionate purse made up for them on landing there.

One warm night during my first visit to the group, our ship was floating
along in languid stillness, when some one on the forecastle shouted
"Light ho!" We looked and saw a beacon burning on some obscure land off
the beam. Our third mate was not intimate with this part of the world.
Going to the captain he said, "Sir, shall I put off in a boat? These
must be shipwrecked men."

The captain laughed rather grimly, as, shaking his fist towards the
beacon, he rapped out an oath, and said--"No, no, you precious rascals,
you don't juggle one of my boats ashore this blessed night. You do well,
you thieves--you do benevolently to hoist a light yonder as on a
dangerous shoal. It tempts no wise man to pull off and see what's the
matter, but bids him steer small and keep off shore--that is Charles's
Island; brace up, Mr. Mate, and keep the light astern."

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH EIGHTH.

NORFOLK ISLE AND THE CHOLA WIDOW.

  "At last they in an island did espy
  A seemly woman sitting by the shore,
  That with great sorrow and sad agony
  Seemed some great misfortune to deplore;
  And loud to them for succor called evermore."

  "Black his eye as the midnight sky.
  White his neck as the driven snow,
  Red his cheek as the morning light;--
  Cold he lies in the ground below.
        My love is dead,
        Gone to his death-bed, ys
  All under the cactus tree."

  "Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
  For thee the tear be duly shed;
  Belov'd till life can charm no more,
  And mourned till Pity's self be dead."


Far to the northeast of Charles's Isle, sequestered from the rest, lies
Norfolk Isle; and, however insignificant to most voyagers, to me,
through sympathy, that lone island has become a spot made sacred by the
strangest trials of humanity.

It was my first visit to the Encantadas. Two days had been spent ashore
in hunting tortoises. There was not time to capture many; so on the
third afternoon we loosed our sails. We were just in the act of getting
under way, the uprooted anchor yet suspended and invisibly swaying
beneath the wave, as the good ship gradually turned her heel to leave
the isle behind, when the seaman who heaved with me at the windlass
paused suddenly, and directed my attention to something moving on the
land, not along the beach, but somewhat back, fluttering from a height.

In view of the sequel of this little story, be it here narrated how it
came to pass, that an object which partly from its being so small was
quite lost to every other man on board, still caught the eye of my
handspike companion. The rest of the crew, myself included, merely stood
up to our spikes in heaving, whereas, unwontedly exhilarated, at every
turn of the ponderous windlass, my belted comrade leaped atop of it,
with might and main giving a downward, thewey, perpendicular heave, his
raised eye bent in cheery animation upon the slowly receding shore.
Being high lifted above all others was the reason he perceived the
object, otherwise unperceivable; and this elevation of his eye was
owing to the elevation of his spirits; and this again--for truth must
out--to a dram of Peruvian pisco, in guerdon for some kindness done,
secretly administered to him that morning by our mulatto steward. Now,
certainly, pisco does a deal of mischief in the world; yet seeing that,
in the present case, it was the means, though indirect, of rescuing a
human being from the most dreadful fate, must we not also needs admit
that sometimes pisco does a deal of good?

Glancing across the water in the direction pointed out, I saw some white
thing hanging from an inland rock, perhaps half a mile from the sea.

"It is a bird; a white-winged bird; perhaps a--no; it is--it is a
handkerchief!"

"Ay, a handkerchief!" echoed my comrade, and with a louder shout
apprised the captain.

Quickly now--like the running out and training of a great gun--the long
cabin spy-glass was thrust through the mizzen rigging from the high
platform of the poop; whereupon a human figure was plainly seen upon the
inland rock, eagerly waving towards us what seemed to be the
handkerchief.

Our captain was a prompt, good fellow. Dropping the glass, he lustily
ran forward, ordering the anchor to be dropped again; hands to stand by
a boat, and lower away.

In a half-hour's time the swift boat returned. It went with six and came
with seven; and the seventh was a woman.

It is not artistic heartlessness, but I wish I could but draw in
crayons; for this woman was a most touching sight; and crayons, tracing
softly melancholy lines, would best depict the mournful image of the
dark-damasked Chola widow.

Her story was soon told, and though given in her own strange language
was as quickly understood; for our captain, from long trading on the
Chilian coast, was well versed in the Spanish. A Cholo, or half-breed
Indian woman of Payta in Peru, three years gone by, with her young
new-wedded husband Felipe, of pure Castilian blood, and her one only
Indian brother, Truxill, Hunilla had taken passage on the main in a
French whaler, commanded by a joyous man; which vessel, bound to the
cruising grounds beyond the Enchanted Isles, proposed passing close by
their vicinity. The object of the little party was to procure tortoise
oil, a fluid which for its great purity and delicacy is held in high
estimation wherever known; and it is well known all along this part of
the Pacific coast. With a chest of clothes, tools, cooking utensils, a
rude apparatus for trying out the oil, some casks of biscuit, and other
things, not omitting two favorite dogs, of which faithful animal all the
Cholos are very fond, Hunilla and her companions were safely landed at
their chosen place; the Frenchman, according to the contract made ere
sailing, engaged to take them off upon returning from a four months'
cruise in the westward seas; which interval the three adventurers deemed
quite sufficient for their purposes.

On the isle's lone beach they paid him in silver for their passage out,
the stranger having declined to carry them at all except upon that
condition; though willing to take every means to insure the due
fulfillment of his promise. Felipe had striven hard to have this payment
put off to the period of the ship's return. But in vain. Still they
thought they had, in another way, ample pledge of the good faith of the
Frenchman. It was arranged that the expenses of the passage home should
not be payable in silver, but in tortoises; one hundred tortoises ready
captured to the returning captain's hand. These the Cholos meant to
secure after their own work was done, against the probable time of the
Frenchman's coming back; and no doubt in prospect already felt, that in
those hundred tortoises--now somewhere ranging the isle's interior--they
possessed one hundred hostages. Enough: the vessel sailed; the gazing
three on shore answered the loud glee of the singing crew; and ere
evening, the French craft was hull down in the distant sea, its masts
three faintest lines which quickly faded from Hunilla's eye.

The stranger had given a blithesome promise, and anchored it with oaths;
but oaths and anchors equally will drag; naught else abides on fickle
earth but unkept promises of joy. Contrary winds from out unstable
skies, or contrary moods of his more varying mind, or shipwreck and
sudden death in solitary waves; whatever was the cause, the blithe
stranger never was seen again.

Yet, however dire a calamity was here in store, misgivings of it ere due
time never disturbed the Cholos' busy mind, now all intent upon the
toilsome matter which had brought them hither. Nay, by swift doom coming
like the thief at night, ere seven weeks went by, two of the little
party were removed from all anxieties of land or sea. No more they
sought to gaze with feverish fear, or still more feverish hope, beyond
the present's horizon line; but into the furthest future their own
silent spirits sailed. By persevering labor beneath that burning sun,
Felipe and Truxill had brought down to their hut many scores of
tortoises, and tried out the oil, when, elated with their good success,
and to reward themselves for such hard work, they, too hastily, made a
catamaran, or Indian raft, much used on the Spanish main, and merrily
started on a fishing trip, just without a long reef with many jagged
gaps, running parallel with the shore, about half a mile from it. By
some bad tide or hap, or natural negligence of joyfulness (for though
they could not be heard, yet by their gestures they seemed singing at
the time) forced in deep water against that iron bar, the ill-made
catamaran was overset, and came all to pieces; when dashed by
broad-chested swells between their broken logs and the sharp teeth of
the reef, both adventurers perished before Hunilla's eyes.

Before Hunilla's eyes they sank. The real woe of this event passed
before her sight as some sham tragedy on the stage. She was seated on a
rude bower among the withered thickets, crowning a lofty cliff, a little
back from the beach. The thickets were so disposed, that in looking upon
the sea at large she peered out from among the branches as from the
lattice of a high balcony. But upon the day we speak of here, the better
to watch the adventure of those two hearts she loved, Hunilla had
withdrawn the branches to one side, and held them so. They formed an
oval frame, through which the bluely boundless sea rolled like a painted
one. And there, the invisible painter painted to her view the
wave-tossed and disjointed raft, its once level logs slantingly
upheaved, as raking masts, and the four struggling arms
indistinguishable among them; and then all subsided into smooth-flowing
creamy waters, slowly drifting the splintered wreck; while first and
last, no sound of any sort was heard. Death in a silent picture; a dream
of the eye; such vanishing shapes as the mirage shows.

So instant was the scene, so trance-like its mild pictorial effect, so
distant from her blasted bower and her common sense of things, that
Hunilla gazed and gazed, nor raised a finger or a wail. But as good to
sit thus dumb, in stupor staring on that dumb show, for all that
otherwise might be done. With half a mile of sea between, how could her
two enchanted arms aid those four fated ones? The distance long, the
time one sand. After the lightning is beheld, what fool shall stay the
thunder-bolt? Felipe's body was washed ashore, but Truxill's never came;
only his gay, braided hat of golden straw--that same sunflower thing he
waved to her, pushing from the strand--and now, to the last gallant, it
still saluted her. But Felipe's body floated to the marge, with one arm
encirclingly outstretched. Lock-jawed in grim death, the lover-husband
softly clasped his bride, true to her even in death's dream. Ah,
heaven, when man thus keeps his faith, wilt thou be faithless who
created the faithful one? But they cannot break faith who never plighted
it.

It needs not to be said what nameless misery now wrapped the lonely
widow. In telling her own story she passed this almost entirely over,
simply recounting the event. Construe the comment of her features as you
might, from her mere words little would you have weened that Hunilla was
herself the heroine of her tale. But not thus did she defraud us of our
tears. All hearts bled that grief could be so brave.

She but showed us her soul's lid, and the strange ciphers thereon
engraved; all within, with pride's timidity, was withheld. Yet was there
one exception. Holding out her small olive hand before her captain, she
said in mild and slowest Spanish, "Señor, I buried him;" then paused,
struggled as against the writhed coilings of a snake, and cringing
suddenly, leaped up, repeating in impassioned pain, "I buried him, my
life, my soul!"

Doubtless, it was by half-unconscious, automatic motions of her hands,
that this heavy-hearted one performed the final office for Felipe, and
planted a rude cross of withered sticks--no green ones might be had--at
the head of that lonely grave, where rested now in lasting un-complaint
and quiet haven he whom untranquil seas had overthrown.

But some dull sense of another body that should be interred, of another
cross that should hallow another grave--unmade as yet--some dull anxiety
and pain touching her undiscovered brother, now haunted the oppressed
Hunilla. Her hands fresh from the burial earth, she slowly went back to
the beach, with unshaped purposes wandering there, her spell-bound eye
bent upon the incessant waves. But they bore nothing to her but a dirge,
which maddened her to think that murderers should mourn. As time went
by, and these things came less dreamingly to her mind, the strong
persuasions of her Romish faith, which sets peculiar store by
consecrated urns, prompted her to resume in waking earnest that pious
search which had but been begun as in somnambulism. Day after day, week
after week, she trod the cindery beach, till at length a double motive
edged every eager glance. With equal longing she now looked for the
living and the dead; the brother and the captain; alike vanished, never
to return. Little accurate note of time had Hunilla taken under such
emotions as were hers, and little, outside herself, served for calendar
or dial. As to poor Crusoe in the self-same sea, no saint's bell pealed
forth the lapse of week or month; each day went by unchallenged; no
chanticleer announced those sultry dawns, no lowing herds those
poisonous nights. All wonted and steadily recurring sounds, human, or
humanized by sweet fellowship with man, but one stirred that torrid
trance--the cry of dogs; save which naught but the rolling sea invaded
it, an all-pervading monotone; and to the widow that was the least loved
voice she could have heard.

No wonder, that as her thoughts now wandered to the unreturning ship,
and were beaten back again, the hope against hope so struggled in her
soul, that at length she desperately said, "Not yet, not yet; my foolish
heart runs on too fast." So she forced patience for some further weeks.
But to those whom earth's sure indraft draws, patience or impatience is
still the same.

Hunilla now sought to settle precisely in her mind, to an hour, how long
it was since the ship had sailed; and then, with the same precision, how
long a space remained to pass. But this proved impossible. What present
day or month it was she could not say. Time was her labyrinth, in which
Hunilla was entirely lost.

And now follows--

Against my own purposes a pause descends upon me here. One knows not
whether nature doth not impose some secrecy upon him who has been privy
to certain things. At least, it is to be doubted whether it be good to
blazon such. If some books are deemed most baneful and their sale
forbid, how, then, with deadlier facts, not dreams of doting men? Those
whom books will hurt will not be proof against events. Events, not
books, should be forbid. But in all things man sows upon the wind, which
bloweth just there whither it listeth; for ill or good, man cannot know.
Often ill comes from the good, as good from ill.

When Hunilla--

Dire sight it is to see some silken beast long dally with a golden
lizard ere she devour. More terrible, to see how feline Fate will
sometimes dally with a human soul, and by a nameless magic make it
repulse a sane despair with a hope which is but mad. Unwittingly I imp
this cat-like thing, sporting with the heart of him who reads; for if he
feel not he reads in vain.

--"The ship sails this day, to-day," at last said Hunilla to herself;
"this gives me certain time to stand on; without certainty I go mad. In
loose ignorance I have hoped and hoped; now in firm knowledge I will but
wait. Now I live and no longer perish in bewilderings. Holy Virgin, aid
me! Thou wilt waft back the ship. Oh, past length of weary weeks--all to
be dragged over--to buy the certainty of to-day, I freely give ye,
though I tear ye from me!"

As mariners, tost in tempest on some desolate ledge, patch them a boat
out of the remnants of their vessel's wreck, and launch it in the
self-same waves, see here Hunilla, this lone shipwrecked soul, out of
treachery invoking trust. Humanity, thou strong thing, I worship thee,
not in the laureled victor, but in this vanquished one.

Truly Hunilla leaned upon a reed, a real one; no metaphor; a real
Eastern reed. A piece of hollow cane, drifted from unknown isles, and
found upon the beach, its once jagged ends rubbed smoothly even as by
sand-paper; its golden glazing gone. Long ground between the sea and
land, upper and nether stone, the unvarnished substance was filed bare,
and wore another polish now, one with itself, the polish of its agony.
Circular lines at intervals cut all round this surface, divided it into
six panels of unequal length. In the first were scored the days, each
tenth one marked by a longer and deeper notch; the second was scored for
the number of sea-fowl eggs for sustenance, picked out from the rocky
nests; the third, how many fish had been caught from the shore; the
fourth, how many small tortoises found inland; the fifth, how many days
of sun; the sixth, of clouds; which last, of the two, was the greater
one. Long night of busy numbering, misery's mathematics, to weary her
too-wakeful soul to sleep; yet sleep for that was none.

The panel of the days was deeply worn--the long tenth notches half
effaced, as alphabets of the blind. Ten thousand times the longing widow
had traced her finger over the bamboo--dull flute, which played, on,
gave no sound--as if counting birds flown by in air would hasten
tortoises creeping through the woods.

After the one hundred and eightieth day no further mark was seen; that
last one was the faintest, as the first the deepest.

"There were more days," said our Captain; "many, many more; why did you
not go on and notch them, too, Hunilla?"

"Señor, ask me not."

"And meantime, did no other vessel pass the isle?"

"Nay, Señor;--but--"

"You do not speak; but _what_, Hunilla?"

"Ask me not, Señor."

"You saw ships pass, far away; you waved to them; they passed on;--was
that it, Hunilla?"

"Señor, be it as you say."

Braced against her woe, Hunilla would not, durst not trust the weakness
of her tongue. Then when our Captain asked whether any whale-boats
had--

But no, I will not file this thing complete for scoffing souls to quote,
and call it firm proof upon their side. The half shall here remain
untold. Those two unnamed events which befell Hunilla on this isle, let
them abide between her and her God. In nature, as in law, it may be
libelous to speak some truths.

Still, how it was that, although our vessel had lain three days anchored
nigh the isle, its one human tenant should not have discovered us till
just upon the point of sailing, never to revisit so lone and far a spot,
this needs explaining ere the sequel come.

The place where the French captain had landed the little party was on
the further and opposite end of the isle. There, too, it was that they
had afterwards built their hut. Nor did the widow in her solitude desert
the spot where her loved ones had dwelt with her, and where the dearest
of the twain now slept his last long sleep, and all her plaints awaked
him not, and he of husbands the most faithful during life.

Now, high, broken land rises between the opposite extremities of the
isle. A ship anchored at one side is invisible from the other. Neither
is the isle so small, but a considerable company might wander for days
through the wilderness of one side, and never be seen, or their halloos
heard, by any stranger holding aloof on the other. Hence Hunilla, who
naturally associated the possible coming of ships with her own part of
the isle, might to the end have remained quite ignorant of the presence
of our vessel, were it not for a mysterious presentiment, borne to her,
so our mariners averred, by this isle's enchanted air. Nor did the
widow's answer undo the thought.

"How did you come to cross the isle this morning, then, Hunilla?" said
our Captain.

"Señor, something came flitting by me. It touched my cheek, my heart,
Señor."

"What do you say, Hunilla?"

"I have said, Señor, something came through the air."

It was a narrow chance. For when in crossing the isle Hunilla gained the
high land in the centre, she must then for the first have perceived our
masts, and also marked that their sails were being loosed, perhaps even
heard the echoing chorus of the windlass song. The strange ship was
about to sail, and she behind. With all haste she now descends the
height on the hither side, but soon loses sight of the ship among the
sunken jungles at the mountain's base. She struggles on through the
withered branches, which seek at every step to bar her path, till she
comes to the isolated rock, still some way from the water. This she
climbs, to reassure herself. The ship is still in plainest sight. But
now, worn out with over tension, Hunilla all but faints; she fears to
step down from her giddy perch; she is fain to pause, there where she
is, and as a last resort catches the turban from her head, unfurls and
waves it over the jungles towards us.

During the telling of her story the mariners formed a voiceless circle
round Hunilla and the Captain; and when at length the word was given to
man the fastest boat, and pull round to the isle's thither side, to
bring away Hunilla's chest and the tortoise-oil, such alacrity of both
cheery and sad obedience seldom before was seen. Little ado was made.
Already the anchor had been recommitted to the bottom, and the ship
swung calmly to it.

But Hunilla insisted upon accompanying the boat as indispensable pilot
to her hidden hut. So being refreshed with the best the steward could
supply, she started with us. Nor did ever any wife of the most famous
admiral, in her husband's barge, receive more silent reverence of
respect than poor Hunilla from this boat's crew.

Rounding many a vitreous cape and bluff, in two hours' time we shot
inside the fatal reef; wound into a secret cove, looked up along a green
many-gabled lava wall, and saw the island's solitary dwelling.

It hung upon an impending cliff, sheltered on two sides by tangled
thickets, and half-screened from view in front by juttings of the rude
stairway, which climbed the precipice from the sea. Built of canes, it
was thatched with long, mildewed grass. It seemed an abandoned hay-rick,
whose haymakers were now no more. The roof inclined but one way; the
eaves coming to within two feet of the ground. And here was a simple
apparatus to collect the dews, or rather doubly-distilled and finest
winnowed rains, which, in mercy or in mockery, the night-skies sometimes
drop upon these blighted Encantadas. All along beneath the eaves, a
spotted sheet, quite weather-stained, was spread, pinned to short,
upright stakes, set in the shallow sand. A small clinker, thrown into
the cloth, weighed its middle down, thereby straining all moisture into
a calabash placed below. This vessel supplied each drop of water ever
drunk upon the isle by the Cholos. Hunilla told us the calabash, would
sometimes, but not often, be half filled overnight. It held six quarts,
perhaps. "But," said she, "we were used to thirst. At sandy Payta, where
I live, no shower from heaven ever fell; all the water there is brought
on mules from the inland vales."

Tied among the thickets were some twenty moaning tortoises, supplying
Hunilla's lonely larder; while hundreds of vast tableted black bucklers,
like displaced, shattered tomb-stones of dark slate, were also scattered
round. These were the skeleton backs of those great tortoises from
which Felipe and Truxill had made their precious oil. Several large
calabashes and two goodly kegs were filled with it. In a pot near by
were the caked crusts of a quantity which had been permitted to
evaporate. "They meant to have strained it off next day," said Hunilla,
as she turned aside.

I forgot to mention the most singular sight of all, though the first
that greeted us after landing.

Some ten small, soft-haired, ringleted dogs, of a beautiful breed,
peculiar to Peru, set up a concert of glad welcomings when we gained the
beach, which was responded to by Hunilla. Some of these dogs had, since
her widowhood, been born upon the isle, the progeny of the two brought
from Payta. Owing to the jagged steeps and pitfalls, tortuous thickets,
sunken clefts and perilous intricacies of all sorts in the interior,
Hunilla, admonished by the loss of one favorite among them, never
allowed these delicate creatures to follow her in her occasional
birds'-nests climbs and other wanderings; so that, through long
habituation, they offered not to follow, when that morning she crossed
the land, and her own soul was then too full of other things to heed
their lingering behind. Yet, all along she had so clung to them, that,
besides what moisture they lapped up at early daybreak from the small
scoop-holes among the adjacent rocks, she had shared the dew of her
calabash among them; never laying by any considerable store against
those prolonged and utter droughts which, in some disastrous seasons,
warp these isles.

Having pointed out, at our desire, what few things she would like
transported to the ship--her chest, the oil, not omitting the live
tortoises which she intended for a grateful present to our Captain--we
immediately set to work, carrying them to the boat down the long,
sloping stair of deeply-shadowed rock. While my comrades were thus
employed, I looked and Hunilla had disappeared.

It was not curiosity alone, but, it seems to me, something different
mingled with it, which prompted me to drop my tortoise, and once more
gaze slowly around. I remembered the husband buried by Hunilla's hands.
A narrow pathway led into a dense part of the thickets. Following it
through many mazes, I came out upon a small, round, open space, deeply
chambered there.

The mound rose in the middle; a bare heap of finest sand, like that
unverdured heap found at the bottom of an hour-glass run out. At its
head stood the cross of withered sticks; the dry, peeled bark still
fraying from it; its transverse limb tied up with rope, and forlornly
adroop in the silent air.

Hunilla was partly prostrate upon the grave; her dark head bowed, and
lost in her long, loosened Indian hair; her hands extended to the
cross-foot, with a little brass crucifix clasped between; a crucifix
worn featureless, like an ancient graven knocker long plied in vain. She
did not see me, and I made no noise, but slid aside, and left the spot.

A few moments ere all was ready for our going, she reappeared among us.
I looked into her eyes, but saw no tear. There was something which
seemed strangely haughty in her air, and yet it was the air of woe. A
Spanish and an Indian grief, which would not visibly lament. Pride's
height in vain abased to proneness on the rack; nature's pride subduing
nature's torture.

Like pages the small and silken dogs surrounded her, as she slowly
descended towards the beach. She caught the two most eager creatures in
her arms:--"Mia Teeta! Mia Tomoteeta!" and fondling them, inquired how
many could we take on board.

The mate commanded the boat's crew; not a hard-hearted man, but his way
of life had been such that in most things, even in the smallest, simple
utility was his leading motive.

"We cannot take them all, Hunilla; our supplies are short; the winds are
unreliable; we may be a good many days going to Tombez. So take those
you have, Hunilla; but no more."

She was in the boat; the oarsmen, too, were seated; all save one, who
stood ready to push off and then spring himself. With the sagacity of
their race, the dogs now seemed aware that they were in the very instant
of being deserted upon a barren strand. The gunwales of the boat were
high; its prow--presented inland--was lifted; so owing to the water,
which they seemed instinctively to shun, the dogs could not well leap
into the little craft. But their busy paws hard scraped the prow, as it
had been some farmer's door shutting them out from shelter in a winter
storm. A clamorous agony of alarm. They did not howl, or whine; they all
but spoke.

"Push off! Give way!" cried the mate. The boat gave one heavy drag and
lurch, and next moment shot swiftly from the beach, turned on her heel,
and sped. The dogs ran howling along the water's marge; now pausing to
gaze at the flying boat, then motioning as if to leap in chase, but
mysteriously withheld themselves; and again ran howling along the beach.
Had they been human beings, hardly would they have more vividly inspired
the sense of desolation. The oars were plied as confederate feathers of
two wings. No one spoke. I looked back upon the beach, and then upon
Hunilla, but her face was set in a stern dusky calm. The dogs crouching
in her lap vainly licked her rigid hands. She never looked be her: but
sat motionless, till we turned a promontory of the coast and lost all
sights and sounds astern. She seemed as one who, having experienced the
sharpest of mortal pangs, was henceforth content to have all lesser
heartstrings riven, one by one. To Hunilla, pain seemed so necessary,
that pain in other beings, though by love and sympathy made her own, was
unrepiningly to be borne. A heart of yearning in a frame of steel. A
heart of earthly yearning, frozen by the frost which falleth from the
sky.

The sequel is soon told. After a long passage, vexed by calms and
baffling winds, we made the little port of Tombez in Peru, there to
recruit the ship. Payta was not very distant. Our captain sold the
tortoise oil to a Tombez merchant; and adding to the silver a
contribution from all hands, gave it to our silent passenger, who knew
not what the mariners had done.

The last seen of lone Hunilla she was passing into Payta town, riding
upon a small gray ass; and before her on the ass's shoulders, she eyed
the jointed workings of the beast's armorial cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH NINTH.

HOOD'S ISLE AND THE HERMIT OBERLUS.

  "That darkesome glen they enter, where they find
  That cursed man low sitting on the ground,
  Musing full sadly in his sullein mind;
  His griesly lockes long gronen and unbound,
  Disordered hong about his shoulders round,
  And hid his face, through which his hollow eyne
  Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound;
  His raw-bone cheekes, through penurie and pine,
  Were shronke into the jawes, as he did never dine.
  His garments nought but many ragged clouts,
  With thornes together pind and patched reads,
  The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts."


Southeast of Crossman's Isle lies Hood's Isle, or McCain's Beclouded
Isle; and upon its south side is a vitreous cove with a wide strand of
dark pounded black lava, called Black Beach, or Oberlus's Landing. It
might fitly have been styled Charon's.

It received its name from a wild white creature who spent many years
here; in the person of a European bringing into this savage region
qualities more diabolical than are to be found among any of the
surrounding cannibals.

About half a century ago, Oberlus deserted at the above-named island,
then, as now, a solitude. He built himself a den of lava and clinkers,
about a mile from the Landing, subsequently called after him, in a vale,
or expanded gulch, containing here and there among the rocks about two
acres of soil capable of rude cultivation; the only place on the isle
not too blasted for that purpose. Here he succeeded in raising a sort of
degenerate potatoes and pumpkins, which from time to time he exchanged
with needy whalemen passing, for spirits or dollars.

His appearance, from all accounts, was that of the victim of some
malignant sorceress; he seemed to have drunk of Circe's cup; beast-like;
rags insufficient to hide his nakedness; his befreckled skin blistered
by continual exposure to the sun; nose flat; countenance contorted,
heavy, earthy; hair and beard unshorn, profuse, and of fiery red. He
struck strangers much as if he were a volcanic creature thrown up by the
same convulsion which exploded into sight the isle. All bepatched and
coiled asleep in his lonely lava den among the mountains, he looked,
they say, as a heaped drift of withered leaves, torn from autumn trees,
and so left in some hidden nook by the whirling halt for an instant of a
fierce night-wind, which then ruthlessly sweeps on, somewhere else to
repeat the capricious act. It is also reported to have been the
strangest sight, this same Oberlus, of a sultry, cloudy morning, hidden
under his shocking old black tarpaulin hat, hoeing potatoes among the
lava. So warped and crooked was his strange nature, that the very handle
of his hoe seemed gradually to have shrunk and twisted in his grasp,
being a wretched bent stick, elbowed more like a savage's war-sickle
than a civilized hoe-handle. It was his mysterious custom upon a first
encounter with a stranger ever to present his back; possibly, because
that was his better side, since it revealed the least. If the encounter
chanced in his garden, as it sometimes did--the new-landed strangers
going from the sea-side straight through the gorge, to hunt up the queer
green-grocer reported doing business here--Oberlus for a time hoed on,
unmindful of all greeting, jovial or bland; as the curious stranger
would turn to face him, the recluse, hoe in hand, as diligently would
avert himself; bowed over, and sullenly revolving round his murphy hill.
Thus far for hoeing. When planting, his whole aspect and all his
gestures were so malevolently and uselessly sinister and secret, that he
seemed rather in act of dropping poison into wells than potatoes into
soil. But among his lesser and more harmless marvels was an idea he ever
had, that his visitors came equally as well led by longings to behold
the mighty hermit Oberlus in his royal state of solitude, as simply, to
obtain potatoes, or find whatever company might be upon a barren isle.
It seems incredible that such a being should possess such vanity; a
misanthrope be conceited; but he really had his notion; and upon the
strength of it, often gave himself amusing airs to captains. But after
all, this is somewhat of a piece with the well-known eccentricity of
some convicts, proud of that very hatefulness which makes them
notorious. At other times, another unaccountable whim would seize him,
and he would long dodge advancing strangers round the clinkered corners
of his hut; sometimes like a stealthy bear, he would slink through the
withered thickets up the mountains, and refuse to see the human face.

Except his occasional visitors from the sea, for a long period, the only
companions of Oberlus were the crawling tortoises; and he seemed more
than degraded to their level, having no desires for a time beyond
theirs, unless it were for the stupor brought on by drunkenness. But
sufficiently debased as he appeared, there yet lurked in him, only
awaiting occasion for discovery, a still further proneness. Indeed, the
sole superiority of Oberlus over the tortoises was his possession of a
larger capacity of degradation; and along with that, something like an
intelligent will to it. Moreover, what is about to be revealed, perhaps
will show, that selfish ambition, or the love of rule for its own sake,
far from being the peculiar infirmity of noble minds, is shared by
beings which have no mind at all. No creatures are so selfishly
tyrannical as some brutes; as any one who has observed the tenants of
the pasture must occasionally have observed.

"This island's mine by Sycorax my mother," said Oberlus to himself,
glaring round upon his haggard solitude. By some means, barter or
theft--for in those days ships at intervals still kept touching at his
Landing--he obtained an old musket, with a few charges of powder and
ball. Possessed of arms, he was stimulated to enterprise, as a tiger
that first feels the coming of its claws. The long habit of sole
dominion over every object round him, his almost unbroken solitude, his
never encountering humanity except on terms of misanthropic
independence, or mercantile craftiness, and even such encounters being
comparatively but rare; all this must have gradually nourished in him a
vast idea of his own importance, together with a pure animal sort of
scorn for all the rest of the universe.

The unfortunate Creole, who enjoyed his brief term of royalty at
Charles's Isle was perhaps in some degree influenced by not unworthy
motives; such as prompt other adventurous spirits to lead colonists into
distant regions and assume political preeminence over them. His summary
execution of many of his Peruvians is quite pardonable, considering the
desperate characters he had to deal with; while his offering canine
battle to the banded rebels seems under the circumstances altogether
just. But for this King Oberlus and what shortly follows, no shade of
palliation can be given. He acted out of mere delight in tyranny and
cruelty, by virtue of a quality in him inherited from Sycorax his
mother. Armed now with that shocking blunderbuss, strong in the thought
of being master of that horrid isle, he panted for a chance to prove his
potency upon the first specimen of humanity which should fall
unbefriended into his hands.

Nor was he long without it. One day he spied a boat upon the beach, with
one man, a negro, standing by it. Some distance off was a ship, and
Oberlus immediately knew how matters stood. The vessel had put in for
wood, and the boat's crew had gone into the thickets for it. From a
convenient spot he kept watch of the boat, till presently a straggling
company appeared loaded with billets. Throwing these on the beach, they
again went into the thickets, while the negro proceeded to load the
boat.

Oberlus now makes all haste and accosts the negro, who, aghast at
seeing any living being inhabiting such a solitude, and especially so
horrific a one, immediately falls into a panic, not at all lessened by
the ursine suavity of Oberlus, who begs the favor of assisting him in
his labors. The negro stands with several billets on his shoulder, in
act of shouldering others; and Oberlus, with a short cord concealed in
his bosom, kindly proceeds to lift those other billets to their place.
In so doing, he persists in keeping behind the negro, who, rightly
suspicious of this, in vain dodges about to gain the front of Oberlus;
but Oberlus dodges also; till at last, weary of this bootless attempt at
treachery, or fearful of being surprised by the remainder of the party,
Oberlus runs off a little space to a bush, and fetching his blunderbuss,
savagely commands the negro to desist work and follow him. He refuses.
Whereupon, presenting his piece, Oberlus snaps at him. Luckily the
blunderbuss misses fire; but by this time, frightened out of his wits,
the negro, upon a second intrepid summons, drops his billets, surrenders
at discretion, and follows on. By a narrow defile familiar to him,
Oberlus speedily removes out of sight of the water.

On their way up the mountains, he exultingly informs the negro, that
henceforth he is to work for him, and be his slave, and that his
treatment would entirely depend on his future conduct. But Oberlus,
deceived by the first impulsive cowardice of the black, in an evil
moment slackens his vigilance. Passing through a narrow way, and
perceiving his leader quite off his guard, the negro, a powerful fellow,
suddenly grasps him in his arms, throws him down, wrests his musketoon
from him, ties his hands with the monster's own cord, shoulders him, and
returns with him down to the boat. When the rest of the party arrive,
Oberlus is carried on board the ship. This proved an Englishman, and a
smuggler; a sort of craft not apt to be over-charitable. Oberlus is
severely whipped, then handcuffed, taken ashore, and compelled to make
known his habitation and produce his property. His potatoes, pumpkins,
and tortoises, with a pile of dollars he had hoarded from his mercantile
operations were secured on the spot. But while the too vindictive
smugglers were busy destroying his hut and garden, Oberlus makes his
escape into the mountains, and conceals himself there in impenetrable
recesses, only known to himself, till the ship sails, when he ventures
back, and by means of an old file which he sticks into a tree, contrives
to free himself from his handcuffs.

Brooding among the ruins of his hut, and the desolate clinkers and
extinct volcanoes of this outcast isle, the insulted misanthrope now
meditates a signal revenge upon humanity, but conceals his purposes.
Vessels still touch the Landing at times; and by-and-by Oberlus is
enabled to supply them with some vegetables.

Warned by his former failure in kidnapping strangers, he now pursues a
quite different plan. When seamen come ashore, he makes up to them like
a free-and-easy comrade, invites them to his hut, and with whatever
affability his red-haired grimness may assume, entreats them to drink
his liquor and be merry. But his guests need little pressing; and so,
soon as rendered insensible, are tied hand and foot, and pitched among
the clinkers, are there concealed till the ship departs, when, finding
themselves entirely dependent upon Oberlus, alarmed at his changed
demeanor, his savage threats, and above all, that shocking blunderbuss,
they willingly enlist under him, becoming his humble slaves, and Oberlus
the most incredible of tyrants. So much so, that two or three perish
beneath his initiating process. He sets the remainder--four of them--to
breaking the caked soil; transporting upon their backs loads of loamy
earth, scooped up in moist clefts among the mountains; keeps them on the
roughest fare; presents his piece at the slightest hint of insurrection;
and in all respects converts them into reptiles at his feet--plebeian
garter-snakes to this Lord Anaconda.

At last, Oberlus contrives to stock his arsenal with four rusty
cutlasses, and an added supply of powder and ball intended for his
blunderbuss. Remitting in good part the labor of his slaves, he now
approves himself a man, or rather devil, of great abilities in the way
of cajoling or coercing others into acquiescence with his own ulterior
designs, however at first abhorrent to them. But indeed, prepared for
almost any eventual evil by their previous lawless life, as a sort of
ranging Cow-Boys of the sea, which had dissolved within them the whole
moral man, so that they were ready to concrete in the first offered
mould of baseness now; rotted down from manhood by their hopeless misery
on the isle; wonted to cringe in all things to their lord, himself the
worst of slaves; these wretches were now become wholly corrupted to his
hands. He used them as creatures of an inferior race; in short, he
gaffles his four animals, and makes murderers of them; out of cowards
fitly manufacturing bravos.

Now, sword or dagger, human arms are but artificial claws and fangs,
tied on like false spurs to the fighting cock. So, we repeat, Oberlus,
czar of the isle, gaffles his four subjects; that is, with intent of
glory, puts four rusty cutlasses into their hands. Like any other
autocrat, he had a noble army now.

It might be thought a servile war would hereupon ensue. Arms in the
hands of trodden slaves? how indiscreet of Emperor Oberlus! Nay, they
had but cutlasses--sad old scythes enough--he a blunderbuss, which by
its blind scatterings of all sorts of boulders, clinkers, and other
scoria would annihilate all four mutineers, like four pigeons at one
shot. Besides, at first he did not sleep in his accustomed hut; every
lurid sunset, for a time, he might have been seen wending his way among
the riven mountains, there to secrete himself till dawn in some
sulphurous pitfall, undiscoverable to his gang; but finding this at last
too troublesome, he now each evening tied his slaves hand and foot, hid
the cutlasses, and thrusting them into his barracks, shut to the door,
and lying down before it, beneath a rude shed lately added, slept out
the night, blunderbuss in hand.

It is supposed that not content with daily parading over a cindery
solitude at the head of his fine army, Oberlus now meditated the most
active mischief; his probable object being to surprise some passing ship
touching at his dominions, massacre the crew, and run away with her to
parts unknown. While these plans were simmering in his head, two ships
touch in company at the isle, on the opposite side to his; when his
designs undergo a sudden change.

The ships are in want of vegetables, which Oberlus promises in great
abundance, provided they send their boats round to his landing, so that
the crews may bring the vegetables from his garden; informing the two
captains, at the same time, that his rascals--slaves and soldiers--had
become so abominably lazy and good-for-nothing of late, that he could
not make them work by ordinary inducements, and did not have the heart
to be severe with them.

The arrangement was agreed to, and the boats were sent and hauled upon
the beach. The crews went to the lava hut; but to their surprise nobody
was there. After waiting till their patience was exhausted, they
returned to the shore, when lo, some stranger--not the Good Samaritan
either--seems to have very recently passed that way. Three of the boats
were broken in a thousand pieces, and the fourth was missing. By hard
toil over the mountains and through the clinkers, some of the strangers
succeeded in returning to that side of the isle where the ships lay,
when fresh boats are sent to the relief of the rest of the hapless
party.

However amazed at the treachery of Oberlus, the two captains, afraid of
new and still more mysterious atrocities--and indeed, half imputing such
strange events to the enchantments associated with these isles--perceive
no security but in instant flight; leaving Oberlus and his army in quiet
possession of the stolen boat.

On the eve of sailing they put a letter in a keg, giving the Pacific
Ocean intelligence of the affair, and moored the keg in the bay. Some
time subsequent, the keg was opened by another captain chancing to
anchor there, but not until after he had dispatched a boat round to
Oberlus's Landing. As may be readily surmised, he felt no little
inquietude till the boat's return: when another letter was handed him,
giving Oberlus's version of the affair. This precious document had been
found pinned half-mildewed to the clinker wall of the sulphurous and
deserted hut. It ran as follows: showing that Oberlus was at least an
accomplished writer, and no mere boor; and what is more, was capable of
the most tristful eloquence.

"Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated gentleman that lives. I am
a patriot, exiled from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny.

"Banished to these Enchanted Isles, I have again and again besought
captains of ships to sell me a boat, but always have been refused,
though I offered the handsomest prices in Mexican dollars. At length an
opportunity presented of possessing myself of one, and I did not let it
slip.

"I have been long endeavoring, by hard labor and much solitary
suffering, to accumulate something to make myself comfortable in a
virtuous though unhappy old age; but at various times have been robbed
and beaten by men professing to be Christians.

"To-day I sail from the Enchanted group in the good boat Charity bound
to the Feejee Isles.

"FATHERLESS OBERLUS.

"_P.S._--Behind the clinkers, nigh the oven, you will find the old fowl.
Do not kill it; be patient; I leave it setting; if it shall have any
chicks, I hereby bequeath them to you, whoever you may be. But don't
count your chicks before they are hatched."

The fowl proved a starveling rooster, reduced to a sitting posture by
sheer debility.

Oberlus declares that he was bound to the Feejee Isles; but this was
only to throw pursuers on a false scent. For, after a long time, he
arrived, alone in his open boat, at Guayaquil. As his miscreants were
never again beheld on Hood's Isle, it is supposed, either that they
perished for want of water on the passage to Guayaquil, or, what is
quite as probable, were thrown overboard by Oberlus, when he found the
water growing scarce.

From Guayaquil Oberlus proceeded to Payta; and there, with that nameless
witchery peculiar to some of the ugliest animals, wound himself into the
affections of a tawny damsel; prevailing upon her to accompany him back
to his Enchanted Isle; which doubtless he painted as a Paradise of
flowers, not a Tartarus of clinkers.

But unfortunately for the colonization of Hood's Isle with a choice
variety of animated nature, the extraordinary and devilish aspect of
Oberlus made him to be regarded in Payta as a highly suspicious
character. So that being found concealed one night, with matches in his
pocket, under the hull of a small vessel just ready to be launched, he
was seized and thrown into jail.

The jails in most South American towns are generally of the least
wholesome sort. Built of huge cakes of sun-burnt brick, and containing
but one room, without windows or yard, and but one door heavily grated
with wooden bars, they present both within and without the grimmest
aspect. As public edifices they conspicuously stand upon the hot and
dusty Plaza, offering to view, through the gratings, their villainous
and hopeless inmates, burrowing in all sorts of tragic squalor. And
here, for a long time, Oberlus was seen; the central figure of a mongrel
and assassin band; a creature whom it is religion to detest, since it is
philanthropy to hate a misanthrope.

    _Note_.--They who may be disposed to question the possibility of
    the character above depicted, are referred to the 2d vol. of
    Porter's Voyage into the Pacific, where they will recognize many
    sentences, for expedition's sake derived verbatim from thence, and
    incorporated here; the main difference--save a few passing
    reflections--between the two accounts being, that the present
    writer has added to Porter's facts accessory ones picked up in the
    Pacific from reliable sources; and where facts conflict, has
    naturally preferred his own authorities to Porter's. As, for
    instance, _his_ authorities place Oberlus on Hood's Isle:
    Porter's, on Charles's Isle. The letter found in the hut is also
    somewhat different; for while at the Encantadas he was informed
    that, not only did it evince a certain clerkliness, but was full
    of the strangest satiric effrontery which does not adequately
    appear in Porter's version. I accordingly altered it to suit the
    general character of its author.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCH TENTH.

RUNAWAYS, CASTAWAYS, SOLITARIES, GRAVE-STONES, ETC.

  "And all about old stocks and stubs of trees,
    Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen,
  Did hang upon ragged knotty knees,
    On which had many wretches hanged been."


Some relics of the hut of Oberlus partially remain to this day at the
head of the clinkered valley. Nor does the stranger, wandering among
other of the Enchanted Isles, fail to stumble upon still other solitary
abodes, long abandoned to the tortoise and the lizard. Probably few
parts of earth have, in modern times, sheltered so many solitaries. The
reason is, that these isles are situated in a distant sea, and the
vessels which occasionally visit them are mostly all whalers, or ships
bound on dreary and protracted voyages, exempting them in a good degree
from both the oversight and the memory of human law. Such is the
character of some commanders and some seamen, that under these untoward
circumstances, it is quite impossible but that scenes of unpleasantness
and discord should occur between them. A sullen hatred of the tyrannic
ship will seize the sailor, and he gladly exchanges it for isles, which,
though blighted as by a continual sirocco and burning breeze, still
offer him, in their labyrinthine interior, a retreat beyond the
possibility of capture. To flee the ship in any Peruvian or Chilian
port, even the smallest and most rustical, is not unattended with great
risk of apprehension, not to speak of jaguars. A reward of five pesos
sends fifty dastardly Spaniards into the wood, who, with long knives,
scour them day and night in eager hopes of securing their prey. Neither
is it, in general, much easier to escape pursuit at the isles of
Polynesia. Those of them which have felt a civilizing influence present
the same difficulty to the runaway with the Peruvian ports, the advanced
natives being quite as mercenary and keen of knife and scent as the
retrograde Spaniards; while, owing to the bad odor in which all
Europeans lie, in the minds of aboriginal savages who have chanced to
hear aught of them, to desert the ship among primitive Polynesians, is,
in most cases, a hope not unforlorn. Hence the Enchanted Isles become
the voluntary tarrying places of all sorts of refugees; some of whom
too sadly experience the fact, that flight from tyranny does not of
itself insure a safe asylum, far less a happy home.

Moreover, it has not seldom happened that hermits have been made upon
the isles by the accidents incident to tortoise-hunting. The interior of
most of them is tangled and difficult of passage beyond description; the
air is sultry and stifling; an intolerable thirst is provoked, for which
no running stream offers its kind relief. In a few hours, under an
equatorial sun, reduced by these causes to entire exhaustion, woe betide
the straggler at the Enchanted Isles! Their extent is such-as to forbid
an adequate search, unless weeks are devoted to it. The impatient ship
waits a day or two; when, the missing man remaining undiscovered, up
goes a stake on the beach, with a letter of regret, and a keg of
crackers and another of water tied to it, and away sails the craft.

Nor have there been wanting instances where the inhumanity of some
captains has led them to wreak a secure revenge upon seamen who have
given their caprice or pride some singular offense. Thrust ashore upon
the scorching marl, such mariners are abandoned to perish outright,
unless by solitary labors they succeed in discovering some precious
dribblets of moisture oozing from a rock or stagnant in a mountain pool.

I was well acquainted with a man, who, lost upon the Isle of Narborough,
was brought to such extremes by thirst, that at last he only saved his
life by taking that of another being. A large hair-seal came upon the
beach. He rushed upon it, stabbed it in the neck, and then throwing
himself upon the panting body quaffed at the living wound; the
palpitations of the creature's dying heart injected life into the
drinker.

Another seaman, thrust ashore in a boat upon an isle at which no ship
ever touched, owing to its peculiar sterility and the shoals about it,
and from which all other parts of the group were hidden--this man,
feeling that it was sure death to remain there, and that nothing worse
than death menaced him in quitting it, killed seals, and inflating their
skins, made a float, upon which he transported himself to Charles's
Island, and joined the republic there.

But men, not endowed with courage equal to such desperate attempts, find
their only resource in forthwith seeking some watering-place, however
precarious or scanty; building a hut; catching tortoises and birds; and
in all respects preparing for a hermit life, till tide or time, or a
passing ship arrives to float them off.

At the foot of precipices on many of the isles, small rude basins in the
rocks are found, partly filled with rotted rubbish or vegetable decay,
or overgrown with thickets, and sometimes a little moist; which, upon
examination, reveal plain tokens of artificial instruments employed in
hollowing them out, by some poor castaway or still more miserable
runaway. These basins are made in places where it was supposed some
scanty drops of dew might exude into them from the upper crevices.

The relics of hermitages and stone basins are not the only signs of
vanishing humanity to be found upon the isles. And, curious to say, that
spot which of all others in settled communities is most animated, at
the Enchanted Isles presents the most dreary of aspects. And though it
may seem very strange to talk of post-offices in this barren region, yet
post-offices are occasionally to be found there. They consist of a stake
and a bottle. The letters being not only sealed, but corked. They are
generally deposited by captains of Nantucketers for the benefit of
passing fishermen, and contain statements as to what luck they had in
whaling or tortoise-hunting. Frequently, however, long months and
months, whole years glide by and no applicant appears. The stake rots
and falls, presenting no very exhilarating object.

If now it be added that grave-stones, or rather grave-boards, are also
discovered upon some of the isles, the picture will be complete.

Upon the beach of James's Isle, for many years, was to be seen a rude
finger-post, pointing inland. And, perhaps, taking it for some signal of
possible hospitality in this otherwise desolate spot--some good hermit
living there with his maple dish--the stranger would follow on in the
path thus indicated, till at last he would come out in a noiseless nook,
and find his only welcome, a dead man--his sole greeting the
inscription over a grave. Here, in 1813, fell, in a daybreak duel, a
lieutenant of the U.S. frigate Essex, aged twenty-one: attaining his
majority in death.

It is but fit that, like those old monastic institutions of Europe,
whose inmates go not out of their own walls to be inurned, but are
entombed there where they die, the Encantadas, too, should bury their
own dead, even as the great general monastery of earth does hers.

It is known that burial in the ocean is a pure necessity of sea-faring
life, and that it is only done when land is far astern, and not clearly
visible from the bow. Hence, to vessels cruising in the vicinity of the
Enchanted Isles, they afford a convenient Potter's Field. The interment
over, some good-natured forecastle poet and artist seizes his
paint-brush, and inscribes a doggerel epitaph. When, after a long lapse
of time, other good-natured seamen chance to come upon the spot, they
usually make a table of the mound, and quaff a friendly can to the poor
soul's repose.

As a specimen of these epitaphs, take the following, found in a bleak
gorge of Chatham Isle:--

  "Oh, Brother Jack, as you pass by,
  As you are now, so once was I.
  Just so game, and just so gay,
  But now, alack, they've stopped my pay.
  No more I peep out of my blinkers,
  Here I be--tucked in with clinkers!"




THE BELL-TOWER.


In the south of Europe, nigh a once frescoed capital, now with dank
mould cankering its bloom, central in a plain, stands what, at distance,
seems the black mossed stump of some immeasurable pine, fallen, in
forgotten days, with Anak and the Titan.

As all along where the pine tree falls, its dissolution leaves a mossy
mound--last-flung shadow of the perished trunk; never lengthening, never
lessening; unsubject to the fleet falsities of the sun; shade immutable,
and true gauge which cometh by prostration--so westward from what seems
the stump, one steadfast spear of lichened ruin veins the plain.

From that tree-top, what birded chimes of silver throats had rung. A
stone pine; a metallic aviary in its crown: the Bell-Tower, built by the
great mechanician, the unblest foundling, Bannadonna.

Like Babel's, its base was laid in a high hour of renovated earth,
following the second deluge, when the waters of the Dark Ages had dried
up, and once more the green appeared. No wonder that, after so long and
deep submersion, the jubilant expectation of the race should, as with
Noah's sons, soar into Shinar aspiration.

In firm resolve, no man in Europe at that period went beyond Bannadonna.
Enriched through commerce with the Levant, the state in which he lived
voted to have the noblest Bell-Tower in Italy. His repute assigned him
to be architect.

Stone by stone, month by month, the tower rose. Higher, higher;
snail-like in pace, but torch or rocket in its pride.

After the masons would depart, the builder, standing alone upon its
ever-ascending summit, at close of every day, saw that he overtopped
still higher walls and trees. He would tarry till a late hour there,
wrapped in schemes of other and still loftier piles. Those who of
saints' days thronged the spot--hanging to the rude poles of
scaffolding, like sailors on yards, or bees on boughs, unmindful of lime
and dust, and falling chips of stone--their homage not the less
inspirited him to self-esteem.

At length the holiday of the Tower came. To the sound of viols, the
climax-stone slowly rose in air, and, amid the firing of ordnance, was
laid by Bannadonna's hands upon the final course. Then mounting it, he
stood erect, alone, with folded arms, gazing upon the white summits of
blue inland Alps, and whiter crests of bluer Alps off-shore--sights
invisible from the plain. Invisible, too, from thence was that eye he
turned below, when, like the cannon booms, came up to him the people's
combustions of applause.

That which stirred them so was, seeing with what serenity the builder
stood three hundred feet in air, upon an unrailed perch. This none but
he durst do. But his periodic standing upon the pile, in each stage of
its growth--such discipline had its last result.

Little remained now but the bells. These, in all respects, must
correspond with their receptacle.

The minor ones were prosperously cast. A highly enriched one followed,
of a singular make, intended for suspension in a manner before unknown.
The purpose of this bell, its rotary motion, and connection with the
clock-work, also executed at the time, will, in the sequel, receive
mention.

In the one erection, bell-tower and clock-tower were united, though,
before that period, such structures had commonly been built distinct; as
the Campanile and Torre del 'Orologio of St. Mark to this day attest.

But it was upon the great state-bell that the founder lavished his more
daring skill. In vain did some of the less elated magistrates here
caution him; saying that though truly the tower was Titanic, yet limit
should be set to the dependent weight of its swaying masses. But
undeterred, he prepared his mammoth mould, dented with mythological
devices; kindled his fires of balsamic firs; melted his tin and copper,
and, throwing in much plate, contributed by the public spirit of the
nobles, let loose the tide.

The unleashed metals bayed like hounds. The workmen shrunk. Through
their fright, fatal harm to the bell was dreaded. Fearless as Shadrach,
Bannadonna, rushing through the glow, smote the chief culprit with his
ponderous ladle. From the smitten part, a splinter was dashed into the
seething mass, and at once was melted in.

Next day a portion of the work was heedfully uncovered. All seemed
right. Upon the third morning, with equal satisfaction, it was bared
still lower. At length, like some old Theban king, the whole cooled
casting was disinterred. All was fair except in one strange spot. But as
he suffered no one to attend him in these inspections, he concealed the
blemish by some preparation which none knew better to devise.

The casting of such a mass was deemed no small triumph for the caster;
one, too, in which the state might not scorn to share. The homicide was
overlooked. By the charitable that deed was but imputed to sudden
transports of esthetic passion, not to any flagitious quality. A kick
from an Arabian charger; not sign of vice, but blood.

His felony remitted by the judge, absolution given him by the priest,
what more could even a sickly conscience have desired.

Honoring the tower and its builder with another holiday, the republic
witnessed the hoisting of the bells and clock-work amid shows and pomps
superior to the former.

Some months of more than usual solitude on Bannadonna's part ensued. It
was not unknown that he was engaged upon something for the belfry,
intended to complete it, and surpass all that had gone before. Most
people imagined that the design would involve a casting like the bells.
But those who thought they had some further insight, would shake their
heads, with hints, that not for nothing did the mechanician keep so
secret. Meantime, his seclusion failed not to invest his work with more
or less of that sort of mystery pertaining to the forbidden.

Ere long he had a heavy object hoisted to the belfry, wrapped in a dark
sack or cloak--a procedure sometimes had in the case of an elaborate
piece of sculpture, or statue, which, being intended to grace the front
of a new edifice, the architect does not desire exposed to critical
eyes, till set up, finished, in its appointed place. Such was the
impression now. But, as the object rose, a statuary present observed, or
thought he did, that it was not entirely rigid, but was, in a manner,
pliant. At last, when the hidden thing had attained its final height,
and, obscurely seen from below, seemed almost of itself to step into the
belfry, as if with little assistance from the crane, a shrewd old
blacksmith present ventured the suspicion that it was but a living man.
This surmise was thought a foolish one, while the general interest
failed not to augment.

Not without demur from Bannadonna, the chief-magistrate of the town,
with an associate--both elderly men--followed what seemed the image up
the tower. But, arrived at the belfry, they had little recompense.
Plausibly entrenching himself behind the conceded mysteries of his art,
the mechanician withheld present explanation. The magistrates glanced
toward the cloaked object, which, to their surprise, seemed now to have
changed its attitude, or else had before been more perplexingly
concealed by the violent muffling action of the wind without. It seemed
now seated upon some sort of frame, or chair, contained within the
domino. They observed that nigh the top, in a sort of square, the web of
the cloth, either from accident or design, had its warp partly
withdrawn, and the cross threads plucked out here and there, so as to
form a sort of woven grating. Whether it were the low wind or no,
stealing through the stone lattice-work, or only their own perturbed
imaginations, is uncertain, but they thought they discerned a slight
sort of fitful, spring-like motion, in the domino. Nothing, however
incidental or insignificant, escaped their uneasy eyes. Among other
things, they pried out, in a corner, an earthen cup, partly corroded and
partly encrusted, and one whispered to the other, that this cup was just
such a one as might, in mockery, be offered to the lips of some brazen
statue, or, perhaps, still worse.

But, being questioned, the mechanician said, that the cup was simply
used in his founder's business, and described the purpose; in short, a
cup to test the condition of metals in fusion. He added, that it had got
into the belfry by the merest chance.

Again, and again, they gazed at the domino, as at some suspicious
incognito at a Venetian mask. All sorts of vague apprehensions stirred
them. They even dreaded lest, when they should descend, the
mechanician, though without a flesh and blood companion, for all that,
would not be left alone.

Affecting some merriment at their disquietude, he begged to relieve
them, by extending a coarse sheet of workman's canvas between them and
the object.

Meantime he sought to interest them in his other work; nor, now that the
domino was out of sight, did they long remain insensible to the artistic
wonders lying round them; wonders hitherto beheld but in their
unfinished state; because, since hoisting the bells, none but the caster
had entered within the belfry. It was one trait of his, that, even in
details, he would not let another do what he could, without too great
loss of time, accomplish for himself. So, for several preceding weeks,
whatever hours were unemployed in his secret design, had been devoted to
elaborating the figures on the bells.

The clock-bell, in particular, now drew attention. Under a patient
chisel, the latent beauty of its enrichments, before obscured by the
cloudings incident to casting, that beauty in its shyest grace, was now
revealed. Round and round the bell, twelve figures of gay girls,
garlanded, hand-in-hand, danced in a choral ring--the embodied hours.

"Bannadonna," said the chief, "this bell excels all else. No added touch
could here improve. Hark!" hearing a sound, "was that the wind?"

"The wind, Excellenza," was the light response. "But the figures, they
are not yet without their faults. They need some touches yet. When those
are given, and the--block yonder," pointing towards the canvas screen,
"when Haman there, as I merrily call him,--him? _it_, I mean--when Haman
is fixed on this, his lofty tree, then, gentlemen, will I be most happy
to receive you here again."

The equivocal reference to the object caused some return of
restlessness. However, on their part, the visitors forbore further
allusion to it, unwilling, perhaps, to let the foundling see how easily
it lay within his plebeian art to stir the placid dignity of nobles.

"Well, Bannadonna," said the chief, "how long ere you are ready to set
the clock going, so that the hour shall be sounded? Our interest in
you, not less than in the work itself, makes us anxious to be assured of
your success. The people, too,--why, they are shouting now. Say the
exact hour when you will be ready."

"To-morrow, Excellenza, if you listen for it,--or should you not, all
the same--strange music will be heard. The stroke of one shall be the
first from yonder bell," pointing to the bell adorned with girls and
garlands, "that stroke shall fall there, where the hand of Una clasps
Dua's. The stroke of one shall sever that loved clasp. To-morrow, then,
at one o'clock, as struck here, precisely here," advancing and placing
his finger upon the clasp, "the poor mechanic will be most happy once
more to give you liege audience, in this his littered shop. Farewell
till then, illustrious magnificoes, and hark ye for your vassal's
stroke."

His still, Vulcanic face hiding its burning brightness like a forge, he
moved with ostentatious deference towards the scuttle, as if so far to
escort their exit. But the junior magistrate, a kind-hearted man,
troubled at what seemed to him a certain sardonical disdain, lurking
beneath the foundling's humble mien, and in Christian sympathy more
distressed at it on his account than on his own, dimly surmising what
might be the final fate of such a cynic solitaire, nor perhaps
uninfluenced by the general strangeness of surrounding things, this good
magistrate had glanced sadly, sideways from the speaker, and thereupon
his foreboding eye had started at the expression of the unchanging face
of the Hour Una.

"How is this, Bannadonna?" he lowly asked, "Una looks unlike her
sisters."

"In Christ's name, Bannadonna," impulsively broke in the chief, his
attention, for the first attracted to the figure, by his associate's
remark, "Una's face looks just like that of Deborah, the prophetess, as
painted by the Florentine, Del Fonca."

"Surely, Bannadonna," lowly resumed the milder magistrate, "you meant
the twelve should wear the same jocundly abandoned air. But see, the
smile of Una seems but a fatal one. 'Tis different."

While his mild associate was speaking, the chief glanced, inquiringly,
from him to the caster, as if anxious to mark how the discrepancy would
be accounted for. As the chief stood, his advanced foot was on the
scuttle's curb.

Bannadonna spoke:

"Excellenza, now that, following your keener eye, I glance upon the face
of Una, I do, indeed perceive some little variance. But look all round
the bell, and you will find no two faces entirely correspond. Because
there is a law in art--but the cold wind is rising more; these lattices
are but a poor defense. Suffer me, magnificoes, to conduct you, at
least, partly on your way. Those in whose well-being there is a public
stake, should be heedfully attended."

"Touching the look of Una, you were saying, Bannadonna, that there was a
certain law in art," observed the chief, as the three now descended the
stone shaft, "pray, tell me, then--."

"Pardon; another time, Excellenza;--the tower is damp."

"Nay, I must rest, and hear it now. Here,--here is a wide landing, and
through this leeward slit, no wind, but ample light. Tell us of your
law; and at large."

"Since, Excellenza, you insist, know that there is a law in art, which
bars the possibility of duplicates. Some years ago, you may remember, I
graved a small seal for your republic, bearing, for its chief device,
the head of your own ancestor, its illustrious founder. It becoming
necessary, for the customs' use, to have innumerable impressions for
bales and boxes, I graved an entire plate, containing one hundred of the
seals. Now, though, indeed, my object was to have those hundred heads
identical, and though, I dare say, people think them; so, yet, upon
closely scanning an uncut impression from the plate, no two of those
five-score faces, side by side, will be found alike. Gravity is the air
of all; but, diversified in all. In some, benevolent; in some,
ambiguous; in two or three, to a close scrutiny, all but incipiently
malign, the variation of less than a hair's breadth in the linear
shadings round the mouth sufficing to all this. Now, Excellenza,
transmute that general gravity into joyousness, and subject it to twelve
of those variations I have described, and tell me, will you not have my
hours here, and Una one of them? But I like--."

Hark! is that--a footfall above?

"Mortar, Excellenza; sometimes it drops to the belfry-floor from the
arch where the stonework was left undressed. I must have it seen to. As
I was about to say: for one, I like this law forbidding duplicates. It
evokes fine personalities. Yes, Excellenza, that strange, and--to
you--uncertain smile, and those fore-looking eyes of Una, suit
Bannadonna very well."

"Hark!--sure we left no soul above?"

"No soul, Excellenza; rest assured, no _soul_--Again the mortar."

"It fell not while we were there."

"Ah, in your presence, it better knew its place, Excellenza," blandly
bowed Bannadonna.

"But, Una," said the milder magistrate, "she seemed intently gazing on
you; one would have almost sworn that she picked you out from among us
three."

"If she did, possibly, it might have been her finer apprehension,
Excellenza."

"How, Bannadonna? I do not understand you."

"No consequence, no consequence, Excellenza--but the shifted wind is
blowing through the slit. Suffer me to escort you on; and then, pardon,
but the toiler must to his tools."

"It may be foolish, Signor," said the milder magistrate, as, from the
third landing, the two now went down unescorted, "but, somehow, our
great mechanician moves me strangely. Why, just now, when he so
superciliously replied, his walk seemed Sisera's, God's vain foe, in Del
Fonca's painting. And that young, sculptured Deborah, too. Ay, and
that--."

"Tush, tush, Signor!" returned the chief. "A passing whim.
Deborah?--Where's Jael, pray?"

"Ah," said the other, as they now stepped upon the sod, "Ah, Signor, I
see you leave your fears behind you with the chill and gloom; but mine,
even in this sunny air, remain, Hark!"

It was a sound from just within the tower door, whence they had emerged.
Turning, they saw it closed.

"He has slipped down and barred us out," smiled the chief; "but it is
his custom."

Proclamation was now made, that the next day, at one hour after
meridian, the clock would strike, and--thanks to the mechanician's
powerful art--with unusual accompaniments. But what those should be,
none as yet could say. The announcement was received with cheers.

By the looser sort, who encamped about the tower all night, lights were
seen gleaming through the topmost blind-work, only disappearing with the
morning sun. Strange sounds, too, were heard, or were thought to be, by
those whom anxious watching might not have left mentally
undisturbed--sounds, not only of some ringing implement, but also--so
they said--half-suppressed screams and plainings, such as might have
issued from some ghostly engine, overplied.

Slowly the day drew on; part of the concourse chasing the weary time
with songs and games, till, at last, the great blurred sun rolled, like
a football, against the plain.

At noon, the nobility and principal citizens came from the town in
cavalcade, a guard of soldiers, also, with music, the more to honor the
occasion.

Only one hour more. Impatience grew. Watches were held in hands of
feverish men, who stood, now scrutinizing their small dial-plates, and
then, with neck thrown back, gazing toward the belfry, as if the eye
might foretell that which could only be made sensible to the ear; for,
as yet, there was no dial to the tower-clock.

The hour hands of a thousand watches now verged within a hair's breadth
of the figure 1. A silence, as of the expectation of some Shiloh,
pervaded the swarming plain. Suddenly a dull, mangled sound--naught
ringing in it; scarcely audible, indeed, to the outer circles of the
people--that dull sound dropped heavily from the belfry. At the same
moment, each man stared at his neighbor blankly. All watches were
upheld. All hour-hands were at--had passed--the figure 1. No bell-stroke
from the tower. The multitude became tumultuous.

Waiting a few moments, the chief magistrate, commanding silence, hailed
the belfry, to know what thing unforeseen had happened there.

No response.

He hailed again and yet again.

All continued hushed.

By his order, the soldiers burst in the tower-door; when, stationing
guards to defend it from the now surging mob, the chief, accompanied by
his former associate, climbed the winding stairs. Half-way up, they
stopped to listen. No sound. Mounting faster, they reached the belfry;
but, at the threshold, started at the spectacle disclosed. A spaniel,
which, unbeknown to them, had followed them thus far, stood shivering as
before some unknown monster in a brake: or, rather, as if it snuffed
footsteps leading to some other world.

Bannadonna lay, prostrate and bleeding, at the base of the bell which
was adorned with girls and garlands. He lay at the feet of the hour Una;
his head coinciding, in a vertical line, with her left hand, clasped by
the hour Dua. With downcast face impending over him, like Jael over
nailed Sisera in the tent, was the domino; now no more becloaked.

It had limbs, and seemed clad in a scaly mail, lustrous as a
dragon-beetle's. It was manacled, and its clubbed arms were uplifted,
as if, with its manacles, once more to smite its already smitten
victim. One advanced foot of it was inserted beneath the dead body, as
if in the act of spurning it.

Uncertainty falls on what now followed.

It were but natural to suppose that the magistrates would, at first,
shrink from immediate personal contact with what they saw. At the least,
for a time, they would stand in involuntary doubt; it may be, in more or
less of horrified alarm. Certain it is, that an arquebuss was called for
from below. And some add, that its report, followed by a fierce whiz, as
of the sudden snapping of a main-spring, with a steely din, as if a
stack of sword-blades should be dashed upon a pavement, these blended
sounds came ringing to the plain, attracting every eye far upward to the
belfry, whence, through the lattice-work, thin wreaths of smoke were
curling.

Some averred that it was the spaniel, gone mad by fear, which was shot.
This, others denied. True it was, the spaniel never more was seen; and,
probably, for some unknown reason, it shared the burial now to be
related of the domino. For, whatever the preceding circumstances may
have been, the first instinctive panic over, or else all ground of
reasonable fear removed, the two magistrates, by themselves, quickly
rehooded the figure in the dropped cloak wherein it had been hoisted.
The same night, it was secretly lowered to the ground, smuggled to the
beach, pulled far out to sea, and sunk. Nor to any after urgency, even
in free convivial hours, would the twain ever disclose the full secrets
of the belfry.

From the mystery unavoidably investing it, the popular solution of the
foundling's fate involved more or less of supernatural agency. But some
few less unscientific minds pretended to find little difficulty in
otherwise accounting for it. In the chain of circumstantial inferences
drawn, there may, or may not, have been some absent or defective links.
But, as the explanation in question is the only one which tradition has
explicitly preserved, in dearth of better, it will here be given. But,
in the first place, it is requisite to present the supposition
entertained as to the entire motive and mode, with their origin, of the
secret design of Bannadonna; the minds above-mentioned assuming to
penetrate as well into his soul as into the event. The disclosure will
indirectly involve reference to peculiar matters, none of, the clearest,
beyond the immediate subject.

At that period, no large bell was made to sound otherwise than as at
present, by agitation of a tongue within, by means of ropes, or
percussion from without, either from cumbrous machinery, or stalwart
watchmen, armed with heavy hammers, stationed in the belfry, or in
sentry-boxes on the open roof, according as the bell was sheltered or
exposed.

It was from observing these exposed bells, with their watchmen, that the
foundling, as was opined, derived the first suggestion of his scheme.
Perched on a great mast or spire, the human figure, viewed from below,
undergoes such a reduction in its apparent size, as to obliterate its
intelligent features. It evinces no personality. Instead of bespeaking
volition, its gestures rather resemble the automatic ones of the arms of
a telegraph.

Musing, therefore, upon the purely Punchinello aspect of the human
figure thus beheld, it had indirectly occurred to Bannadonna to devise
some metallic agent, which should strike the hour with its mechanic
hand, with even greater precision than the vital one. And, moreover, as
the vital watchman on the roof, sallying from his retreat at the given
periods, walked to the bell with uplifted mace, to smite it, Bannadonna
had resolved that his invention should likewise possess the power of
locomotion, and, along with that, the appearance, at least, of
intelligence and will.

If the conjectures of those who claimed acquaintance with the intent of
Bannadonna be thus far correct, no unenterprising spirit could have been
his. But they stopped not here; intimating that though, indeed, his
design had, in the first place, been prompted by the sight of the
watchman, and confined to the devising of a subtle substitute for him:
yet, as is not seldom the case with projectors, by insensible
gradations, proceeding from comparatively pigmy aims to Titanic ones,
the original scheme had, in its anticipated eventualities, at last,
attained to an unheard of degree of daring.

He still bent his efforts upon the locomotive figure for the belfry, but
only as a partial type of an ulterior creature, a sort of elephantine
Helot, adapted to further, in a degree scarcely to be imagined, the
universal conveniences and glories of humanity; supplying nothing less
than a supplement to the Six Days' Work; stocking the earth with a new
serf, more useful than the ox, swifter than the dolphin, stronger than
the lion, more cunning than the ape, for industry an ant, more fiery
than serpents, and yet, in patience, another ass. All excellences of all
God-made creatures, which served man, were here to receive advancement,
and then to be combined in one. Talus was to have been the
all-accomplished Helot's name. Talus, iron slave to Bannadonna, and,
through him, to man.

Here, it might well be thought that, were these last conjectures as to
the foundling's secrets not erroneous, then must he have been hopelessly
infected with the craziest chimeras of his age; far outgoing Albert
Magus and Cornelius Agrippa. But the contrary was averred. However
marvelous his design, however apparently transcending not alone the
bounds of human invention, but those of divine creation, yet the
proposed means to be employed were alleged to have been confined within
the sober forms of sober reason. It was affirmed that, to a degree of
more than skeptic scorn, Bannadonna had been without sympathy for any of
the vain-glorious irrationalities of his time. For example, he had not
concluded, with the visionaries among the metaphysicians, that between
the finer mechanic forces and the ruder animal vitality some germ of
correspondence might prove discoverable. As little did his scheme
partake of the enthusiasm of some natural philosophers, who hoped, by
physiological and chemical inductions, to arrive at a knowledge of the
source of life, and so qualify themselves to manufacture and improve
upon it. Much less had he aught in common with the tribe of alchemists,
who sought, by a species of incantations, to evoke some surprising
vitality from the laboratory. Neither had he imagined, with certain
sanguine theosophists, that, by faithful adoration of the Highest,
unheard-of powers would be vouchsafed to man. A practical materialist,
what Bannadonna had aimed at was to have been reached, not by logic, not
by crucible, not by conjuration, not by altars; but by plain vice-bench
and hammer. In short, to solve nature, to steal into her, to intrigue
beyond her, to procure some one else to bind her to his hand;--these,
one and all, had not been his objects; but, asking no favors from any
element or any being, of himself, to rival her, outstrip her, and rule
her. He stooped to conquer. With him, common sense was theurgy;
machinery, miracle; Prometheus, the heroic name for machinist; man, the
true God.

Nevertheless, in his initial step, so far as the experimental automaton
for the belfry was concerned, he allowed fancy some little play; or,
perhaps, what seemed his fancifulness was but his utilitarian ambition
collaterally extended. In figure, the creature for the belfry should not
be likened after the human pattern, nor any animal one, nor after the
ideals, however wild, of ancient fable, but equally in aspect as in
organism be an original production; the more terrible to behold, the
better.

Such, then, were the suppositions as to the present scheme, and the
reserved intent. How, at the very threshold, so unlooked for a
catastrophe overturned all, or rather, what was the conjecture here, is
now to be set forth.

It was thought that on the day preceding the fatality, his visitors
having left him, Bannadonna had unpacked the belfry image, adjusted it,
and placed it in the retreat provided--a sort of sentry-box in one
corner of the belfry; in short, throughout the night, and for some part
of the ensuing morning, he had been engaged in arranging everything
connected with the domino; the issuing from the sentry-box each sixty
minutes; sliding along a grooved way, like a railway; advancing to the
clock-bell, with uplifted manacles; striking it at one of the twelve
junctions of the four-and-twenty hands; then wheeling, circling the
bell, and retiring to its post, there to bide for another sixty minutes,
when the same process was to be repeated; the bell, by a cunning
mechanism, meantime turning on its vertical axis, so as to present, to
the descending mace, the clasped hands of the next two figures, when it
would strike two, three, and so on, to the end. The musical metal in
this time-bell being so managed in the fusion, by some art, perishing
with its originator, that each of the clasps of the four-and-twenty
hands should give forth its own peculiar resonance when parted.

But on the magic metal, the magic and metallic stranger never struck but
that one stroke, drove but that one nail, served but that one clasp, by
which Bannadonna clung to his ambitious life. For, after winding up the
creature in the sentry-box, so that, for the present, skipping the
intervening hours, it should not emerge till the hour of one, but should
then infallibly emerge, and, after deftly oiling the grooves whereon it
was to slide, it was surmised that the mechanician must then have
hurried to the bell, to give his final touches to its sculpture. True
artist, he here became absorbed; and absorption still further
intensified, it may be, by his striving to abate that strange look of
Una; which, though, before others, he had treated with such unconcern,
might not, in secret, have been without its thorn.

And so, for the interval, he was oblivious of his creature; which, not
oblivious of him, and true to its creation, and true to its heedful
winding up, left its post precisely at the given moment; along its
well-oiled route, slid noiselessly towards its mark; and, aiming at the
hand of Una, to ring one clangorous note, dully smote the intervening
brain of Bannadonna, turned backwards to it; the manacled arms then
instantly up-springing to their hovering poise. The falling body clogged
the thing's return; so there it stood, still impending over Bannadonna,
as if whispering some post-mortem terror. The chisel lay dropped from
the hand, but beside the hand; the oil-flask spilled across the iron
track.

In his unhappy end, not unmindful of the rare genius of the mechanician,
the republic decreed him a stately funeral. It was resolved that the
great bell--the one whose casting had been jeopardized through the
timidity of the ill-starred workman--should be rung upon the entrance of
the bier into the cathedral. The most robust man of the country round
was assigned the office of bell-ringer.

But as the pall-bearers entered the cathedral porch, naught but a
broken and disastrous sound, like that of some lone Alpine land-slide,
fell from the tower upon their ears. And then, all was hushed.

Glancing backwards, they saw the groined belfry crashed sideways in. It
afterwards appeared that the powerful peasant, who had the bell-rope in
charge, wishing to test at once the full glory of the bell, had swayed
down upon the rope with one concentrate jerk. The mass of quaking metal,
too ponderous for its frame, and strangely feeble somewhere at its top,
loosed from its fastening, tore sideways down, and tumbling in one sheer
fall, three hundred feet to the soft sward below, buried itself inverted
and half out of sight.

Upon its disinterment, the main fracture was found to have started from
a small spot in the ear; which, being scraped, revealed a defect,
deceptively minute in the casting; which defect must subsequently have
been pasted over with some unknown compound.

The remolten metal soon reassumed its place in the tower's repaired
superstructure. For one year the metallic choir of birds sang musically
in its belfry-bough-work of sculptured blinds and traceries. But on the
first anniversary of the tower's completion--at early dawn, before the
concourse had surrounded it--an earthquake came; one loud crash was
heard. The stone-pine, with all its bower of songsters, lay overthrown
upon the plain.

So the blind slave obeyed its blinder lord; but, in obedience, slew him.
So the creator was killed by the creature. So the bell was too heavy for
the tower. So the bell's main weakness was where man's blood had flawed
it. And so pride went before the fall.


4xxxxxxxxx

PIERRE:
OR,
THE AMBIGUITIES.

BY
HERMAN MELVILLE.

TO

Greylock's Most Excellent Majesty.


In old times authors were proud of the privilege of dedicating their
works to Majesty. A right noble custom, which we of Berkshire must
revive. For whether we will or no, Majesty is all around us here in
Berkshire, sitting as in a grand Congress of Vienna of majestical
hill-tops, and eternally challenging our homage.

But since the majestic mountain, Greylock--my own more immediate
sovereign lord and king--hath now, for innumerable ages, been the one
grand dedicatee of the earliest rays of all the Berkshire mornings, I
know not how his Imperial Purple Majesty (royal-born: Porphyrogenitus)
will receive the dedication of my own poor solitary ray.

Nevertheless, forasmuch as I, dwelling with my loyal neighbors, the
Maples and the Beeches, in the amphitheater over which his central
majesty presides, have received his most bounteous and unstinted
fertilizations, it is but meet, that I here devoutly kneel, and render
up my gratitude, whether, thereto, The Most Excellent Purple Majesty of
Greylock benignantly incline his hoary crown or no.

_Pittsfield, Mass._




TABLE OF CONTENTS.


BOOK I.

PAGE

PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS                            1


BOOK II.

LOVE, DELIGHT, AND ALARM                                      26


BOOK III.

THE PRESENTIMENT AND THE VERIFICATION                         56


BOOK IV.

RETROSPECTIVE                                                 89


BOOK V.

MISGIVINGS AND PREPARATIVES                                  116


BOOK VI.

ISABEL, AND THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL            147


BOOK VII.

INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN PIERRE'S TWO INTERVIEWS
WITH ISABEL AT THE FARM-HOUSE                                173


BOOK VIII.

THE SECOND INTERVIEW, AND THE SECOND PART OF
THE STORY OF ISABEL. THEIR IMMEDIATE IMPULSIVE
EFFECT UPON PIERRE                                           194


BOOK IX.

MORE LIGHT, AND THE GLOOM OF THAT LIGHT. MORE
GLOOM, AND THE LIGHT OF THAT GLOOM                           224


BOOK X.

THE UNPRECEDENTED FINAL RESOLUTION OF PIERRE                 233


BOOK XI.

HE CROSSES THE RUBICON                                       247


BOOK XII.

ISABEL, MRS. GLENDINNING, THE PORTRAIT, AND LUCY             256


BOOK XIII.

THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS                                      273

BOOK XIV.

THE JOURNEY AND THE PAMPHLET                                 277


BOOK XV.

THE COUSINS                                                  294


BOOK XVI.

FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY                     312


BOOK XVII.

YOUNG AMERICA IN LITERATURE                                  333


BOOK XVIII.

PIERRE, AS A JUVENILE AUTHOR, RECONSIDERED                   350


BOOK XIX.

THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES                                   360


BOOK XX.

CHARLIE MILLTHORPE                                           374


BOOK XXI.

PIERRE IMMATURELY ATTEMPTS A MATURE BOOK. TIDINGS
FROM THE MEADOWS. PLINLIMMON                                 384

BOOK XXII.

THE FLOWER-CURTAIN LIFTED FROM BEFORE A TROPICAL
AUTHOR; WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE TRANSCENDENTAL
FLESH-BRUSH PHILOSOPHY                                       402


BOOK XXIII.

A LETTER FOR PIERRE. ISABEL. ARRIVAL OF LUCY'S
EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE APOSTLES'                            418


BOOK XXIV.

LUCY AT THE APOSTLES'                                        439


BOOK XXV.

LUCY, ISABEL, AND PIERRE. PIERRE AT HIS BOOK.
ENCELADUS                                                    450


BOOK XXVI.

A WALK; A FOREIGN PORTRAIT; A SAIL. AND THE
END                                                          475




PIERRE.




BOOK I.

PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS.


I.

There are some strange summer mornings in the country, when he who is
but a sojourner from the city shall early walk forth into the fields,
and be wonder-smitten with the trance-like aspect of the green and
golden world. Not a flower stirs; the trees forget to wave; the grass
itself seems to have ceased to grow; and all Nature, as if suddenly
become conscious of her own profound mystery, and feeling no refuge from
it but silence, sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose.

Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the embowered and
high-gabled old home of his fathers, Pierre, dewily refreshed and
spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long, wide, elm-arched street
of the village, and half unconsciously bent his steps toward a cottage,
which peeped into view near the end of the vista.

The verdant trance lay far and wide; and through it nothing came but the
brindled kine, dreamily wandering to their pastures, followed, not
driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed boys.

As touched and bewitched by the loveliness of this silence, Pierre
neared the cottage, and lifted his eyes, he swiftly paused, fixing his
glance upon one upper, open casement there. Why now this impassioned,
youthful pause? Why this enkindled cheek and eye? Upon the sill of the
casement, a snow-white glossy pillow reposes, and a trailing shrub has
softly rested a rich, crimson flower against it.

Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower, thought
Pierre; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have rested there. "Lucy!"

"Pierre!"

As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment, in the
bright hush of the morning, the two stood silently but ardently eying
each other, beholding mutual reflections of a boundless admiration and
love.

"Nothing but Pierre," laughed the youth, at last; "thou hast forgotten
to bid me good-morning."

"That would be little. Good-mornings, good-evenings, good days, weeks,
months, and years to thee, Pierre;--bright Pierre!--Pierre!"

Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible fondness;
truly the skies do ope, and this invoking angel looks down.--"I would
return thee thy manifold good-mornings, Lucy, did not that presume thou
had'st lived through a night; and by Heaven, thou belong'st to the
regions of an infinite day!"

"Fie, now, Pierre; why should ye youths always swear when ye love!"

"Because in us love is profane, since it mortally reaches toward the
heaven in ye!"

"There thou fly'st again, Pierre; thou art always circumventing me so.
Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so sweet an expertness in
turning all trifles of ours into trophies of yours?"

"I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do." And shaking
the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and conspicuously fastened
it in his bosom.--"I must away now, Lucy; see! under these colors I
march."

"Bravissimo! oh, my only recruit!"


II.

Pierre was the only son of an affluent, and haughty widow; a lady who
externally furnished a singular example of the preservative and
beautifying influences of unfluctuating rank, health, and wealth, when
joined to a fine mind of medium culture, uncankered by any inconsolable
grief, and never worn by sordid cares. In mature age, the rose still
miraculously clung to her cheek; litheness had not yet completely
uncoiled itself from her waist, nor smoothness unscrolled itself from
her brow, nor diamondness departed from her eyes. So that when lit up
and bediademed by ball-room lights, Mrs. Glendinning still eclipsed far
younger charms, and had she chosen to encourage them, would have been
followed by a train of infatuated suitors, little less young than her
own son Pierre.

But a reverential and devoted son seemed lover enough for this widow
Bloom; and besides all this, Pierre when namelessly annoyed, and
sometimes even jealously transported by the too ardent admiration of the
handsome youths, who now and then, caught in unintended snares, seemed
to entertain some insane hopes of wedding this unattainable being;
Pierre had more than once, with a playful malice, openly sworn, that the
man--gray-beard, or beardless--who should dare to propose marriage to
his mother, that man would by some peremptory unrevealed agency
immediately disappear from the earth.

This romantic filial love of Pierre seemed fully returned by the
triumphant maternal pride of the widow, who in the clear-cut lineaments
and noble air of the son, saw her own graces strangely translated into
the opposite sex. There was a striking personal resemblance between
them; and as the mother seemed to have long stood still in her beauty,
heedless of the passing years; so Pierre seemed to meet her half-way,
and by a splendid precocity of form and feature, almost advanced himself
to that mature stand-point in Time, where his pedestaled mother so long
had stood. In the playfulness of their unclouded love, and with that
strange license which a perfect confidence and mutual understanding at
all points, had long bred between them, they were wont to call each
other brother and sister. Both in public and private this was their
usage; nor when thrown among strangers, was this mode of address ever
suspected for a sportful assumption; since the amaranthiness of Mrs.
Glendinning fully sustained this youthful pretension.--Thus freely and
lightsomely for mother and son flowed on the pure joined current of
life. But as yet the fair river had not borne its waves to those
sideways repelling rocks, where it was thenceforth destined to be
forever divided into two unmixing streams.

An excellent English author of these times enumerating the prime
advantages of his natal lot, cites foremost, that he first saw the rural
light. So with Pierre. It had been his choice fate to have been born and
nurtured in the country, surrounded by scenery whose uncommon loveliness
was the perfect mould of a delicate and poetic mind; while the popular
names of its finest features appealed to the proudest patriotic and
family associations of the historic line of Glendinning. On the meadows
which sloped away from the shaded rear of the manorial mansion, far to
the winding river, an Indian battle had been fought, in the earlier days
of the colony, and in that battle the paternal great-grandfather of
Pierre, mortally wounded, had sat unhorsed on his saddle in the grass,
with his dying voice, still cheering his men in the fray. This was
Saddle-Meadows, a name likewise extended to the mansion and the
village. Far beyond these plains, a day's walk for Pierre, rose the
storied heights, where in the Revolutionary War his grandfather had for
several months defended a rude but all-important stockaded fort, against
the repeated combined assaults of Indians, Tories, and Regulars. From
before that fort, the gentlemanly, but murderous half-breed, Brandt, had
fled, but had survived to dine with General Glendinning, in the amicable
times which followed that vindictive war. All the associations of
Saddle-Meadows were full of pride to Pierre. The Glendinning deeds by
which their estate had so long been held, bore the cyphers of three
Indian kings, the aboriginal and only conveyancers of those noble woods
and plains. Thus loftily, in the days of his circumscribed youth, did
Pierre glance along the background of his race; little recking of that
maturer and larger interior development, which should forever deprive
these things of their full power of pride in his soul.

But the breeding of Pierre would have been unwisely contracted, had his
youth been unintermittingly passed in these rural scenes. At a very
early period he had begun to accompany his father and mother--and
afterwards his mother alone--in their annual visits to the city; where
naturally mingling in a large and polished society, Pierre had
insensibly formed himself in the airier graces of life, without
enfeebling the vigor derived from a martial race, and fostered in the
country's clarion air.

Nor while thus liberally developed in person and manners, was Pierre
deficient in a still better and finer culture. Not in vain had he spent
long summer afternoons in the deep recesses of his father's fastidiously
picked and decorous library; where the Spenserian nymphs had early led
him into many a maze of all-bewildering beauty. Thus, with a graceful
glow on his limbs, and soft, imaginative flames in his heart, did this
Pierre glide toward maturity, thoughtless of that period of remorseless
insight, when all these delicate warmths should seem frigid to him, and
he should madly demand more ardent fires.

Nor had that pride and love which had so bountifully provided for the
youthful nurture of Pierre, neglected his culture in the deepest element
of all. It had been a maxim with the father of Pierre, that all
gentlemanhood was vain; all claims to it preposterous and absurd, unless
the primeval gentleness and golden humanities of religion had been so
thoroughly wrought into the complete texture of the character, that he
who pronounced himself gentleman, could also rightfully assume the meek,
but kingly style of Christian. At the age of sixteen, Pierre partook
with his mother of the Holy Sacraments.

It were needless, and more difficult, perhaps, to trace out precisely
the absolute motives which prompted these youthful vows. Enough, that as
to Pierre had descended the numerous other noble qualities of his
ancestors; and as he now stood heir to their forests and farms; so by
the same insensible sliding process, he seemed to have inherited their
docile homage to a venerable Faith, which the first Glendinning had
brought over sea, from beneath the shadow of an English minister. Thus
in Pierre was the complete polished steel of the gentleman, girded with
Religion's silken sash; and his great-grandfather's soldierly fate had
taught him that the generous sash should, in the last bitter trial,
furnish its wearer with Glory's shroud; so that what through life had
been worn for Grace's sake, in death might safely hold the man. But
while thus all alive to the beauty and poesy of his father's faith,
Pierre little foresaw that this world hath a secret deeper than beauty,
and Life some burdens heavier than death.

So perfect to Pierre had long seemed the illuminated scroll of his life
thus far, that only one hiatus was discoverable by him in that
sweetly-writ manuscript. A sister had been omitted from the text. He
mourned that so delicious a feeling as fraternal love had been denied
him. Nor could the fictitious title, which he so often lavished upon his
mother, at all supply the absent reality. This emotion was most natural;
and the full cause and reason of it even Pierre did not at that time
entirely appreciate. For surely a gentle sister is the second best gift
to a man; and it is first in point of occurrence; for the wife comes
after. He who is sisterless, is as a bachelor before his time. For much
that goes to make up the deliciousness of a wife, already lies in the
sister.

"Oh, had my father but had a daughter!" cried Pierre; "some one whom I
might love, and protect, and fight for, if need be. It must be a
glorious thing to engage in a mortal quarrel on a sweet sister's behalf!
Now, of all things, would to heaven, I had a sister!"

Thus, ere entranced in the gentler bonds of a lover; thus often would
Pierre invoke heaven for a sister; but Pierre did not then know, that if
there be any thing a man might well pray against, that thing is the
responsive gratification of some of the devoutest prayers of his youth.

It may have been that this strange yearning of Pierre for a sister, had
part of its origin in that still stranger feeling of loneliness he
sometimes experienced, as not only the solitary head of his family, but
the only surnamed male Glendinning extant. A powerful and populous
family had by degrees run off into the female branches; so that Pierre
found himself surrounded by numerous kinsmen and kinswomen, yet
companioned by no surnamed male Glendinning, but the duplicate one
reflected to him in the mirror. But in his more wonted natural mood,
this thought was not wholly sad to him. Nay, sometimes it mounted into
an exultant swell. For in the ruddiness, and flushfulness, and
vain-gloriousness of his youthful soul, he fondly hoped to have a
monopoly of glory in capping the fame-column, whose tall shaft had been
erected by his noble sires.

In all this, how unadmonished was our Pierre by that foreboding and
prophetic lesson taught, not less by Palmyra's quarries, than by
Palmyra's ruins. Among those ruins is a crumbling, uncompleted shaft,
and some leagues off, ages ago left in the quarry, is the crumbling
corresponding capital, also incomplete. These Time seized and spoiled;
these Time crushed in the egg; and the proud stone that should have
stood among the clouds, Time left abased beneath the soil. Oh, what
quenchless feud is this, that Time hath with the sons of Men!


III.

It has been said that the beautiful country round about Pierre appealed
to very proud memories. But not only through the mere chances of things,
had that fine country become ennobled by the deeds of his sires, but in
Pierre's eyes, all its hills and swales seemed as sanctified through
their very long uninterrupted possession by his race.

That fond ideality which, in the eyes of affection, hallows the least
trinket once familiar to the person of a departed love; with Pierre that
talisman touched the whole earthly landscape about him; for remembering
that on those hills his own fine fathers had gazed; through those woods,
over these lawns, by that stream, along these tangled paths, many a
grand-dame of his had merrily strolled when a girl; vividly recalling
these things, Pierre deemed all that part of the earth a love-token; so
that his very horizon was to him as a memorial ring.

The monarchical world very generally imagines, that in demagoguical
America the sacred Past hath no fixed statues erected to it, but all
things irreverently seethe and boil in the vulgar caldron of an
everlasting uncrystalizing Present. This conceit would seem peculiarly
applicable to the social condition. With no chartered aristocracy, and
no law of entail, how can any family in America imposingly perpetuate
itself? Certainly that common saying among us, which declares, that be a
family conspicuous as it may, a single half-century shall see it abased;
that maxim undoubtedly holds true with the commonalty. In our cities
families rise and burst like bubbles in a vat. For indeed the democratic
element operates as a subtile acid among us; forever producing new
things by corroding the old; as in the south of France verdigris, the
primitive material of one kind of green paint, is produced by
grape-vinegar poured upon copper plates. Now in general nothing can be
more significant of decay than the idea of corrosion; yet on the other
hand, nothing can more vividly suggest luxuriance of life, than the idea
of green as a color; for green is the peculiar signet of all-fertile
Nature herself. Herein by apt analogy we behold the marked anomalousness
of America; whose character abroad, we need not be surprised, is
misconceived, when we consider how strangely she contradicts all prior
notions of human things; and how wonderfully to her, Death itself
becomes transmuted into Life. So that political institutions, which in
other lands seem above all things intensely artificial, with America
seem to possess the divine virtue of a natural law; for the most mighty
of nature's laws is this, that out of Death she brings Life.

Still, are there things in the visible world, over which ever-shifting
Nature hath not so unbounded a sway. The grass is annually changed; but
the limbs of the oak, for a long term of years, defy that annual decree.
And if in America the vast mass of families be as the blades of grass,
yet some few there are that stand as the oak; which, instead of
decaying, annually puts forth new branches; whereby Time, instead of
subtracting, is made to capitulate into a multiple virtue.

In this matter we will--not superciliously, but in fair spirit--compare
pedigrees with England, and strange as it may seem at the first blush,
not without some claim to equality. I dare say, that in this thing the
Peerage Book is a good statistical standard whereby to judge her; since
the compilers of that work can not be entirely insensible on whose
patronage they most rely; and the common intelligence of our own people
shall suffice to judge us. But the magnificence of names must not
mislead us as to the humility of things. For as the breath in all our
lungs is hereditary, and my present breath at this moment, is further
descended than the body of the present High Priest of the Jews, so far
as he can assuredly trace it; so mere names, which are also but air, do
likewise revel in this endless descendedness. But if Richmond, and St.
Albans, and Grafton, and Portland, and Buccleugh, be names almost old as
England herself, the present Dukes of those names stop in their own
genuine pedigrees at Charles II., and there find no very fine fountain;
since what we would deem the least glorious parentage under the sun, is
precisely the parentage of a Buccleugh, for example; whose ancestress
could not well avoid being a mother, it is true, but had accidentally
omitted the preliminary rite. Yet a king was the sire. Then only so much
the worse; for if it be small insult to be struck by a pauper, but
mortal offense to receive a blow from a gentleman, then of all things
the bye-blows of kings must be signally unflattering. In England the
Peerage is kept alive by incessant restorations and creations. One man,
George III., manufactured five hundred and twenty-two peers. An earldom,
in abeyance for five centuries, has suddenly been assumed by some
commoner, to whom it had not so much descended, as through the art of
the lawyers been made flexibly to bend in that direction. For not Thames
is so sinuous in his natural course, not the Bridgewater Canal more
artificially conducted, than blood in the veins of that winding or
manufactured nobility. Perishable as stubble, and fungous as the fungi,
those grafted families successively live and die on the eternal soil of
a name. In England this day, twenty-five hundred peerages are extinct;
but the names survive. So that the empty air of a name is more
endurable than a man, or than dynasties of men; the air fills man's
lungs and puts life into a man, but man fills not the air, nor puts life
into that.

All honor to the names then, and all courtesy to the men; but if St.
Albans tell me he is all-honorable and all-eternal, I must still
politely refer him to Nell Gwynne.

Beyond Charles II. very few indeed--hardly worthy of note--are the
present titled English families which can trace any thing like a direct
unvitiated blood-descent from the thief knights of the Norman. Beyond
Charles II. their direct genealogies seem vain as though some Jew
clothesman, with a tea-canister on his head, turned over the first
chapter of St. Matthew to make out his unmingled participation in the
blood of King Saul, who had long died ere the career of the Cæsar began.

Now, not preliminarily to enlarge upon the fact that, while in England
an immense mass of state-masonry is brought to bear as a buttress in
upholding the hereditary existence of certain houses, while with us
nothing of that kind can possibly be admitted; and to omit all mention
of the hundreds of unobtrusive families in New England who,
nevertheless, might easily trace their uninterrupted English lineage to
a time before Charles the Blade: not to speak of the old and
oriental-like English planter families of Virginia and the South; the
Randolphs for example, one of whose ancestors, in King James' time,
married Pocahontas the Indian Princess, and in whose blood therefore an
underived aboriginal royalty was flowing over two hundred years ago;
consider those most ancient and magnificent Dutch Manors at the North,
whose perches are miles--whose meadows overspread adjacent
countries--and whose haughty rent-deeds are held by their thousand
farmer tenants, so long as grass grows and water runs; which hints of a
surprising eternity for a deed, and seem to make lawyer's ink
unobliterable as the sea. Some of those manors are two centuries old;
and their present patrons or lords will show you stakes and stones on
their estates put there--the stones at least--before Nell Gwynne the
Duke-mother was born, and genealogies which, like their own river,
Hudson, flow somewhat farther and straighter than the Serpentine
brooklet in Hyde Park.

These far-descended Dutch meadows lie steeped in a Hindooish haze; an
eastern patriarchalness sways its mild crook over pastures, whose tenant
flocks shall there feed, long as their own grass grows, long as their
own water shall run. Such estates seem to defy Time's tooth, and by
conditions which take hold of the indestructible earth seem to
contemporize their fee-simples with eternity. Unimaginable audacity of a
worm that but crawls through the soil he so imperially claims!

In midland counties of England they boast of old oaken dining-halls
where three hundred men-at-arms could exercise of a rainy afternoon, in
the reign of the Plantagenets. But our lords, the Patroons, appeal not
to the past, but they point to the present. One will show you that the
public census of a county is but part of the roll of his tenants. Ranges
of mountains, high as Ben Nevis or Snowdon, are their walls; and regular
armies, with staffs of officers, crossing rivers with artillery, and
marching through primeval woods, and threading vast rocky defiles, have
been sent out to distrain upon three thousand farmer-tenants of one
landlord, at a blow. A fact most suggestive two ways; both whereof shall
be nameless here.

But whatever one may think of the existence of such mighty lordships in
the heart of a republic, and however we may wonder at their thus
surviving, like Indian mounds, the Revolutionary flood; yet survive and
exist they do, and are now owned by their present proprietors, by as
good nominal title as any peasant owns his father's old hat, or any duke
his great-uncle's old coronet.

For all this, then, we shall not err very widely if we humbly conceive,
that--should she choose to glorify herself in that inconsiderable
way--our America will make out a good general case with England in this
short little matter of large estates, and long pedigrees--pedigrees I
mean, wherein is no flaw.


IV.

In general terms we have been thus decided in asserting the great
genealogical and real-estate dignity of some families in America,
because in so doing we poetically establish the richly aristocratic
condition of Master Pierre Glendinning, for whom we have before claimed
some special family distinction. And to the observant reader the sequel
will not fail to show, how important is this circumstance, considered
with reference to the singularly developed character and most singular
life-career of our hero. Nor will any man dream that the last chapter
was merely intended for a foolish bravado, and not with a solid purpose
in view.

Now Pierre stands on this noble pedestal; we shall see if he keeps that
fine footing; we shall see if Fate hath not just a little bit of a small
word or two to say in this world. But it is not laid down here that the
Glendinnings dated back beyond Pharaoh, or the deeds of Saddle-Meadows
to the Three Magi in the Gospels. Nevertheless, those deeds, as before
hinted, did indeed date back to three kings--Indian kings--only so much
the finer for that.

But if Pierre did not date back to the Pharaohs, and if the English
farmer Hampdens were somewhat the seniors of even the oldest
Glendinning; and if some American manors boasted a few additional years
and square miles over his, yet think you that it is at all possible,
that a youth of nineteen should--merely by way of trial of the
thing--strew his ancestral kitchen hearth-stone with wheat in the stalk,
and there standing in the chimney thresh out that grain with a flail,
whose aerial evolutions had free play among all that masonry; were it
not impossible for such a flailer so to thresh wheat in his own
ancestral kitchen chimney without feeling just a little twinge or two of
what one might call family pride? I should say not.

Or how think you it would be with this youthful Pierre, if every day
descending to breakfast, he caught sight of an old tattered British
banner or two, hanging over an arched window in his hall; and those
banners captured by his grandfather, the general, in fair fight? Or how
think you it would be if every time he heard the band of the military
company of the village, he should distinctly recognize the peculiar tap
of a British kettle-drum also captured by his grandfather in fair fight,
and afterwards suitably inscribed on the brass and bestowed upon the
Saddle-Meadows Artillery Corps? Or how think you it would be, if
sometimes of a mild meditative Fourth of July morning in the country, he
carried out with him into the garden by way of ceremonial cane, a long,
majestic, silver-tipped staff, a Major-General's baton, once wielded on
the plume-nodding and musket-flashing review by the same grandfather
several times here-in-before mentioned? I should say that considering
Pierre was quite young and very unphilosophical as yet, and withal
rather high-blooded; and sometimes read the History of the Revolutionary
War, and possessed a mother who very frequently made remote social
allusions to the epaulettes of the Major-General his grandfather;--I
should say that upon all of these occasions, the way it must have been
with him, was a very proud, elated sort of way. And if this seem but too
fond and foolish in Pierre; and if you tell me that this sort of thing
in him showed him no sterling Democrat, and that a truly noble man
should never brag of any arm but his own; then I beg you to consider
again that this Pierre was but a youngster as yet. And believe me you
will pronounce Pierre a thoroughgoing Democrat in time; perhaps a little
too Radical altogether to your fancy.

In conclusion, do not blame me if I here make repetition, and do
verbally quote my own words in saying that _it had been the choice fate
of Pierre to have been born and bred in the country_. For to a noble
American youth this indeed--more than in any other land--this indeed is
a most rare and choice lot. For it is to be observed, that while in
other countries, the finest families boast of the country as their home;
the more prominent among us, proudly cite the city as their seat. Too
often the American that himself makes his fortune, builds him a great
metropolitan house, in the most metropolitan street of the most
metropolitan town. Whereas a European of the same sort would thereupon
migrate into the country. That herein the European hath the better of
it, no poet, no philosopher, and no aristocrat will deny. For the
country is not only the most poetical and philosophical, but it is the
most aristocratic part of this earth, for it is the most venerable, and
numerous bards have ennobled it by many fine titles. Whereas the town is
the more plebeian portion: which, besides many other things, is plainly
evinced by the dirty unwashed face perpetually worn by the town; but the
country, like any Queen, is ever attended by scrupulous lady's maids in
the guise of the seasons, and the town hath but one dress of brick
turned up with stone; but the country hath a brave dress for every week
in the year; sometimes she changes her dress twenty-four times in the
twenty-four hours; and the country weareth her sun by day as a diamond
on a Queen's brow; and the stars by night as necklaces of gold beads;
whereas the town's sun is smoky paste, and no diamond, and the town's
stars are pinchbeck and not gold.

In the country then Nature planted our Pierre; because Nature intended a
rare and original development in Pierre. Never mind if hereby she proved
ambiguous to him in the end; nevertheless, in the beginning she did
bravely. She blew her wind-clarion from the blue hills, and Pierre
neighed out lyrical thoughts, as at the trumpet-blast, a war-horse paws
himself into a lyric of foam. She whispered through her deep groves at
eve, and gentle whispers of humanness, and sweet whispers of love, ran
through Pierre's thought-veins, musical as water over pebbles. She
lifted her spangled crest of a thickly-starred night, and forth at that
glimpse of their divine Captain and Lord, ten thousand mailed thoughts
of heroicness started up in Pierre's soul, and glared round for some
insulted good cause to defend.

So the country was a glorious benediction to young Pierre; we shall see
if that blessing pass from him as did the divine blessing from the
Hebrews; we shall yet see again, I say, whether Fate hath not just a
little bit of a word or two to say in this world; we shall see whether
this wee little bit scrap of latinity be very far out of the way--_Nemo
contra Deum nisi Deus ipse._


V.

"Sister Mary," said Pierre, returned from his sunrise stroll, and
tapping at his mother's chamber door:--"do you know, sister Mary, that
the trees which have been up all night, are all abroad again this
morning before you?--Do you not smell something like coffee, my sister?"

A light step moved from within toward the door; which opened, showing
Mrs. Glendinning, in a resplendently cheerful morning robe, and holding
a gay wide ribbon in her hand.

"Good morning, madam," said Pierre, slowly, and with a bow, whose
genuine and spontaneous reverence amusingly contrasted with the sportive
manner that had preceded it. For thus sweetly and religiously was the
familiarity of his affections bottomed on the profoundest filial
respect.

"Good afternoon to you, Pierre, for I suppose it is afternoon. But come,
you shall finish my toilette;--here, brother--" reaching the
ribbon--"now acquit yourself bravely--" and seating herself away from
the glass, she awaited the good offices of Pierre.

"First Lady in waiting to the Dowager Duchess Glendinning," laughed
Pierre, as bowing over before his mother, he gracefully passed the
ribbon round her neck, simply crossing the ends in front.

"Well, what is to hold it there, Pierre?"

"I am going to try and tack it with a kiss, sister,--there!--oh, what a
pity that sort of fastening won't always hold!--where's the cameo with
the fawns, I gave you last night?--Ah! on the slab--you were going to
wear it then?--Thank you, my considerate and most politic
sister--there!--but stop--here's a ringlet gone romping--so now, dear
sister, give that Assyrian toss to your head."

The haughtily happy mother rose to her feet, and as she stood before the
mirror to criticize her son's adornings, Pierre, noticing the straggling
tie of her slipper, knelt down and secured it. "And now for the urn," he
cried, "madam!" and with a humorous gallantry, offering his arm to his
mother, the pair descended to breakfast.

With Mrs. Glendinning it was one of those spontaneous maxims, which
women sometimes act upon without ever thinking of, never to appear in
the presence of her son in any dishabille that was not eminently
becoming. Her own independent observation of things, had revealed to her
many very common maxims, which often become operatively lifeless from a
vicarious reception of them. She was vividly aware how immense was that
influence, which, even in the closest ties of the heart, the merest
appearances make upon the mind. And as in the admiring love and
graceful devotion of Pierre lay now her highest joy in life; so she
omitted no slightest trifle which could possibly contribute to the
preservation of so sweet and flattering a thing.

Besides all this, Mary Glendinning was a woman, and with more than the
ordinary vanity of women--if vanity it can be called--which in a life of
nearly fifty years had never betrayed her into a single published
impropriety, or caused her one known pang at the heart. Moreover, she
had never yearned for admiration; because that was her birthright by the
eternal privilege of beauty; she had always possessed it; she had not to
turn her head for it, since spontaneously it always encompassed her.
Vanity, which in so many women approaches to a spiritual vice, and
therefore to a visible blemish; in her peculiar case--and though
possessed in a transcendent degree--was still the token of the highest
health; inasmuch as never knowing what it was to yearn for its
gratification, she was almost entirely unconscious of possessing it at
all. Many women carry this light of their lives flaming on their
foreheads; but Mary Glendinning unknowingly bore hers within. Through
all the infinite traceries of feminine art, she evenly glowed like a
vase which, internally illuminated, gives no outward sign of the
lighting flame, but seems to shine by the very virtue of the exquisite
marble itself. But that bluff corporeal admiration, with which some
ball-room women are content, was no admiration to the mother of Pierre.
Not the general homage of men, but the selected homage of the noblest
men, was what she felt to be her appropriate right. And as her own
maternal partialities were added to, and glorified the rare and absolute
merits of Pierre; she considered the voluntary allegiance of his
affectionate soul, the representative fealty of the choicest guild of
his race. Thus, though replenished through all her veins with the
subtlest vanity, with the homage of Pierre alone she was content.

But as to a woman of sense and spirit, the admiration of even the
noblest and most gifted man, is esteemed as nothing, so long as she
remains conscious of possessing no directly influencing and practical
sorcery over his soul; and as notwithstanding all his intellectual
superiority to his mother, Pierre, through the unavoidable weakness of
inexperienced and unexpanded youth, was strangely docile to the maternal
tuitions in nearly all the things which thus far had any ways interested
or affected him; therefore it was, that to Mary Glendinning this
reverence of Pierre was invested with all the proudest delights and
witcheries of self-complacency, which it is possible for the most
conquering virgin to feel. Still more. That nameless and infinitely
delicate aroma of inexpressible tenderness and attentiveness which, in
every refined and honorable attachment, is cotemporary with the
courtship, and precedes the final banns and the rite; but which, like
the _bouquet_ of the costliest German wines, too often evaporates upon
pouring love out to drink, in the disenchanting glasses of the
matrimonial days and nights; this highest and airiest thing in the whole
compass of the experience of our mortal life; this heavenly
evanescence--still further etherealized in the filial breast--was for
Mary Glendinning, now not very far from her grand climacteric,
miraculously revived in the courteous lover-like adoration of Pierre.

Altogether having its origin in a wonderful but purely fortuitous
combination of the happiest and rarest accidents of earth; and not to be
limited in duration by that climax which is so fatal to ordinary love;
this softened spell which still wheeled the mother and son in one orbit
of joy, seemed a glimpse of the glorious possibility, that the divinest
of those emotions, which are incident to the sweetest season of love, is
capable of an indefinite translation into many of the less signal
relations of our many chequered life. In a detached and individual way,
it seemed almost to realize here below the sweet dreams of those
religious enthusiasts, who paint to us a Paradise to come, when
etherealized from all drosses and stains, the holiest passion of man
shall unite all kindreds and climes in one circle of pure and
unimpairable delight.


VI.

There was one little uncelestial trait, which, in the opinion of some,
may mar the romantic merits of the gentlemanly Pierre Glendinning. He
always had an excellent appetite, and especially for his breakfast. But
when we consider that though Pierre's hands were small, and his ruffles
white, yet his arm was by no means dainty, and his complexion inclined
to brown; and that he generally rose with the sun, and could not sleep
without riding his twenty, or walking his twelve miles a day, or felling
a fair-sized hemlock in the forest, or boxing, or fencing, or boating,
or performing some other gymnastical feat; when we consider these
athletic habitudes of Pierre, and the great fullness of brawn and muscle
they built round about him; all of which manly brawn and muscle, three
times a day loudly clamored for attention; we shall very soon perceive
that to have a bountiful appetite, was not only no vulgar reproach, but
a right royal grace and honor to Pierre; attesting him a man and a
gentleman; for a thoroughly developed gentleman is always robust and
healthy; and Robustness and Health are great trencher-men.

So when Pierre and his mother descended to breakfast, and Pierre had
scrupulously seen her supplied with whatever little things were
convenient to her; and had twice or thrice ordered the respectable and
immemorial Dates, the servitor, to adjust and re-adjust the
window-sashes, so that no unkind current of air should take undue
liberties with his mother's neck; after seeing to all this, but in a
very quiet and inconspicuous way; and also after directing the unruffled
Dates, to swing out, horizontally into a particular light, a fine joyous
painting, in the good-fellow, Flemish style (which painting was so
attached to the wall as to be capable of that mode of adjusting), and
furthermore after darting from where he sat a few invigorating glances
over the river-meadows to the blue mountains beyond; Pierre made a
masonic sort of mysterious motion to the excellent Dates, who in
automaton obedience thereto, brought from a certain agreeable little
side-stand, a very prominent-looking cold pasty; which, on careful
inspection with the knife, proved to be the embossed savory nest of a
few uncommonly tender pigeons of Pierre's own shooting.

"Sister Mary," said he, lifting on his silver trident one of the
choicest of the many fine pigeon morsels; "Sister Mary," said he, "in
shooting these pigeons, I was very careful to bring down one in such a
manner that the breast is entirely unmarred. It was intended for you!
and here it is. Now Sergeant Dates, help hither your mistress' plate.
No?--nothing but the crumbs of French rolls, and a few peeps into a
coffee-cup--is that a breakfast for the daughter of yonder bold
General?"--pointing to a full-length of his gold-laced grandfather on
the opposite wall. "Well, pitiable is my case when I have to breakfast
for two. Dates!"

"Sir."

"Remove that toast-rack, Dates; and this plate of tongue, and bring the
rolls nearer, and wheel the stand farther off, good Dates."

Having thus made generous room for himself, Pierre commenced operations,
interrupting his mouthfuls by many sallies of mirthfulness.

"You seem to be in prodigious fine spirits this morning, brother
Pierre," said his mother.

"Yes, very tolerable; at least I can't say, that I am low-spirited
exactly, sister Mary;--Dates, my fine fellow, bring me three bowls of
milk."

"One bowl, sir, you mean," said Dates, gravely and imperturbably.

As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke. "My dear Pierre,
how often have I begged you never to permit your hilariousness to betray
you into overstepping the exact line of propriety in your intercourse
with servants. Dates' look was a respectful reproof to you just now. You
must not call Dates, _My fine fellow_. He _is_ a fine fellow, a very
fine fellow, indeed; but there is no need of telling him so at my table.
It is very easy to be entirely kind and pleasant to servants, without
the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship with them."

"Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right; after this I shall
drop the _fine_, and call Dates nothing but _fellow_;--Fellow, come
here!--how will that answer?"

"Not at all, Pierre--but you are a Romeo, you know, and so for the
present I pass over your nonsense."

"Romeo! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo--" sighed Pierre. "I laugh,
but he cried; poor Romeo! alas Romeo! woe is me, Romeo! he came to a
very deplorable end, did Romeo, sister Mary."

"It was his own fault though."

"Poor Romeo!"

"He was disobedient to his parents."

"Alas Romeo!"

"He married against their particular wishes."

"Woe is me, Romeo!"

"But you, Pierre, are going to be married before long, I trust, not to a
Capulet, but to one of our own Montagues; and so Romeo's evil fortune
will hardly be yours. You will be happy."

"The more miserable Romeo!"

"Don't be so ridiculous, brother Pierre; so you are going to take Lucy
that long ride among the hills this morning? She is a sweet girl; a most
lovely girl."

"Yes, that is rather my opinion, sister Mary.--By heavens, mother, the
five zones hold not such another! She is--yes--though I say
it--Dates!--he's a precious long time getting that milk!"

"Let him stay.--Don't be a milk-sop, Pierre!"

"Ha! my sister is a little satirical this morning. I comprehend."

"Never rave, Pierre; and never rant. Your father never did either; nor
is it written of Socrates; and both were very wise men. Your father was
profoundly in love--that I know to my certain knowledge--but I never
heard him rant about it. He was always exceedingly gentlemanly: and
gentlemen never rant. Milk-sops and Muggletonians rant, but gentlemen
never."

"Thank you, sister.--There, put it down, Dates; are the horses ready?"

"Just driving round, sir, I believe."

"Why, Pierre," said his mother, glancing out at the window, "are you
going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old phaeton;--what do you
take that Juggernaut out for?"

"Humor, sister, humor; I like it because it's old-fashioned, and because
the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally because a young lady
by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a high regard for it. She vows she
would like to be married in it."

"Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher puts the
coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and screws into the box. And
you had better let him follow you in one of the farm wagons, with a
spare axle and some boards."

"No fear, sister; no fear;--I shall take the best of care of the old
phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always remind me who it was
that first rode in it."

"I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre."

"And who it was that _next_ rode in it."

"Bless you!--God bless you, my dear son!--always think of him and you
can never err; yes, always think of your dear perfect father, Pierre."

"Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go."

"There; this is my cheek, and the other is Lucy's; though now that I
look at them both, I think that hers is getting to be the most blooming;
sweeter dews fall on that one, I suppose."

Pierre laughed, and ran out of the room, for old Christopher was getting
impatient. His mother went to the window and stood there.

"A noble boy, and docile"--she murmured--"he has all the frolicsomeness
of youth, with little of its giddiness. And he does not grow
vain-glorious in sophomorean wisdom. I thank heaven I sent him not to
college. A noble boy, and docile. A fine, proud, loving, docile,
vigorous boy. Pray God, he never becomes otherwise to me. His little
wife, that is to be, will not estrange him from me; for she too is
docile,--beautiful, and reverential, and most docile. Seldom yet have I
known such blue eyes as hers, that were not docile, and would not follow
a bold black one, as two meek blue-ribboned ewes, follow their martial
leader. How glad am I that Pierre loves her so, and not some dark-eyed
haughtiness, with whom I could never live in peace; but who would be
ever setting her young married state before my elderly widowed one, and
claiming all the homage of my dear boy--the fine, proud, loving, docile,
vigorous boy!--the lofty-minded, well-born, noble boy; and with such
sweet docilities! See his hair! He does in truth illustrate that fine
saying of his father's, that as the noblest colts, in three
points--abundant hair, swelling chest, and sweet docility--should
resemble a fine woman, so should a noble youth. Well, good-bye, Pierre,
and a merry morning to ye!"

So saying she crossed the room, and--resting in a corner--her glad proud
eye met the old General's baton, which the day before in one of his
frolic moods Pierre had taken from its accustomed place in the
pictured-bannered hall. She lifted it, and musingly swayed it to and
fro; then paused, and staff-wise rested with it in her hand. Her stately
beauty had ever somewhat martial in it; and now she looked the daughter
of a General, as she was; for Pierre's was a double revolutionary
descent. On both sides he sprang from heroes.

"This is his inheritance--this symbol of command! and I swell out to
think it. Yet but just now I fondled the conceit that Pierre was so
sweetly docile! Here sure is a most strange inconsistency! For is sweet
docility a general's badge? and is this baton but a distaff
then?--Here's something widely wrong. Now I almost wish him otherwise
than sweet and docile to me, seeing that it must be hard for man to be
an uncompromising hero and a commander among his race, and yet never
ruffle any domestic brow. Pray heaven he show his heroicness in some
smooth way of favoring fortune, not be called out to be a hero of some
dark hope forlorn;--of some dark hope forlorn, whose cruelness makes a
savage of a man. Give him, O God, regardful gales! Fan him with
unwavering prosperities! So shall he remain all docility to me, and yet
prove a haughty hero to the world!"




BOOK II.

LOVE, DELIGHT, AND ALARM.


I.

On the previous evening, Pierre had arranged with Lucy the plan of a
long winding ride, among the hills which stretched around to the
southward from the wide plains of Saddle-Meadows.

Though the vehicle was a sexagenarian, the animals that drew it, were
but six-year colts. The old phaeton had outlasted several generations of
its drawers.

Pierre rolled beneath the village elms in billowy style, and soon drew
up before the white cottage door. Flinging his reins upon the ground he
entered the house.

The two colts were his particular and confidential friends; born on the
same land with him, and fed with the same corn, which, in the form of
Indian-cakes, Pierre himself was often wont to eat for breakfast. The
same fountain that by one branch supplied the stables with water, by
another supplied Pierre's pitcher. They were a sort of family cousins to
Pierre, those horses; and they were splendid young cousins; very showy
in their redundant manes and mighty paces, but not at all vain or
arrogant. They acknowledged Pierre as the undoubted head of the house of
Glendinning. They well knew that they were but an inferior and
subordinate branch of the Glendinnings, bound in perpetual feudal fealty
to its headmost representative. Therefore, these young cousins never
permitted themselves to run from Pierre; they were impatient in their
paces, but very patient in the halt. They were full of good-humor too,
and kind as kittens.

"Bless me, how can you let them stand all alone that way, Pierre," cried
Lucy, as she and Pierre stepped forth from the cottage door, Pierre
laden with shawls, parasol, reticule, and a small hamper.

"Wait a bit," cried Pierre, dropping his load; "I will show you what my
colts are."

So saying, he spoke to them mildly, and went close up to them, and
patted them. The colts neighed; the nigh colt neighing a little
jealously, as if Pierre had not patted impartially. Then, with a low,
long, almost inaudible whistle, Pierre got between the colts, among the
harness. Whereat Lucy started, and uttered a faint cry, but Pierre told
her to keep perfectly quiet, for there was not the least danger in the
world. And Lucy did keep quiet; for somehow, though she always started
when Pierre seemed in the slightest jeopardy, yet at bottom she rather
cherished a notion that Pierre bore a charmed life, and by no earthly
possibility could die from her, or experience any harm, when she was
within a thousand leagues.

Pierre, still between the horses, now stepped upon the pole of the
phaeton; then stepping down, indefinitely disappeared, or became
partially obscured among the living colonnade of the horses' eight
slender and glossy legs. He entered the colonnade one way, and after a
variety of meanderings, came out another way; during all of which
equestrian performance, the two colts kept gayly neighing, and
good-humoredly moving their heads perpendicularly up and down; and
sometimes turning them sideways toward Lucy; as much as to say--We
understand young master; we understand him, Miss; never fear, pretty
lady: why, bless your delicious little heart, we played with Pierre
before you ever did.

"Are you afraid of their running away now, Lucy?" said Pierre, returning
to her.

"Not much, Pierre; the superb fellows! Why, Pierre, they have made an
officer of you--look!" and she pointed to two foam-flakes epauletting
his shoulders. "Bravissimo again! I called you my recruit, when you left
my window this morning, and here you are promoted."

"Very prettily conceited, Lucy. But see, you don't admire their coats;
they wear nothing but the finest Genoa velvet, Lucy. See! did you ever
see such well-groomed horses?"

"Never!"

"Then what say you to have them for my groomsmen, Lucy? Glorious
groomsmen they would make, I declare. They should have a hundred ells of
white favors all over their manes and tails; and when they drew us to
church, they would be still all the time scattering white favors from
their mouths, just as they did here on me. Upon my soul, they shall be
my groomsmen, Lucy. Stately stags! playful dogs! heroes, Lucy. We shall
have no marriage bells; they shall neigh for us, Lucy; we shall be
wedded to the martial sound of Job's trumpeters, Lucy. Hark! they are
neighing now to think of it."

"Neighing at your lyrics, Pierre. Come, let us be off. Here, the shawl,
the parasol, the basket: what are you looking at them so for?"

"I was thinking, Lucy, of the sad state I am in. Not six months ago, I
saw a poor affianced fellow, an old comrade of mine, trudging along with
his Lucy Tartan, a hillock of bundles under either arm; and I said to
myself--There goes a sumpter, now; poor devil, he's a lover. And now
look at me! Well, life's a burden, they say; why not be burdened
cheerily? But look ye, Lucy, I am going to enter a formal declaration
and protest before matters go further with us. When we are married, I
am not to carry any bundles, unless in cases of real need; and what is
more, when there are any of your young lady acquaintances in sight, I am
not to be unnecessarily called upon to back up, and load for their
particular edification."

"Now I am really vexed with you, Pierre; that is the first ill-natured
innuendo I ever heard from you. Are there any of my young lady
acquaintances in sight now, I should like to know?"

"Six of them, right over the way," said Pierre; "but they keep behind
the curtains. I never trust your solitary village streets, Lucy.
Sharp-shooters behind every clap-board, Lucy."

"Pray, then, dear Pierre, do let us be off!"


II.

While Pierre and Lucy are now rolling along under the elms, let it be
said who Lucy Tartan was. It is needless to say that she was a beauty;
because chestnut-haired, bright-cheeked youths like Pierre Glendinning,
seldom fall in love with any but a beauty. And in the times to come,
there must be--as in the present times, and in the times gone by--some
splendid men, and some transcendent women; and how can they ever be,
unless always, throughout all time, here and there, a handsome youth
weds with a handsome maid!

But though owing to the above-named provisions of dame Nature, there
always will be beautiful women in the world; yet the world will never
see another Lucy Tartan. Her cheeks were tinted with the most delicate
white and red, the white predominating. Her eyes some god brought down
from heaven; her hair was Danae's, spangled with Jove's shower; her
teeth were dived for in the Persian Sea.

If long wont to fix his glance on those who, trudging through the
humbler walks of life, and whom unequal toil and poverty deform; if that
man shall haply view some fair and gracious daughter of the gods, who,
from unknown climes of loveliness and affluence, comes floating into
sight, all symmetry and radiance; how shall he be transported, that in a
world so full of vice and misery as ours, there should yet shine forth
this visible semblance of the heavens. For a lovely woman is not
entirely of this earth. Her own sex regard her not as such. A crowd of
women eye a transcendent beauty entering a room, much as though a bird
from Arabia had lighted on the window sill. Say what you will, their
jealousy--if any--is but an afterbirth to their open admiration. Do men
envy the gods? And shall women envy the goddesses? A beautiful woman is
born Queen of men and women both, as Mary Stuart was born Queen of
Scots, whether men or women. All mankind are her Scots; her leal clans
are numbered by the nations. A true gentleman in Kentucky would
cheerfully die for a beautiful woman in Hindostan, though he never saw
her. Yea, count down his heart in death-drops for her; and go to Pluto,
that she might go to Paradise. He would turn Turk before he would disown
an allegiance hereditary to all gentlemen, from the hour their Grand
Master, Adam, first knelt to Eve.

A plain-faced Queen of Spain dwells not in half the glory a beautiful
milliner does. Her soldiers can break heads, but her Highness can not
crack a heart; and the beautiful milliner might string hearts for
necklaces. Undoubtedly, Beauty made the first Queen. If ever again the
succession to the German Empire should be contested, and one poor lame
lawyer should present the claims of the first excellingly beautiful
woman he chanced to see--she would thereupon be unanimously elected
Empress of the Holy Roman German Empire;--that is to say, if all the
Germans were true, free-hearted and magnanimous gentlemen, at all
capable of appreciating so immense an honor.

It is nonsense to talk of France as the seat of all civility. Did not
those French heathen have a Salique law? Three of the most bewitching
creatures,--immortal flowers of the line of Valois--were excluded from
the French throne by that infamous provision. France, indeed! whose
Catholic millions still worship Mary Queen of Heaven; and for ten
generations refused cap and knee to many angel Maries, rightful Queens
of France. Here is cause for universal war. See how vilely nations, as
well as men, assume and wear unchallenged the choicest titles, however
without merit. The Americans, and not the French, are the world's models
of chivalry. Our Salique Law provides that universal homage shall be
paid all beautiful women. No man's most solid rights shall weigh against
her airiest whims. If you buy the best seat in the coach, to go and
consult a doctor on a matter of life and death, you shall cheerfully
abdicate that best seat, and limp away on foot, if a pretty woman,
traveling, shake one feather from the stage-house door.

Now, since we began by talking of a certain young lady that went out
riding with a certain youth; and yet find ourselves, after leading such
a merry dance, fast by a stage-house window;--this may seem rather
irregular sort of writing. But whither indeed should Lucy Tartan conduct
us, but among mighty Queens, and all other creatures of high degree; and
finally set us roaming, to see whether the wide world can match so fine
a wonder. By immemorial usage, am I not bound to celebrate this Lucy
Tartan? Who shall stay me? Is she not my hero's own affianced? What can
be gainsaid? Where underneath the tester of the night sleeps such
another?

Yet, how would Lucy Tartan shrink from all this noise and clatter! She
is bragged of, but not brags. Thus far she hath floated as stilly
through this life, as thistle-down floats over meadows. Noiseless, she,
except with Pierre; and even with him she lives through many a panting
hush. Oh, those love-pauses that they know--how ominous of their
future; for pauses precede the earthquake, and every other terrible
commotion! But blue be their sky awhile, and lightsome all their chat,
and frolicsome their humors.

Never shall I get down the vile inventory! How, if with paper and with
pencil I went out into the starry night to inventorize the heavens? Who
shall tell stars as teaspoons? Who shall put down the charms of Lucy
Tartan upon paper?

And for the rest; her parentage, what fortune she would possess, how
many dresses in her wardrobe, and how many rings upon her fingers;
cheerfully would I let the genealogists, tax-gatherers, and upholsterers
attend to that. My proper province is with the angelical part of Lucy.
But as in some quarters, there prevails a sort of prejudice against
angels, who are merely angels and nothing more; therefore I shall
martyrize myself, by letting such gentlemen and ladies into some details
of Lucy Tartan's history.

She was the daughter of an early and most cherished friend of Pierre's
father. But that father was now dead, and she resided an only daughter
with her mother, in a very fine house in the city. But though her home
was in the city, her heart was twice a year in the country. She did not
at all love the city and its empty, heartless, ceremonial ways. It was
very strange, but most eloquently significant of her own natural
angelhood that, though born among brick and mortar in a sea-port, she
still pined for unbaked earth and inland grass. So the sweet linnet,
though born inside of wires in a lady's chamber on the ocean coast, and
ignorant all its life of any other spot; yet, when spring-time comes, it
is seized with flutterings and vague impatiences; it can not eat or
drink for these wild longings. Though unlearned by any experience, still
the inspired linnet divinely knows that the inland migrating time has
come. And just so with Lucy in her first longings for the verdure. Every
spring those wild flutterings shook her; every spring, this sweet
linnet girl did migrate inland. Oh God grant that those other and long
after nameless flutterings of her inmost soul, when all life was become
weary to her--God grant, that those deeper flutterings in her were
equally significant of her final heavenly migration from this heavy
earth.

It was fortunate for Lucy that her Aunt Lanyllyn--a pensive, childless,
white-turbaned widow--possessed and occupied a pretty cottage in the
village of Saddle Meadows; and still more fortunate, that this excellent
old aunt was very partial to her, and always felt a quiet delight in
having Lucy near her. So Aunt Lanyllyn's cottage, in effect, was Lucy's.
And now, for some years past, she had annually spent several months at
Saddle Meadows; and it was among the pure and soft incitements of the
country that Pierre first had felt toward Lucy the dear passion which
now made him wholly hers.

Lucy had two brothers; one her senior, by three years, and the other her
junior by two. But these young men were officers in the navy; and so
they did not permanently live with Lucy and her mother.

Mrs. Tartan was mistress of an ample fortune. She was, moreover,
perfectly aware that such was the fact, and was somewhat inclined to
force it upon the notice of other people, nowise interested in the
matter. In other words, Mrs. Tartan, instead of being daughter-proud,
for which she had infinite reason, was a little inclined to being
purse-proud, for which she had not the slightest reason; seeing that the
Great Mogul probably possessed a larger fortune than she, not to speak
of the Shah of Persia and Baron Rothschild, and a thousand other
millionaires; whereas, the Grand Turk, and all their other majesties of
Europe, Asia, and Africa to boot, could not, in all their joint
dominions, boast so sweet a girl as Lucy. Nevertheless, Mrs. Tartan was
an excellent sort of lady, as this lady-like world goes. She subscribed
to charities, and owned five pews in as many churches, and went about
trying to promote the general felicity of the world, by making all the
handsome young people of her acquaintance marry one another. In other
words, she was a match-maker--not a Lucifer match-maker--though, to tell
the truth, she may have kindled the matrimonial blues in certain
dissatisfied gentlemen's breasts, who had been wedded under her
particular auspices, and by her particular advice. Rumor said--but rumor
is always fibbing--that there was a secret society of dissatisfied young
husbands, who were at the pains of privately circulating handbills among
all unmarried young strangers, warning them against the insidious
approaches of Mrs. Tartan; and, for reference, named themselves in
cipher. But this could not have been true; for, flushed with a thousand
matches--burning blue or bright, it made little matter--Mrs. Tartan
sailed the seas of fashion, causing all topsails to lower to her; and
towing flotillas of young ladies, for all of whom she was bound to find
the finest husband harbors in the world.

But does not match-making, like charity, begin at home? Why is her own
daughter Lucy without a mate? But not so fast; Mrs. Tartan years ago
laid out that sweet programme concerning Pierre and Lucy; but in this
case, her programme happened to coincide, in some degree, with a
previous one in heaven, and only for that cause did it come to pass,
that Pierre Glendinning was the proud elect of Lucy Tartan. Besides,
this being a thing so nearly affecting herself, Mrs. Tartan had, for the
most part, been rather circumspect and cautious in all her
manoeuvrings with Pierre and Lucy. Moreover, the thing demanded no
manoeuvring at all. The two Platonic particles, after roaming in quest
of each other, from the time of Saturn and Ops till now; they came
together before Mrs. Tartan's own eyes; and what more could Mrs. Tartan
do toward making them forever one and indivisible? Once, and only once,
had a dim suspicion passed through Pierre's mind, that Mrs. Tartan was a
lady thimble-rigger, and slyly rolled the pea.

In their less mature acquaintance, he was breakfasting with Lucy and
her mother in the city, and the first cup of coffee had been poured out
by Mrs. Tartan, when she declared she smelt matches burning somewhere in
the house, and she must see them extinguished. So banning all pursuit,
she rose to seek for the burning matches, leaving the pair alone to
interchange the civilities of the coffee; and finally sent word to them,
from above stairs, that the matches, or something else, had given her a
headache, and begged Lucy to send her up some toast and tea, for she
would breakfast in her own chamber that morning.

Upon this, Pierre looked from Lucy to his boots, and as he lifted his
eyes again, saw Anacreon on the sofa on one side of him, and Moore's
Melodies on the other, and some honey on the table, and a bit of white
satin on the floor, and a sort of bride's veil on the chandelier.

Never mind though--thought Pierre, fixing his gaze on Lucy--I'm entirely
willing to be caught, when the bait is set in Paradise, and the bait is
such an angel. Again he glanced at Lucy, and saw a look of infinite
subdued vexation, and some unwonted pallor on her cheek. Then willingly
he would have kissed the delicious bait, that so gently hated to be
tasted in the trap. But glancing round again, and seeing that the music,
which Mrs. Tartan, under the pretense of putting in order, had been
adjusting upon the piano; seeing that this music was now in a vertical
pile against the wall, with--"_Love was once a little boy_," for the
outermost and only visible sheet; and thinking this to be a remarkable
coincidence under the circumstances; Pierre could not refrain from a
humorous smile, though it was a very gentle one, and immediately
repented of, especially as Lucy seeing and interpreting it, immediately
arose, with an unaccountable, indignant, angelical, adorable, and
all-persuasive "Mr. Glendinning?" utterly confounded in him the
slightest germ of suspicion as to Lucy's collusion in her mother's
imagined artifices.

Indeed, Mrs. Tartan's having any thing whatever to do, or hint, or
finesse in this matter of the loves of Pierre and Lucy, was nothing less
than immensely gratuitous and sacrilegious. Would Mrs. Tartan doctor
lilies when they blow? Would Mrs. Tartan set about match-making between
the steel and magnet? Preposterous Mrs. Tartan! But this whole world is
a preposterous one, with many preposterous people in it; chief among
whom was Mrs. Tartan, match-maker to the nation.

This conduct of Mrs. Tartan, was the more absurd, seeing that she could
not but know that Mrs. Glendinning desired the thing. And was not Lucy
wealthy?--going to be, that is, very wealthy when her mother died;--(sad
thought that for Mrs. Tartan)--and was not her husband's family of the
best; and had not Lucy's father been a bosom friend of Pierre's father?
And though Lucy might be matched to some one man, where among women was
the match for Lucy? Exceedingly preposterous Mrs. Tartan! But when a
lady like Mrs. Tartan has nothing positive and useful to do, then she
will do just such preposterous things as Mrs. Tartan did.

Well, time went on; and Pierre loved Lucy, and Lucy, Pierre; till at
last the two young naval gentlemen, her brothers, happened to arrive in
Mrs. Tartan's drawing-room, from their first cruise--a three years' one
up the Mediterranean. They rather stared at Pierre, finding him on the
sofa, and Lucy not very remote.

"Pray, be seated, gentlemen," said Pierre. "Plenty of room."

"My darling brothers!" cried Lucy, embracing them.

"My darling brothers and sister!" cried Pierre, folding them together.

"Pray, hold off, sir," said the elder brother, who had served as a
passed midshipman for the last two weeks. The younger brother retreated
a little, and clapped his hand upon his dirk, saying, "Sir, we are from
the Mediterranean. Sir, permit me to say, this is decidedly improper!
Who may you be, sir?"

"I can't explain for joy," cried Pierre, hilariously embracing them all
again.

"Most extraordinary!" cried the elder brother, extricating his
shirt-collar from the embrace, and pulling it up vehemently.

"Draw!" cried the younger, intrepidly.

"Peace, foolish fellows," cried Lucy--"this is your old play-fellow,
Pierre Glendinning."

"Pierre? why, Pierre?" cried the lads--"a hug all round again! You've
grown a fathom!--who would have known you? But, then--Lucy? I say,
Lucy?--what business have you here in this--eh? eh?--hugging-match, I
should call it?"

"Oh! Lucy don't mean any thing," cried Pierre--"come, one more all
round."

So they all embraced again; and that evening it was publicly known that
Pierre was to wed with Lucy.

Whereupon, the young officers took it upon themselves to think--though
they by no means presumed to breathe it--that they had authoritatively,
though indirectly, accelerated a before ambiguous and highly
incommendable state of affairs between the now affianced lovers.


III.

In the fine old robust times of Pierre's grandfather, an American
gentleman of substantial person and fortune spent his time in a somewhat
different style from the green-house gentlemen of the present day. The
grandfather of Pierre measured six feet four inches in height; during a
fire in the old manorial mansion, with one dash of his foot, he had
smitten down an oaken door, to admit the buckets of his negro slaves;
Pierre had often tried on his military vest, which still remained an
heirloom at Saddle Meadows, and found the pockets below his knees, and
plenty additional room for a fair-sized quarter-cask within its buttoned
girth; in a night-scuffle in the wilderness before the Revolutionary
War, he had annihilated two Indian savages by making reciprocal
bludgeons of their heads. And all this was done by the mildest hearted,
and most blue-eyed gentleman in the world, who, according to the
patriarchal fashion of those days, was a gentle, white-haired worshiper
of all the household gods; the gentlest husband, and the gentlest
father; the kindest of masters to his slaves; of the most wonderful
unruffledness of temper; a serene smoker of his after-dinner pipe; a
forgiver of many injuries; a sweet-hearted, charitable Christian; in
fine, a pure, cheerful, child-like, blue-eyed, divine old man; in whose
meek, majestic soul, the lion and the lamb embraced--fit image of his
God.

Never could Pierre look upon his fine military portrait without an
infinite and mournful longing to meet his living aspect in actual life.
The majestic sweetness of this portrait was truly wonderful in its
effects upon any sensitive and generous-minded young observer. For such,
that portrait possessed the heavenly persuasiveness of angelic speech; a
glorious gospel framed and hung upon the wall, and declaring to all
people, as from the Mount, that man is a noble, god-like being, full of
choicest juices; made up of strength and beauty.

Now, this grand old Pierre Glendinning was a great lover of horses; but
not in the modern sense, for he was no jockey;--one of his most intimate
friends of the masculine gender was a huge, proud, gray horse, of a
surprising reserve of manner, his saddle-beast; he had his horses'
mangers carved like old trenchers, out of solid maple logs; the key of
the corn-bin hung in his library; and no one grained his steeds, but
himself; unless his absence from home promoted Moyar, an incorruptible
and most punctual old black, to that honorable office. He said that no
man loved his horses, unless his own hands grained them. Every Christmas
he gave them brimming measures. "I keep Christmas with my horses," said
grand old Pierre. This grand old Pierre always rose at sunrise; washed
his face and chest in the open air; and then, returning to his closet,
and being completely arrayed at last, stepped forth to make a
ceremonious call at his stables, to bid his very honorable friends there
a very good and joyful morning. Woe to Cranz, Kit, Douw, or any other of
his stable slaves, if grand old Pierre found one horse unblanketed, or
one weed among the hay that filled their rack. Not that he ever had
Cranz, Kit, Douw, or any of them flogged--a thing unknown in that
patriarchal time and country--but he would refuse to say his wonted
pleasant word to them; and that was very bitter to them, for Cranz, Kit,
Douw, and all of them, loved grand old Pierre, as his shepherds loved
old Abraham.

What decorous, lordly, gray-haired steed is this? What old Chaldean
rides abroad?--'Tis grand old Pierre; who, every morning before he eats,
goes out promenading with his saddle-beast; nor mounts him, without
first asking leave. But time glides on, and grand old Pierre grows old:
his life's glorious grape now swells with fatness; he has not the
conscience to saddle his majestic beast with such a mighty load of
manliness. Besides, the noble beast himself is growing old, and has a
touching look of meditativeness in his large, attentive eyes. Leg of
man, swears grand old Pierre, shall never more bestride my steed; no
more shall harness touch him! Then every spring he sowed a field with
clover for his steed; and at mid-summer sorted all his meadow grasses,
for the choicest hay to winter him; and had his destined grain thrashed
out with a flail, whose handle had once borne a flag in a brisk battle,
into which this same old steed had pranced with grand old Pierre; one
waving mane, one waving sword!

Now needs must grand old Pierre take a morning drive; he rides no more
with the old gray steed. He has a phaeton built, fit for a vast General,
in whose sash three common men might hide. Doubled, trebled are the
huge S shaped leather springs; the wheels seem stolen from some mill;
the canopied seat is like a testered bed. From beneath the old archway,
not one horse, but two, every morning now draw forth old Pierre, as the
Chinese draw their fat god Josh, once every year from out his fane.

But time glides on, and a morning comes, when the phaeton emerges not;
but all the yards and courts are full; helmets line the ways;
sword-points strike the stone steps of the porch; muskets ring upon the
stairs; and mournful martial melodies are heard in all the halls. Grand
old Pierre is dead; and like a hero of old battles, he dies on the eve
of another war; ere wheeling to fire on the foe, his platoons fire over
their old commander's grave; in A. D. 1812, died grand old Pierre. The
drum that beat in brass his funeral march, was a British kettle-drum,
that had once helped beat the vain-glorious march, for the thirty
thousand predestined prisoners, led into sure captivity by that bragging
boy, Burgoyne.

Next day the old gray steed turned from his grain; turned round, and
vainly whinnied in his stall. By gracious Moyar's hand, he refuses to be
patted now; plain as horse can speak, the old gray steed says--"I smell
not the wonted hand; where is grand old Pierre? Grain me not, and groom
me not;--Where is grand old Pierre?"

He sleeps not far from his master now; beneath the field he cropt, he
has softly lain him down; and long ere this, grand old Pierre and steed
have passed through that grass to glory.

But his phaeton--like his plumed hearse, outlives the noble load it
bore. And the dark bay steeds that drew grand old Pierre alive, and by
his testament drew him dead, and followed the lordly lead of the led
gray horse; those dark bay steeds are still extant; not in themselves or
in their issue; but in the two descendants of stallions of their own
breed. For on the lands of Saddle Meadows, man and horse are both
hereditary; and this bright morning Pierre Glendinning, grandson of
grand old Pierre, now drives forth with Lucy Tartan, seated where his
own ancestor had sat, and reining steeds, whose
great-great-great-grandfathers grand old Pierre had reined before.

How proud felt Pierre: In fancy's eye, he saw the horse-ghosts a-tandem
in the van; "These are but wheelers"--cried young Pierre--"the leaders
are the generations."


IV.

But Love has more to do with his own possible and probable posterities,
than with the once living but now impossible ancestries in the past. So
Pierre's glow of family pride quickly gave place to a deeper hue, when
Lucy bade love's banner blush out from his cheek.

That morning was the choicest drop that Time had in his vase. Ineffable
distillations of a soft delight were wafted from the fields and hills.
Fatal morning that, to all lovers unbetrothed; "Come to your
confessional," it cried. "Behold our airy loves," the birds chirped from
the trees; far out at sea, no more the sailors tied their bowline-knots;
their hands had lost their cunning; will they, nill they, Love tied
love-knots on every spangled spar.

Oh, praised be the beauty of this earth, the beauty, and the bloom, and
the mirthfulness thereof! The first worlds made were winter worlds; the
second made, were vernal worlds; the third, and last, and perfectest,
was this summer world of ours. In the cold and nether spheres, preachers
preach of earth, as we of Paradise above. Oh, there, my friends, they
say, they have a season, in their language known as summer. Then their
fields spin themselves green carpets; snow and ice are not in all the
land; then a million strange, bright, fragrant things powder that sward
with perfumes; and high, majestic beings, dumb and grand, stand up with
outstretched arms, and hold their green canopies over merry angels--men
and women--who love and wed, and sleep and dream, beneath the approving
glances of their visible god and goddess, glad-hearted sun, and pensive
moon!

Oh, praised be the beauty of this earth; the beauty, and the bloom, and
the mirthfulness thereof. We lived before, and shall live again; and as
we hope for a fairer world than this to come; so we came from one less
fine. From each successive world, the demon Principle is more and more
dislodged; he is the accursed clog from chaos, and thither, by every new
translation, we drive him further and further back again. Hosannahs to
this world! so beautiful itself, and the vestibule to more. Out of some
past Egypt, we have come to this new Canaan; and from this new Canaan,
we press on to some Circassia. Though still the villains, Want and Woe,
followed us out of Egypt, and now beg in Canaan's streets: yet
Circassia's gates shall not admit them; they, with their sire, the demon
Principle, must back to chaos, whence they came.

Love was first begot by Mirth and Peace, in Eden, when the world was
young. The man oppressed with cares, he can not love; the man of gloom
finds not the god. So, as youth, for the most part, has no cares, and
knows no gloom, therefore, ever since time did begin, youth belongs to
love. Love may end in grief and age, and pain and need, and all other
modes of human mournfulness; but love begins in joy. Love's first sigh
is never breathed, till after love hath laughed. Love laughs first, and
then sighs after. Love has not hands, but cymbals; Love's mouth is
chambered like a bugle, and the instinctive breathings of his life
breathe jubilee notes of joy!

That morning, two bay horses drew two Laughs along the road that led to
the hills from Saddle Meadows. Apt time they kept; Pierre Glendinning's
young, manly tenor, to Lucy Tartan's girlish treble.

Wondrous fair of face, blue-eyed, and golden-haired, the bright blonde,
Lucy, was arrayed in colors harmonious with the heavens. Light blue be
thy perpetual color, Lucy; light blue becomes thee best--such the
repeated azure counsel of Lucy Tartan's mother. On both sides, from the
hedges, came to Pierre the clover bloom of Saddle Meadows, and from
Lucy's mouth and cheek came the fresh fragrance of her violet young
being.

"Smell I the flowers, or thee?" cried Pierre.

"See I lakes, or eyes?" cried Lucy, her own gazing down into his soul,
as two stars gaze down into a tarn.

No Cornwall miner ever sunk so deep a shaft beneath the sea, as Love
will sink beneath the floatings of the eyes. Love sees ten million
fathoms down, till dazzled by the floor of pearls. The eye is Love's own
magic glass, where all things that are not of earth, glide in
supernatural light. There are not so many fishes in the sea, as there
are sweet images in lovers' eyes. In those miraculous translucencies
swim the strange eye-fish with wings, that sometimes leap out, instinct
with joy; moist fish-wings wet the lover's cheek. Love's eyes are holy
things; therein the mysteries of life are lodged; looking in each
other's eyes, lovers see the ultimate secret of the worlds; and with
thrills eternally untranslatable, feel that Love is god of all. Man or
woman who has never loved, nor once looked deep down into their own
lover's eyes, they know not the sweetest and the loftiest religion of
this earth. Love is both Creator's and Saviour's gospel to mankind; a
volume bound in rose-leaves, clasped with violets, and by the beaks of
humming-birds printed with peach-juice on the leaves of lilies.

Endless is the account of Love. Time and space can not contain Love's
story. All things that are sweet to see, or taste, or feel, or hear,
all these things were made by Love; and none other things were made by
Love. Love made not the Arctic zones, but Love is ever reclaiming them.
Say, are not the fierce things of this earth daily, hourly going out?
Where now are your wolves of Britain? Where in Virginia now, find you
the panther and the pard? Oh, love is busy everywhere. Everywhere Love
hath Moravian missionaries. No Propagandist like to love. The south wind
wooes the barbarous north; on many a distant shore the gentler west wind
persuades the arid east.

All this Earth is Love's affianced; vainly the demon Principle howls to
stay the banns. Why round her middle wears this world so rich a zone of
torrid verdure, if she be not dressing for the final rites? And why
provides she orange blossoms and lilies of the valley, if she would not
that all men and maids should love and marry? For every wedding where
true lovers wed, helps on the march of universal Love. Who are brides
here shall be Love's bridemaids in the marriage world to come. So on all
sides Love allures; can contain himself what youth who views the wonders
of the beauteous woman-world? Where a beautiful woman is, there is all
Asia and her Bazars. Italy hath not a sight before the beauty of a
Yankee girl; nor heaven a blessing beyond her earthly love. Did not the
angelical Lotharios come down to earth, that they might taste of mortal
woman's Love and Beauty? even while her own silly brothers were pining
after the self-same Paradise they left? Yes, those envying angels did
come down; did emigrate; and who emigrates except to be better off?

Love is this world's great redeemer and reformer; and as all beautiful
women are her selectest emissaries, so hath Love gifted them with a
magnetical persuasiveness, that no youth can possibly repel. The own
heart's choice of every youth, seems ever as an inscrutable witch to
him; and by ten thousand concentric spells and circling incantations,
glides round and round him, as he turns: murmuring meanings of
unearthly import; and summoning up to him all the subterranean sprites
and gnomes; and unpeopling all the sea for naiads to swim round him; so
that mysteries are evoked as in exhalations by this Love;--what wonder
then that Love was aye a mystic?


V.

And this self-same morning Pierre was very mystical; not continually,
though; but most mystical one moment, and overflowing with mad,
unbridled merriment, the next. He seemed a youthful Magian, and almost a
mountebank together. Chaldaic improvisations burst from him, in quick
Golden Verses, on the heel of humorous retort and repartee. More
especially, the bright glance of Lucy was transporting to him. Now,
reckless of his horses, with both arms holding Lucy in his embrace, like
a Sicilian diver he dives deep down in the Adriatic of her eyes, and
brings up some king's-cup of joy. All the waves in Lucy's eyes seemed
waves of infinite glee to him. And as if, like veritable seas, they did
indeed catch the reflected irradiations of that pellucid azure morning;
in Lucy's eyes, there seemed to shine all the blue glory of the general
day, and all the sweet inscrutableness of the sky. And certainly, the
blue eye of woman, like the sea, is not uninfluenced by the atmosphere.
Only in the open air of some divinest, summer day, will you see its
ultramarine,--its fluid lapis lazuli. Then would Pierre burst forth in
some screaming shout of joy; and the striped tigers of his chestnut eyes
leaped in their lashed cages with a fierce delight. Lucy shrank from him
in extreme love; for the extremest top of love, is Fear and Wonder.

Soon the swift horses drew this fair god and goddess nigh the wooded
hills, whose distant blue, now changed into a variously-shaded green,
stood before them like old Babylonian walls, overgrown with verdure;
while here and there, at regular intervals, the scattered peaks seemed
mural towers; and the clumped pines surmounting them, as lofty archers,
and vast, out-looking watchers of the glorious Babylonian City of the
Day. Catching that hilly air, the prancing horses neighed; laughed on
the ground with gleeful feet. Felt they the gay delightsome spurrings of
the day; for the day was mad with excessive joy; and high in heaven you
heard the neighing of the horses of the sun; and down dropt their
nostrils' froth in many a fleecy vapor from the hills.

From the plains, the mists rose slowly; reluctant yet to quit so fair a
mead. At those green slopings, Pierre reined in his steeds, and soon the
twain were seated on the bank, gazing far, and far away; over many a
grove and lake; corn-crested uplands, and Herd's-grass lowlands; and
long-stretching swales of vividest green, betokening where the greenest
bounty of this earth seeks its winding channels; as ever, the most
heavenly bounteousness most seeks the lowly places; making green and
glad many a humble mortal's breast, and leaving to his own lonely
aridness, many a hill-top prince's state.

But Grief, not Joy, is a moralizer; and small moralizing wisdom caught
Pierre from that scene. With Lucy's hand in his, and feeling, softly
feeling of its soft tinglingness; he seemed as one placed in linked
correspondence with the summer lightnings; and by sweet shock on shock,
receiving intimating fore-tastes of the etherealest delights of earth.

Now, prone on the grass he falls, with his attentive upward glance fixed
on Lucy's eyes. "Thou art my heaven, Lucy; and here I lie thy
shepherd-king, watching for new eye-stars to rise in thee. Ha! I see
Venus' transit now;--lo! a new planet there;--and behind all, an
infinite starry nebulousness, as if thy being were backgrounded by some
spangled vail of mystery."

Is Lucy deaf to all these ravings of his lyric love? Why looks she down,
and vibrates so; and why now from her over-charged lids, drops such warm
drops as these? No joy now in Lucy's eyes, and seeming tremor on her
lips.

"Ah! thou too ardent and impetuous Pierre!"

"Nay, thou too moist and changeful April! know'st thou not, that the
moist and changeful April is followed by the glad, assured, and
showerless joy of June? And this, Lucy, this day should be thy June,
even as it is the earth's?"

"Ah Pierre! not June to me. But say, are not the sweets of June made
sweet by the April tears?"

"Ay, love! but here fall more drops,--more and more;--these showers are
longer than beseem the April, and pertain not to the June."

"June! June!--thou bride's month of the summer,--following the spring's
sweet courtship of the earth,--my June, my June is yet to come!"

"Oh! yet to come, but fixedly decreed;--good as come, and better."

"Then no flower that, in the bud, the April showers have nurtured; no
such flower may untimely perish, ere the June unfolds it? Ye will not
swear that, Pierre?"

"The audacious immortalities of divinest love are in me; and I now swear
to thee all the immutable eternities of joyfulness, that ever woman
dreamed of, in this dream-house of the earth. A god decrees to thee
unchangeable felicity; and to me, the unchallenged possession of thee
and them, for my inalienable fief.--Do I rave? Look on me, Lucy; think
on me, girl."

"Thou art young, and beautiful, and strong; and a joyful manliness
invests thee, Pierre; and thy intrepid heart never yet felt the touch of
fear;--But--"

"But what?"

"Ah, my best Pierre!"

"With kisses I will suck thy secret from thy cheek!--but what?"

"Let us hie homeward, Pierre. Some nameless sadness, faintness,
strangely comes to me. Foretaste I feel of endless dreariness. Tell me
once more the story of that face, Pierre,--that mysterious, haunting
face, which thou once told'st me, thou didst thrice vainly try to shun.
Blue is the sky, oh, bland the air, Pierre;--but--tell me the story of
the face,--the dark-eyed, lustrous, imploring, mournful face, that so
mystically paled, and shrunk at thine. Ah, Pierre, sometimes I have
thought,--never will I wed with my best Pierre, until the riddle of that
face be known. Tell me, tell me, Pierre;--as a fixed basilisk, with eyes
of steady, flaming mournfulness, that face this instant fastens me."

"Bewitched! bewitched!--Cursed be the hour I acted on the thought, that
Love hath no reserves. Never should I have told thee the story of that
face, Lucy. I have bared myself too much to thee. Oh, never should Love
know all!"

"Knows not all, then loves not all, Pierre. Never shalt thou so say
again;--and Pierre, listen to me. Now,--now, in this inexplicable
trepidation that I feel, I do conjure thee, that thou wilt ever continue
to do as thou hast done; so that I may ever continue to know all that
agitatest thee, the airiest and most transient thought, that ever shall
sweep into thee from the wide atmosphere of all things that hem
mortality. Did I doubt thee here;--could I ever think, that thy heart
hath yet one private nook or corner from me;--fatal disenchanting day
for me, my Pierre, would that be. I tell thee, Pierre--and 'tis Love's
own self that now speaks through me--only in unbounded confidence and
interchangings of all subtlest secrets, can Love possibly endure. Love's
self is a secret, and so feeds on secrets, Pierre. Did I only know of
thee, what the whole common world may know--what then were Pierre to
me?--Thou must be wholly a disclosed secret to me; Love is vain and
proud; and when I walk the streets, and meet thy friends, I must still
be laughing and hugging to myself the thought,--They know him not;--I
only know my Pierre;--none else beneath the circuit of yon sun. Then,
swear to me, dear Pierre, that thou wilt never keep a secret from
me--no, never, never;--swear!"

"Something seizes me. Thy inexplicable tears, falling, falling on my
heart, have now turned it to a stone. I feel icy cold and hard; I will
not swear!"

"Pierre! Pierre!"

"God help thee, and God help me, Lucy. I can not think, that in this
most mild and dulcet air, the invisible agencies are plotting treasons
against our loves. Oh! if ye be now nigh us, ye things I have no name
for; then by a name that should be efficacious--by Christ's holy name, I
warn ye back from her and me. Touch her not, ye airy devils; hence to
your appointed hell! why come ye prowling in these heavenly perlieus?
Can not the chains of Love omnipotent bind ye, fiends?"

"Is this Pierre? His eyes glare fearfully; now I see layer on layer
deeper in him; he turns round and menaces the air and talks to it, as if
defied by the air. Woe is me, that fairy love should raise this evil
spell!--Pierre?"

"But now I was infinite distances from thee, oh my Lucy, wandering
baffled in the choking night; but thy voice might find me, though I had
wandered to the Boreal realm, Lucy. Here I sit down by thee; I catch a
soothing from thee."

"My own, own Pierre! Pierre, into ten trillion pieces I could now be
torn for thee; in my bosom would yet hide thee, and there keep thee
warm, though I sat down on Arctic ice-floes, frozen to a corpse. My own,
best, blessed Pierre! Now, could I plant some poniard in me, that my
silly ailings should have power to move thee thus, and pain thee thus.
Forgive me, Pierre; thy changed face hath chased the other from me; the
fright of thee exceeds all other frights. It does not so haunt me now.
Press hard my hand; look hard on me, my love, that its last trace may
pass away. Now I feel almost whole again; now, 'tis gone. Up, my Pierre;
let us up, and fly these hills, whence, I fear, too wide a prospect
meets us. Fly we to the plain. See, thy steeds neigh for thee--they call
thee--see, the clouds fly down toward the plain--lo, these hills now
seem all desolate to me, and the vale all verdure. Thank thee,
Pierre.--See, now, I quit the hills, dry-cheeked; and leave all tears
behind to be sucked in by these evergreens, meet emblems of the
unchanging love, my own sadness nourishes in me. Hard fate, that Love's
best verdure should feed so on tears!"

Now they rolled swiftly down the slopes; nor tempted the upper hills;
but sped fast for the plain. Now the cloud hath passed from Lucy's eye;
no more the lurid slanting light forks upward from her lover's brow. In
the plain they find peace, and love, and joy again.

"It was the merest, idling, wanton vapor, Lucy!"

"An empty echo, Pierre, of a sad sound, long past. Bless thee, my
Pierre!"

"The great God wrap thee ever, Lucy. So, now, we are home."


VI.

After seeing Lucy into her aunt's most cheerful parlor, and seating her
by the honeysuckle that half clambered into the window there; and near
to which was her easel for crayon-sketching, upon part of whose frame
Lucy had cunningly trained two slender vines, into whose earth-filled
pots two of the three legs of the easel were inserted; and sitting down
himself by her, and by his pleasant, lightsome chat, striving to chase
the last trace of sadness from her; and not till his object seemed fully
gained; Pierre rose to call her good aunt to her, and so take his leave
till evening, when Lucy called him back, begging him first to bring her
the blue portfolio from her chamber, for she wished to kill her last
lingering melancholy--if any indeed did linger now--by diverting her
thoughts, in a little pencil sketch, to scenes widely different from
those of Saddle Meadows and its hills.

So Pierre went up stairs, but paused on the threshold of the open door.
He never had entered that chamber but with feelings of a wonderful
reverentialness. The carpet seemed as holy ground. Every chair seemed
sanctified by some departed saint, there once seated long ago. Here his
book of Love was all a rubric, and said--Bow now, Pierre, bow. But this
extreme loyalty to the piety of love, called from him by such glimpses
of its most secret inner shrine, was not unrelieved betimes by such
quickenings of all his pulses, that in fantasy he pressed the wide
beauty of the world in his embracing arms; for all his world resolved
itself into his heart's best love for Lucy.

Now, crossing the magic silence of the empty chamber, he caught the
snow-white bed reflected in the toilet-glass. This rooted him. For one
swift instant, he seemed to see in that one glance the two separate
beds--the real one and the reflected one--and an unbidden, most
miserable presentiment thereupon stole into him. But in one breath it
came and went. So he advanced, and with a fond and gentle joyfulness,
his eye now fell upon the spotless bed itself, and fastened on a
snow-white roll that lay beside the pillow. Now he started; Lucy seemed
coming in upon him; but no--'tis only the foot of one of her little
slippers, just peeping into view from under the narrow nether curtains
of the bed. Then again his glance fixed itself upon the slender,
snow-white, ruffled roll; and he stood as one enchanted. Never precious
parchment of the Greek was half so precious in his eyes. Never
trembling scholar longed more to unroll the mystic vellum, than Pierre
longed to unroll the sacred secrets of that snow-white, ruffled thing.
But his hands touched not any object in that chamber, except the one he
had gone thither for.

"Here is the blue portfolio, Lucy. See, the key hangs to its silver
lock;--were you not fearful I would open it?--'twas tempting, I must
confess."

"Open it!" said Lucy--"why, yes, Pierre, yes; what secret thing keep I
from thee? Read me through and through. I am entirely thine. See!" and
tossing open the portfolio, all manner of rosy things came floating from
it, and a most delicate perfume of some invisible essence.

"Ah! thou holy angel, Lucy!"

"Why, Pierre, thou art transfigured; thou now lookest as one who--why,
Pierre?"

"As one who had just peeped in at paradise, Lucy; and----"

"Again wandering in thy mind, Pierre; no more--Come, you must leave me,
now. I am quite rested again. Quick, call my aunt, and leave me. Stay,
this evening we are to look over the book of plates from the city, you
know. Be early;--go now, Pierre."

"Well, good-bye, till evening, thou height of all delight."


VII.

As Pierre drove through the silent village, beneath the vertical shadows
of the noon-day trees, the sweet chamber scene abandoned him, and the
mystical face recurred to him, and kept with him. At last, arrived at
home, he found his mother absent; so passing straight through the wide
middle hall of the mansion, he descended the piazza on the other ride,
and wandered away in reveries down to the river bank.

Here one primeval pine-tree had been luckily left standing by the
otherwise unsparing woodmen, who long ago had cleared that meadow. It
was once crossing to this noble pine, from a clump of hemlocks far
across the river, that Pierre had first noticed the significant fact,
that while the hemlock and the pine are trees of equal growth and
stature, and are so similar in their general aspect, that people unused
to woods sometimes confound them; and while both trees are proverbially
trees of sadness, yet the dark hemlock hath no music in its thoughtful
boughs; but the gentle pine-tree drops melodious mournfulness.

At its half-bared roots of sadness, Pierre sat down, and marked the
mighty bulk and far out-reaching length of one particular root, which,
straying down the bank, the storms and rains had years ago exposed.

"How wide, how strong these roots must spread! Sure, this pine-tree
takes powerful hold of this fair earth! Yon bright flower hath not so
deep a root. This tree hath outlived a century of that gay flower's
generations, and will outlive a century of them yet to come. This is
most sad. Hark, now I hear the pyramidical and numberless, flame-like
complainings of this Eolean pine;--the wind breathes now upon it:--the
wind,--that is God's breath! Is He so sad? Oh, tree! so mighty thou, so
lofty, yet so mournful! This is most strange! Hark! as I look up into
thy high secrecies, oh, tree, the face, the face, peeps down on
me!--'Art thou Pierre? Come to me'--oh, thou mysterious girl,--what an
ill-matched pendant thou, to that other countenance of sweet Lucy, which
also hangs, and first did hang within my heart! Is grief a pendant then
to pleasantness? Is grief a self-willed guest that _will_ come in? Yet I
have never known thee, Grief;--thou art a legend to me. I have known
some fiery broils of glorious frenzy; I have oft tasted of revery;
whence comes pensiveness; whence comes sadness; whence all delicious
poetic presentiments;--but thou, Grief! art still a ghost-story to me. I
know thee not,--do half disbelieve in thee. Not that I would be without
my too little cherished fits of sadness now and then; but God keep me
from thee, thou other shape of far profounder gloom! I shudder at thee!
The face!--the face!--forth again from thy high secrecies, oh, tree! the
face steals down upon me. Mysterious girl! who art thou? by what right
snatchest thou thus my deepest thoughts? Take thy thin fingers from
me;--I am affianced, and not to thee. Leave me!--what share hast thou in
me? Surely, thou lovest not me?--that were most miserable for thee, and
me, and Lucy. It can not be. What, _who_ art thou? Oh! wretched
vagueness--too familiar to me, yet inexplicable,--unknown, utterly
unknown! I seem to founder in this perplexity. Thou seemest to know
somewhat of me, that I know not of myself,--what is it then? If thou
hast a secret in thy eyes of mournful mystery, out with it; Pierre
demands it; what is that thou hast veiled in thee so imperfectly, that I
seem to see its motion, but not its form? It visibly rustles behind the
concealing screen. Now, never into the soul of Pierre, stole there
before, a muffledness like this! If aught really lurks in it, ye
sovereign powers that claim all my leal worshipings, I conjure ye to
lift the veil; I must see it face to face. Tread I on a mine, warn me;
advance I on a precipice, hold me back; but abandon me to an unknown
misery, that it shall suddenly seize me, and possess me, wholly,--that
ye will never do; else, Pierre's fond faith in ye--now clean,
untouched--may clean depart; and give me up to be a railing atheist! Ah,
now the face departs. Pray heaven it hath not only stolen back, and
hidden again in thy high secrecies, oh tree! But 'tis
gone--gone--entirely gone; and I thank God, and I feel joy again; joy,
which I also feel to be my right as man; deprived of joy, I feel I
should find cause for deadly feuds with things invisible. Ha! a coat of
iron-mail seems to grow round, and husk me now; and I have heard, that
the bitterest winters are foretold by a thicker husk upon the Indian
corn; so our old farmers say. But 'tis a dark similitude. Quit thy
analogies; sweet in the orator's mouth, bitter in the thinker's belly.
Now, then, I'll up with my own joyful will; and with my joy's face scare
away all phantoms:--so, they go; and Pierre is Joy's, and Life's again.
Thou pine-tree!--henceforth I will resist thy too treacherous
persuasiveness. Thou'lt not so often woo me to thy airy tent, to ponder
on the gloomy rooted stakes that bind it. Hence now I go; and peace be
with thee, pine! That blessed sereneness which lurks ever at the heart
of sadness--mere sadness--and remains when all the rest has gone;--that
sweet feeling is now mine, and cheaply mine. I am not sorry I was sad, I
feel so blessed now. Dearest Lucy!--well, well;--'twill be a pretty time
we'll have this evening; there's the book of Flemish prints--that first
we must look over; then, second, is Flaxman's Homer--clear-cut outlines,
yet full of unadorned barbaric nobleness. Then Flaxman's Dante;--Dante!
Night's and Hell's poet he. No, we will not open Dante. Methinks now the
face--the face--minds me a little of pensive, sweet Francesca's
face--or, rather, as it had been Francesca's daughter's face--wafted on
the sad dark wind, toward observant Virgil and the blistered Florentine.
No, we will not open Flaxman's Dante. Francesca's mournful face is now
ideal to me. Flaxman might evoke it wholly,--make it present in lines of
misery--bewitching power. No! I will not open Flaxman's Dante! Damned be
the hour I read in Dante! more damned than that wherein Paolo and
Francesca read in fatal Launcelot!"




BOOK III.

THE PRESENTIMENT AND THE VERIFICATION.


I.

The face, of which Pierre and Lucy so strangely and fearfully hinted,
was not of enchanted air; but its mortal lineaments of mournfulness had
been visibly beheld by Pierre. Nor had it accosted him in any privacy;
or in any lonely byeway; or beneath the white light of the crescent
moon; but in a joyous chamber, bright with candles, and ringing with two
score women's gayest voices. Out of the heart of mirthfulness, this
shadow had come forth to him. Encircled by bandelets of light, it had
still beamed upon him; vaguely historic and prophetic; backward, hinting
of some irrevocable sin; forward, pointing to some inevitable ill. One
of those faces, which now and then appear to man, and without one word
of speech, still reveal glimpses of some fearful gospel. In natural
guise, but lit by supernatural light; palpable to the senses, but
inscrutable to the soul; in their perfectest impression on us, ever
hovering between Tartarean misery and Paradisaic beauty; such faces,
compounded so of hell and heaven, overthrow in us all foregone
persuasions, and make us wondering children in this world again.

The face had accosted Pierre some weeks previous to his ride with Lucy
to the hills beyond Saddle Meadows; and before her arrival for the
summer at the village; moreover it had accosted him in a very common
and homely scene; but this enhanced the wonder.

On some distant business, with a farmer-tenant, he had been absent from
the mansion during the best part of the day, and had but just come home,
early of a pleasant moonlight evening, when Dates delivered a message to
him from his mother, begging him to come for her about half-past seven
that night to Miss Llanyllyn's cottage, in order to accompany her thence
to that of the two Miss Pennies. At the mention of that last name,
Pierre well knew what he must anticipate. Those elderly and truly pious
spinsters, gifted with the most benevolent hearts in the world, and at
mid-age deprived by envious nature of their hearing, seemed to have made
it a maxim of their charitable lives, that since God had not given them
any more the power to hear Christ's gospel preached, they would
therefore thenceforth do what they could toward practicing it.
Wherefore, as a matter of no possible interest to them now, they
abstained from church; and while with prayer-books in their hands the
Rev. Mr. Falsgrave's congregation were engaged in worshiping their God,
according to the divine behest; the two Miss Pennies, with thread and
needle, were hard at work in serving him; making up shirts and gowns for
the poor people of the parish. Pierre had heard that they had recently
been at the trouble of organizing a regular society, among the
neighboring farmers' wives and daughters, to meet twice a month at their
own house (the Miss Pennies) for the purpose of sewing in concert for
the benefit of various settlements of necessitous emigrants, who had
lately pitched their populous shanties further up the river. But though
this enterprise had not been started without previously acquainting Mrs.
Glendinning of it,--for indeed she was much loved and honored by the
pious spinsters,--and their promise of solid assistance from that
gracious manorial lady; yet Pierre had not heard that his mother had
been officially invited to preside, or be at all present at the
semi-monthly meetings; though he supposed, that far from having any
scruples against so doing, she would be very glad to associate that way,
with the good people of the village.

"Now, brother Pierre"--said Mrs. Glendinning, rising from Miss
Llanyllyn's huge cushioned chair--"throw my shawl around me; and
good-evening to Lucy's aunt.--There, we shall be late."

As they walked along, she added--"Now, Pierre, I know you are apt to be
a little impatient sometimes, of these sewing scenes; but courage; I
merely want to peep in on them; so as to get some inkling of what they
would indeed be at; and then my promised benefactions can be better
selected by me. Besides, Pierre, I could have had Dates escort me, but I
preferred you; because I want you to know who they are you live among;
how many really pretty, and naturally-refined dames and girls you shall
one day be lord of the manor of. I anticipate a rare display of rural
red and white."

Cheered by such pleasant promises, Pierre soon found himself leading his
mother into a room full of faces. The instant they appeared, a
gratuitous old body, seated with her knitting near the door, squeaked
out shrilly--"Ah! dames, dames,--Madam Glendinning!--Master Pierre
Glendinning!"

Almost immediately following this sound, there came a sudden,
long-drawn, unearthly, girlish shriek, from the further corner of the
long, double room. Never had human voice so affected Pierre before.
Though he saw not the person from whom it came, and though the voice was
wholly strange to him, yet the sudden shriek seemed to split its way
clean through his heart, and leave a yawning gap there. For an instant,
he stood bewildered; but started at his mother's voice; her arm being
still in his. "Why do you clutch my arm so, Pierre? You pain me. Pshaw!
some one has fainted,--nothing more."

Instantly Pierre recovered himself, and affecting to mock at his own
trepidation, hurried across the room to offer his services, if such
were needed. But dames and maidens had been all beforehand with him; the
lights were wildly flickering in the air-current made by the flinging
open of the casement, near to where the shriek had come. But the climax
of the tumult was soon past; and presently, upon closing the casement,
it subsided almost wholly. The elder of the spinster Pennies, advancing
to Mrs. Glendinning, now gave her to understand, that one of the further
crowd of industrious girls present, had been attacked by a sudden, but
fleeting fit, vaguely imputable to some constitutional disorder or
other. She was now quite well again. And so the company, one and all,
seemingly acting upon their natural good-breeding, which in any one at
bottom, is but delicacy and charity, refrained from all further
curiosity; reminded not the girl of what had passed; noted her scarce at
all; and all needles stitched away as before.

Leaving his mother to speak with whom she pleased, and attend alone to
her own affairs with the society; Pierre, oblivious now in such a lively
crowd, of any past unpleasantness, after some courtly words to the Miss
Pennies,--insinuated into their understandings through a long coiled
trumpet, which, when not in use, the spinsters wore, hanging like a
powder-horn from their girdles:--and likewise, after manifesting the
profoundest and most intelligent interest in the mystic mechanism of a
huge woolen sock, in course of completion by a spectacled old lady of
his more particular acquaintance; after all this had been gone through,
and something more too tedious to detail, but which occupied him for
nearly half an hour, Pierre, with a slightly blushing, and imperfectly
balanced assurance, advanced toward the further crowd of maidens; where,
by the light of many a well-snuffed candle, they clubbed all their
bright contrasting cheeks, like a dense bed of garden tulips. There were
the shy and pretty Maries, Marthas, Susans, Betties, Jennies, Nellies;
and forty more fair nymphs, who skimmed the cream, and made the butter
of the fat farms of Saddle Meadows.

Assurance is in presence of the assured. Where embarrassments prevail,
they affect the most disembarrassed. What wonder, then, that gazing on
such a thick array of wreathing, roguish, half-averted, blushing
faces--still audacious in their very embarrassment--Pierre, too, should
flush a bit, and stammer in his attitudes a little? Youthful love and
graciousness were in his heart; kindest words upon his tongue; but there
he stood, target for the transfixing glances of those ambushed archers
of the eye.

But his abashments last too long; his cheek hath changed from blush to
pallor; what strange thing does Pierre Glendinning see? Behind the first
close, busy breast-work of young girls, are several very little stands,
or circular tables, where sit small groups of twos and threes, sewing in
small comparative solitudes, as it were. They would seem to be the less
notable of the rural company; or else, for some cause, they have
voluntarily retired into their humble banishment. Upon one of these
persons engaged at the furthermost and least conspicuous of these little
stands, and close by a casement, Pierre's glance is palely fixed.

The girl sits steadily sewing; neither she nor her two companions speak.
Her eyes are mostly upon her work; but now and then a very close
observer would notice that she furtively lifts them, and moves them
sideways and timidly toward Pierre; and then, still more furtively and
timidly toward his lady mother, further off. All the while, her
preternatural calmness sometimes seems only made to cover the intensest
struggle in her bosom. Her unadorned and modest dress is black; fitting
close up to her neck, and clasping it with a plain, velvet border. To a
nice perception, that velvet shows elastically; contracting and
expanding, as though some choked, violent thing were risen up there
within from the teeming region of her heart. But her dark, olive cheek
is without a blush, or sign of any disquietude. So far as this girl lies
upon the common surface, ineffable composure steeps her. But still, she
sideways steals the furtive, timid glance. Anon, as yielding to the
irresistible climax of her concealed emotion, whatever that may be, she
lifts her whole marvelous countenance into the radiant candlelight, and
for one swift instant, that face of supernaturalness unreservedly meets
Pierre's. Now, wonderful loveliness, and a still more wonderful
loneliness, have with inexplicable implorings, looked up to him from
that henceforth immemorial face. There, too, he seemed to see the fair
ground where Anguish had contended with Beauty, and neither being
conqueror, both had laid down on the field.

Recovering at length from his all too obvious emotion, Pierre turned
away still farther, to regain the conscious possession of himself. A
wild, bewildering, and incomprehensible curiosity had seized him, to
know something definite of that face. To this curiosity, at the moment,
he entirely surrendered himself; unable as he was to combat it, or
reason with it in the slightest way. So soon as he felt his outward
composure returned to him, he purposed to chat his way behind the
breastwork of bright eyes and cheeks, and on some parlor pretense or
other, hear, if possible, an audible syllable from one whose mere silent
aspect had so potentially moved him. But at length, as with this object
in mind, he was crossing the room again, he heard his mother's voice,
gayly calling him away; and turning, saw her shawled and bonneted. He
could now make no plausible stay, and smothering the agitation in him,
he bowed a general and hurried adieu to the company, and went forth with
his mother.

They had gone some way homeward, in perfect silence, when his mother
spoke.

"Well, Pierre, what can it possibly be!"

"My God, mother, did you see her then!"

"My son!" cried Mrs. Glendinning, instantly stopping in terror, and
withdrawing her arm from Pierre, "what--what under heaven ails you? This
is most strange! I but playfully asked, what you were so steadfastly
thinking of; and here you answer me by the strangest question, in a
voice that seems to come from under your great-grandfather's tomb! What,
in heaven's name, does this mean, Pierre? Why were you so silent, and
why now are you so ill-timed in speaking! Answer me;--explain all
this;--_she_--_she_--what _she_ should you be thinking of but Lucy
Tartan?--Pierre, beware, beware! I had thought you firmer in your lady's
faith, than such strange behavior as this would seem to hint. Answer me,
Pierre, what may this mean? Come, I hate a mystery; speak, my son."

Fortunately, this prolonged verbalized wonder in his mother afforded
Pierre time to rally from his double and aggravated astonishment,
brought about by first suspecting that his mother also had been struck
by the strange aspect of the face, and then, having that suspicion so
violently beaten back upon him, by her apparently unaffected alarm at
finding him in some region of thought wholly unshared by herself at the
time.

"It is nothing--nothing, sister Mary; just nothing at all in the world.
I believe I was dreaming--sleep-walking, or something of that sort. They
were vastly pretty girls there this evening, sister Mary, were they not?
Come, let us walk on--do, sister mine."

"Pierre, Pierre!--but I will take your arm again;--and have you really
nothing more to say? were you really wandering, Pierre?"

"I swear to you, my dearest mother, that never before in my whole
existence, have I so completely gone wandering in my soul, as at that
very moment. But it is all over now." Then in a less earnest and
somewhat playful tone, he added: "And sister mine, if you know aught of
the physical and sanitary authors, you must be aware, that the only
treatment for such a case of harmless temporary aberration, is for all
persons to ignore it in the subject. So no more of this foolishness.
Talking about it only makes me feel very unpleasantly silly, and there
is no knowing that it may not bring it back upon me."

"Then by all means, my dear boy, not another word about it. But it's
passing strange--very, very strange indeed. Well, about that morning
business; how fared you? Tell me about it."


II.

So Pierre, gladly plunging into this welcome current of talk, was
enabled to attend his mother home without furnishing further cause for
her concern or wonderment. But not by any means so readily could he
allay his own concern and wonderment. Too really true in itself, however
evasive in its effect at the time, was that earnest answer to his
mother, declaring that never in his whole existence had he been so
profoundly stirred. The face haunted him as some imploring, and
beauteous, impassioned, ideal Madonna's haunts the morbidly longing and
enthusiastic, but ever-baffled artist. And ever, as the mystic face thus
rose before his fancy's sight, another sense was touched in him; the
long-drawn, unearthly, girlish shriek pealed through and through his
soul; for now he knew the shriek came from the face--such Delphic shriek
could only come from such a source. And wherefore that shriek? thought
Pierre. Bodes it ill to the face, or me, or both? How am I changed, that
my appearance on any scene should have power to work such woe? But it
was mostly the face--the face, that wrought upon him. The shriek seemed
as incidentally embodied there.

The emotions he experienced seemed to have taken hold of the deepest
roots and subtlest fibres of his being. And so much the more that it was
so subterranean in him, so much the more did he feel its weird
inscrutableness. What was one unknown, sad-eyed, shrieking girl to him?
There must be sad-eyed girls somewhere in the world, and this was only
one of them. And what was the most beautiful sad-eyed girl to him?
Sadness might be beautiful, as well as mirth--he lost himself trying to
follow out this tangle. "I will no more of this infatuation," he would
cry; but forth from regions of irradiated air, the divine beauty and
imploring sufferings of the face, stole into his view.

Hitherto I have ever held but lightly, thought Pierre, all stories of
ghostly mysticalness in man; my creed of this world leads me to believe
in visible, beautiful flesh, and audible breath, however sweet and
scented; but only in visible flesh, and audible breath, have I hitherto
believed. But now!--now!--and again he would lose himself in the most
surprising and preternatural ponderings, which baffled all the
introspective cunning of his mind. Himself was too much for himself. He
felt that what he had always before considered the solid land of
veritable reality, was now being audaciously encroached upon by bannered
armies of hooded phantoms, disembarking in his soul, as from flotillas
of specter-boats.

The terrors of the face were not those of Gorgon; not by repelling
hideousness did it smite him so; but bewilderingly allured him, by its
nameless beauty, and its long-suffering, hopeless anguish.

But he was sensible that this general effect upon him, was also special;
the face somehow mystically appealing to his own private and individual
affections; and by a silent and tyrannic call, challenging him in his
deepest moral being, and summoning Truth, Love, Pity, Conscience, to the
stand. Apex of all wonders! thought Pierre; this indeed almost unmans me
with its wonderfulness. Escape the face he could not. Muffling his own
in his bed-clothes--that did not hide it. Flying from it by sunlight
down the meadows, was as vain.

Most miraculous of all to Pierre was the vague impression, that
somewhere he had seen traits of the likeness of that face before. But
where, he could not say; nor could he, in the remotest degree, imagine.
He was not unaware--for in one or two instances, he had experienced the
fact--that sometimes a man may see a passing countenance in the street,
which shall irresistibly and magnetically affect him, for a moment, as
wholly unknown to him, and yet strangely reminiscent of some vague face
he has previously encountered, in some fancied time, too, of extreme
interest to his life. But not so was it now with Pierre. The face had
not perplexed him for a few speculative minutes, and then glided from
him, to return no more. It stayed close by him; only--and not
invariably--could he repel it, by the exertion of all his resolution and
self-will. Besides, what of general enchantment lurked in his strange
sensations, seemed concentringly condensed, and pointed to a spear-head,
that pierced his heart with an inexplicable pang, whenever the
specializing emotion--to call it so--seized the possession of his
thoughts, and waved into his visions, a thousand forms of by-gone times,
and many an old legendary family scene, which he had heard related by
his elderly relations, some of them now dead.

Disguising his wild reveries as best he might from the notice of his
mother, and all other persons of her household, for two days Pierre
wrestled with his own haunted spirit; and at last, so effectually purged
it of all weirdnesses, and so effectually regained the general mastery
of himself, that for a time, life went with him, as though he had never
been stirred so strangely. Once more, the sweet unconditional thought of
Lucy slid wholly into his soul, dislodging thence all such phantom
occupants. Once more he rode, he walked, he swam, he vaulted; and with
new zest threw himself into the glowing practice of all those manly
exercises, he so dearly loved. It almost seemed in him, that ere
promising forever to protect, as well as eternally to love, his Lucy, he
must first completely invigorate and embrawn himself into the possession
of such a noble muscular manliness, that he might champion Lucy against
the whole physical world.

Still--even before the occasional reappearance of the face to
him--Pierre, for all his willful ardor in his gymnasticals and other
diversions, whether in-doors or out, or whether by book or foil; still,
Pierre could not but be secretly annoyed, and not a little perplexed, as
to the motive, which, for the first time in his recollection, had
impelled him, not merely to conceal from his mother a singular
circumstance in his life (for that, he felt would have been but venial;
and besides, as will eventually be seen, he could find one particular
precedent for it, in his past experience) but likewise, and
superaddedly, to parry, nay, to evade, and, in effect, to return
something alarmingly like a fib, to an explicit question put to him by
his mother;--such being the guise, in which part of the conversation
they had had that eventful night, now appeared to his fastidious sense.
He considered also, that his evasive answer had not pantheistically
burst from him in a momentary interregnum of self-command. No; his
mother had made quite a lengthy speech to him; during which he well
remembered, he had been carefully, though with trepidation, turning over
in his mind, how best he might recall her from her unwished-for and
untimely scent. Why had this been so? Was this his wont? What
inscrutable thing was it, that so suddenly had seized him, and made him
a falsifyer--ay, a falsifyer and nothing less--to his own
dearly-beloved, and confiding mother? Here, indeed, was something
strange for him; here was stuff for his utmost ethical meditations. But,
nevertheless, on strict introspection, he felt, that he would not
willingly have it otherwise; not willingly would he now undissemble
himself in this matter to his mother. Why was this, too? Was this his
wont? Here, again, was food for mysticism. Here, in imperfect inklings,
tinglings, presentiments, Pierre began to feel--what all mature men, who
are Magians, sooner or later know, and more or less assuredly--that not
always in our actions, are we our own factors. But this conceit was very
dim in Pierre; and dimness is ever suspicious and repugnant to us; and
so, Pierre shrank abhorringly from the infernal catacombs of thought,
down into which, this foetal fancy beckoned him. Only this, though in
secret, did he cherish; only this, he felt persuaded of; namely, that
not for both worlds would he have his mother made a partner to his
sometime mystic mood.

But with this nameless fascination of the face upon him, during those
two days that it had first and fully possessed him for its own, did
perplexed Pierre refrain from that apparently most natural of all
resources,--boldly seeking out, and returning to the palpable cause, and
questioning her, by look or voice, or both together--the mysterious girl
herself? No; not entirely did Pierre here refrain. But his profound
curiosity and interest in the matter--strange as it may seem--did not so
much appear to be embodied in the mournful person of the olive girl, as
by some radiations from her, embodied in the vague conceits which
agitated his own soul. _There_, lurked the subtler secret: _that_,
Pierre had striven to tear away. From without, no wonderful effect is
wrought within ourselves, unless some interior, responding wonder meets
it. That the starry vault shall surcharge the heart with all rapturous
marvelings, is only because we ourselves are greater miracles, and
superber trophies than all the stars in universal space. Wonder
interlocks with wonder; and then the confounding feeling comes. No cause
have we to fancy, that a horse, a dog, a fowl, ever stand transfixed
beneath yon skyey load of majesty. But our soul's arches underfit into
its; and so, prevent the upper arch from falling on us with
unsustainable inscrutableness. "Explain ye my deeper mystery," said the
shepherd Chaldean king, smiting his breast, lying on his back upon the
plain; "and then, I will bestow all my wonderings upon ye, ye stately
stars!" So, in some sort, with Pierre. Explain thou this strange
integral feeling in me myself, he thought--turning upon the fancied
face--and I will then renounce all other wonders, to gaze wonderingly at
thee. But thou hast evoked in me profounder spells than the evoking one,
thou face! For me, thou hast uncovered one infinite, dumb, beseeching
countenance of mystery, underlying all the surfaces of visible time and
space.

But during those two days of his first wild vassalage to his original
sensations, Pierre had not been unvisited by less mysterious impulses.
Two or three very plain and practical plannings of desirable procedures
in reference to some possible homely explication of all this
nonsense--so he would momentarily denominate it--now and then flittingly
intermitted his pervading mood of semi-madness. Once he had seized his
hat, careless of his accustomed gloves and cane, and found himself in
the street, walking very rapidly in the direction of the Miss Pennies'.
But whither now? he disenchantingly interrogated himself. Where would
you go? A million to one, those deaf old spinsters can tell you nothing
you burn to know. Deaf old spinsters are not used to be the depositaries
of such mystical secrecies. But then, they may reveal her name--where
she dwells, and something, however fragmentary and unsatisfactory, of
who she is, and whence. Ay; but then, in ten minutes after your leaving
them, all the houses in Saddle Meadows would be humming with the gossip
of Pierre Glendinning engaged to marry Lucy Tartan, and yet running
about the country, in ambiguous pursuit of strange young women. That
will never do. You remember, do you not, often seeing the Miss Pennies,
hatless and without a shawl, hurrying through the village, like two
postmen intent on dropping some tit-bit of precious gossip? What a
morsel for them, Pierre, have you, if you now call upon them. Verily,
their trumpets are both for use and for significance. Though very deaf,
the Miss Pennies are by no means dumb. They blazon very wide.

"Now be sure, and say that it was the Miss Pennies, who left the
news--be sure--we--the Miss Pennies--remember--say to Mrs. Glendinning
it was we." Such was the message that now half-humorously occurred to
Pierre, as having been once confided to him by the sister spinsters, one
evening when they called with a choice present of some very _recherche_
chit-chat for his mother; but found the manorial lady out; and so
charged her son with it; hurrying away to all the inferior houses, so as
not to be anywhere forestalled in their disclosure.

Now, I wish it had been any other house than the Miss Pennies; any other
house but theirs, and on my soul I believe I should have gone. But not
to them--no, that I can not do. It would be sure to reach my mother, and
then she would put this and that together--stir a little--let it
simmer--and farewell forever to all her majestic notions of my
immaculate integrity. Patience, Pierre, the population of this region is
not so immense. No dense mobs of Nineveh confound all personal
identities in Saddle Meadows. Patience; thou shalt see it soon again;
catch it passing thee in some green lane, sacred to thy evening
reveries. She that bears it can not dwell remote. Patience, Pierre. Ever
are such mysteries best and soonest unraveled by the eventual unraveling
of themselves. Or, if you will, go back and get your gloves, and more
especially your cane, and begin your own secret voyage of discovery
after it. Your cane, I say; because it will probably be a very long and
weary walk. True, just now I hinted, that she that bears it can not
dwell very remote; but then her nearness may not be at all conspicuous.
So, homeward, and put off thy hat, and let thy cane stay still, good
Pierre. Seek not to mystify the mystery so.

Thus, intermittingly, ever and anon during those sad two days of
deepest sufferance, Pierre would stand reasoning and expostulating with
himself; and by such meditative treatment, reassure his own spontaneous
impulses. Doubtless, it was wise and right that so he did; doubtless:
but in a world so full of all dubieties as this, one can never be
entirely certain whether another person, however carefully and
cautiously conscientious, has acted in all respects conceivable for the
very best.

But when the two days were gone by, and Pierre began to recognize his
former self as restored to him from its mystic exile, then the thoughts
of personally and pointedly seeking out the unknown, either
preliminarily by a call upon the sister spinsters, or generally by
performing the observant lynx-eyed circuit of the country on foot, and
as a crafty inquisitor, dissembling his cause of inquisition; these and
all similar intentions completely abandoned Pierre.

He was now diligently striving, with all his mental might, forever to
drive the phantom from him. He seemed to feel that it begat in him a
certain condition of his being, which was most painful, and every way
uncongenial to his natural, wonted self. It had a touch of he knew not
what sort of unhealthiness in it, so to speak; for, in his then
ignorance, he could find no better term; it seemed to have in it a germ
of somewhat which, if not quickly extirpated, might insidiously poison
and embitter his whole life--that choice, delicious life which he had
vowed to Lucy for his one pure and comprehensive offering--at once a
sacrifice and a delight.

Nor in these endeavorings did he entirely fail. For the most part, he
felt now that he had a power over the comings and the goings of the
face; but not on all occasions. Sometimes the old, original mystic
tyranny would steal upon him; the long, dark, locks of mournful hair
would fall upon his soul, and trail their wonderful melancholy along
with them; the two full, steady, over-brimming eyes of loveliness and
anguish would converge their magic rays, till he felt them kindling he
could not tell what mysterious fires in the heart at which they aimed.

When once this feeling had him fully, then was the perilous time for
Pierre. For supernatural as the feeling was, and appealing to all things
ultramontane to his soul; yet was it a delicious sadness to him. Some
hazy fairy swam above him in the heavenly ether, and showered down upon
him the sweetest pearls of pensiveness. Then he would be seized with a
singular impulse to reveal the secret to some one other individual in
the world. Only one, not more; he could not hold all this strange
fullness in himself. It must be shared. In such an hour it was, that
chancing to encounter Lucy (her, whom above all others, he did
confidingly adore), she heard the story of the face; nor slept at all
that night; nor for a long time freed her pillow completely from wild,
Beethoven sounds of distant, waltzing melodies, as of ambiguous fairies
dancing on the heath.


III.

This history goes forward and goes backward, as occasion calls. Nimble
center, circumference elastic you must have. Now we return to Pierre,
wending homeward from his reveries beneath the pine-tree.

His burst of impatience against the sublime Italian, Dante, arising from
that poet being the one who, in a former time, had first opened to his
shuddering eyes the infinite cliffs and gulfs of human mystery and
misery;--though still more in the way of experimental vision, than of
sensational presentiment or experience (for as yet he had not seen so
far and deep as Dante, and therefore was entirely incompetent to meet
the grim bard fairly on his peculiar ground), this ignorant burst of
his young impatience,--also arising from that half contemptuous dislike,
and sometimes selfish loathing, with which, either naturally feeble or
undeveloped minds, regard those dark ravings of the loftier poets, which
are in eternal opposition to their own fine-spun, shallow dreams of
rapturous or prudential Youth;--this rash, untutored burst of Pierre's
young impatience, seemed to have carried off with it, all the other
forms of his melancholy--if melancholy it had been--and left him now
serene again, and ready for any tranquil pleasantness the gods might
have in store. For his, indeed, was true Youth's temperament,--summary
with sadness, swift to joyfulness, and long protracting, and detaining
with that joyfulness, when once it came fully nigh to him.

As he entered the dining-hall, he saw Dates retiring from another door
with his tray. Alone and meditative, by the bared half of the polished
table, sat his mother at her dessert; fruit-baskets, and a decanter were
before her. On the other leaf of the same table, still lay the cloth,
folded back upon itself, and set out with one plate and its usual
accompaniments.

"Sit down, Pierre; when I came home, I was surprised to hear that the
phaeton had returned so early, and here I waited dinner for you, until I
could wait no more. But go to the green pantry now, and get what Dates
has but just put away for you there. Heigh-ho! too plainly I foresee
it--no more regular dinner-hours, or tea-hours, or supper-hours, in
Saddle Meadows, till its young lord is wedded. And that puts me in mind
of something, Pierre; but I'll defer it till you have eaten a little. Do
you know, Pierre, that if you continue these irregular meals of yours,
and deprive me so entirely almost of your company, that I shall run
fearful risk of getting to be a terrible wine-bibber;--yes, could you
unalarmed see me sitting all alone here with this decanter, like any old
nurse, Pierre; some solitary, forlorn old nurse, Pierre, deserted by her
last friend, and therefore forced to embrace her flask?"

"No, I did not feel any great alarm, sister," said Pierre, smiling,
"since I could not but perceive that the decanter was still full to the
stopple."

"Possibly it may be only a fresh decanter, Pierre;" then changing her
voice suddenly--"but mark me, Mr. Pierre Glendinning!"

"Well, Mrs. Mary Glendinning!"

"Do you know, sir, that you are very shortly to be married,--that indeed
the day is all but fixed?"

"How-!" cried Pierre, in real joyful astonishment, both at the nature of
the tidings, and the earnest tones in which they were conveyed--"dear,
dear mother, you have strangely changed your mind then, my dear mother."

"It is even so, dear brother;--before this day month I hope to have a
little sister Tartan."

"You talk very strangely, mother," rejoined Pierre, quickly. "I suppose,
then, I have next to nothing to say in the matter!"

"Next to nothing, Pierre! What indeed could you say to the purpose? what
at all have you to do with it, I should like to know? Do you so much as
dream, you silly boy, that men ever have the marrying of themselves?
Juxtaposition marries men. There is but one match-maker in the world,
Pierre, and that is Mrs. Juxtaposition, a most notorious lady!"

"Very peculiar, disenchanting sort of talk, this, under the
circumstances, sister Mary," laying down his fork. "Mrs. Juxtaposition,
ah! And in your opinion, mother, does this fine glorious passion only
amount to that?"

"Only to that, Pierre; but mark you: according to my creed--though this
part of it is a little hazy--Mrs. Juxtaposition moves her pawns only as
she herself is moved to so doing by the spirit."

"Ah! that sets it all right again," said Pierre, resuming his fork--"my
appetite returns. But what was that about my being married so soon?" he
added, vainly striving to assume an air of incredulity and unconcern;
"you were joking, I suppose; it seems to me, sister, either you or I was
but just now wandering in the mind a little, on that subject. Are you
really thinking of any such thing? and have you really vanquished your
sagacious scruples by yourself, after I had so long and ineffectually
sought to do it for you? Well, I am a million times delighted; tell me
quick!"

"I will, Pierre. You very well know, that from the first hour you
apprised me--or rather, from a period prior to that--from the moment
that I, by my own insight, became aware of your love for Lucy, I have
always approved it. Lucy is a delicious girl; of honorable descent, a
fortune, well-bred, and the very pattern of all that I think amiable and
attractive in a girl of seventeen."

"Well, well, well," cried Pierre rapidly and impetuously; "we both knew
that before."

"Well, well, well, Pierre," retorted his mother, mockingly.

"It is not well, well, well; but ill, ill, ill, to torture me so,
mother; go on, do!"

"But notwithstanding my admiring approval of your choice, Pierre; yet,
as you know, I have resisted your entreaties for my consent to your
speedy marriage, because I thought that a girl of scarcely seventeen,
and a boy scarcely twenty, should not be in such a hurry;--there was
plenty of time, I thought, which could be profitably employed by both."

"Permit me here to interrupt you, mother. Whatever you may have seen in
me; she,--I mean Lucy,--has never been in the slightest hurry to be
married;--that's all. But I shall regard it as a _lapsus-lingua_ in
you."

"Undoubtedly, a _lapsus_. But listen to me. I have been carefully
observing both you and Lucy of late; and that has made me think further
of the matter. Now, Pierre, if you were in any profession, or in any
business at all; nay, if I were a farmer's wife, and you my child,
working in my fields; why, then, you and Lucy should still wait awhile.
But as you have nothing to do but to think of Lucy by day, and dream of
her by night, and as she is in the same predicament, I suppose; with
respect to you; and as the consequence of all this begins to be
discernible in a certain, just perceptible, and quite harmless thinness,
so to speak, of the cheek; but a very conspicuous and dangerous
febrileness of the eye; therefore, I choose the lesser of two evils; and
now you have my permission to be married, as soon as the thing can be
done with propriety. I dare say you have no objection to have the
wedding take place before Christmas, the present month being the first
of summer."

Pierre said nothing; but leaping to his feet, threw his two arms around
his mother, and kissed her repeatedly.

"A most sweet and eloquent answer, Pierre; but sit down again. I desire
now to say a little concerning less attractive, but quite necessary
things connected with this affair. You know, that by your father's will,
these lands and--"

"Miss Lucy, my mistress;" said Dates, throwing open the door.

Pierre sprang to his feet; but as if suddenly mindful of his mother's
presence, composed himself again, though he still approached the door.

Lucy entered, carrying a little basket of strawberries.

"Why, how do you do, my dear," said Mrs. Glendinning affectionately.
"This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Yes; and I suppose that Pierre here is a little surprised too; seeing
that he was to call upon me this evening, and not I upon him before
sundown. But I took a sudden fancy for a solitary stroll,--the afternoon
was such a delicious one; and chancing--it was only chancing--to pass
through the Locust Lane leading hither, I met the strangest little
fellow, with this basket in his hand.--'Yes, buy them, miss'--said he.
'And how do you know I want to buy them,' returned I, 'I don't want to
buy them.'--'Yes you do, miss; they ought to be twenty-six cents, but
I'll take thirteen cents, that being my shilling. I always want the odd
half cent, I do. Come, I can't wait, I have been expecting you long
enough.'"

"A very sagacious little imp," laughed Mrs. Glendinning.

"Impertinent little rascal," cried Pierre.

"And am I not now the silliest of all silly girls, to be telling you my
adventures so very frankly," smiled Lucy.

"No; but the most celestial of all innocents," cried Pierre, in a
rhapsody of delight. "Frankly open is the flower, that hath nothing but
purity to show."

"Now, my dear little Lucy," said Mrs. Glendinning, "let Pierre take off
your shawl, and come now and stay to tea with us. Pierre has put back
the dinner so, the tea-hour will come now very soon."

"Thank you; but I can not stay this time. Look, I have forgotten my own
errand; I brought these strawberries for you, Mrs. Glendinning, and for
Pierre;--Pierre is so wonderfully fond of them."

"I was audacious enough to think as much," cried Pierre, "for you _and_
me, you see, mother; for you _and_ me, you understand that, I hope."

"Perfectly, my dear brother."

Lucy blushed.

"How warm it is, Mrs. Glendinning."

"Very warm, Lucy. So you won't stay to tea?"

"No, I must go now; just a little stroll, that's all; good-bye! Now
don't be following me, Pierre. Mrs. Glendinning, will you keep Pierre
back? I know you want him; you were talking over some private affair
when I entered; you both looked so very confidential."

"And you were not very far from right, Lucy," said Mrs. Glendinning,
making no sign to stay her departure.

"Yes, business of the highest importance," said Pierre, fixing his eyes
upon Lucy significantly.

At this moment, Lucy just upon the point of her departure, was hovering
near the door; the setting sun, streaming through the window, bathed her
whole form in golden loveliness and light; that wonderful, and most
vivid transparency of her clear Welsh complexion, now fairly glowed like
rosy snow. Her flowing, white, blue-ribboned dress, fleecily invested
her. Pierre almost thought that she could only depart the house by
floating out of the open window, instead of actually stepping from the
door. All her aspect to him, was that moment touched with an
indescribable gayety, buoyancy, fragility, and an unearthly evanescence.

Youth is no philosopher. Not into young Pierre's heart did there then
come the thought, that as the glory of the rose endures but for a day,
so the full bloom of girlish airiness and bewitchingness, passes from
the earth almost as soon; as jealously absorbed by those frugal
elements, which again incorporate that translated girlish bloom, into
the first expanding flower-bud. Not into young Pierre, did there then
steal that thought of utmost sadness; pondering on the inevitable
evanescence of all earthly loveliness; which makes the sweetest things
of life only food for ever-devouring and omnivorous melancholy. Pierre's
thought was different from this, and yet somehow akin to it.

This to be my wife? I that but the other day weighed an hundred and
fifty pounds of solid avoirdupois;--_I_ to wed this heavenly fleece?
Methinks one husbandly embrace would break her airy zone, and she exhale
upward to that heaven whence she hath hither come, condensed to mortal
sight. It can not be; I am of heavy earth, and she of airy light. By
heaven, but marriage is an impious thing!

Meanwhile, as these things ran through his soul, Mrs. Glendinning also
had thinkings of her own.

"A very beautiful tableau," she cried, at last, artistically turning her
gay head a little sideways--"very beautiful, indeed; this, I suppose is
all premeditated for my entertainment. Orpheus finding his Eurydice; or
Pluto stealing Proserpine. Admirable! It might almost stand for either."

"No," said Pierre, gravely; "it is the last. Now, first I see a meaning
there." Yes, he added to himself inwardly, I am Pluto stealing
Proserpine; and every accepted lover is.

"And you would be very stupid, brother Pierre, if you did not see
something there," said his mother, still that way pursuing her own
different train of thought. "The meaning thereof is this: Lucy has
commanded me to stay you; but in reality she wants you to go along with
her. Well, you may go as far as the porch; but then, you must return,
for we have not concluded our little affair, you know. Adieu, little
lady!"

There was ever a slight degree of affectionate patronizing in the manner
of the resplendent, full-blown Mrs. Glendinning, toward the delicate and
shrinking girlhood of young Lucy. She treated her very much as she might
have treated some surpassingly beautiful and precocious child; and this
was precisely what Lucy was. Looking beyond the present period, Mrs.
Glendinning could not but perceive, that even in Lucy's womanly
maturity, Lucy would still be a child to her; because, she, elated,
felt, that in a certain intellectual vigor, so to speak, she was the
essential opposite of Lucy, whose sympathetic mind and person had both
been cast in one mould of wondrous delicacy. But here Mrs. Glendinning
was both right and wrong. So far as she here saw a difference between
herself and Lucy Tartan, she did not err; but so far--and that was very
far--as she thought she saw her innate superiority to her in the
absolute scale of being, here she very widely and immeasurably erred.
For what may be artistically styled angelicalness, this is the highest
essence compatible with created being; and angelicalness hath no vulgar
vigor in it. And that thing which very often prompts to the display of
any vigor--which thing, in man or woman, is at bottom nothing but
ambition--this quality is purely earthly, and not angelical. It is
false, that any angels fell by reason of ambition. Angels never fall;
and never feel ambition. Therefore, benevolently, and affectionately,
and all-sincerely, as thy heart, oh, Mrs. Glendinning! now standest
affected toward the fleecy Lucy; still, lady, thou dost very sadly
mistake it, when the proud, double-arches of the bright breastplate of
thy bosom, expand with secret triumph over one, whom thou so sweetly,
but still so patronizingly stylest, The Little Lucy.

But ignorant of these further insights, that very superb-looking lady,
now waiting Pierre's return from the portico door, sat in a very
matronly revery; her eyes fixed upon the decanter of amber-hued wine
before her. Whether it was that she somehow saw some lurking analogical
similitude between that remarkably slender, and gracefully cut little
pint-decanter, brimfull of light, golden wine, or not, there is no
absolute telling now. But really, the peculiarly, and reminiscently, and
forecastingly complacent expression of her beaming and benevolent
countenance, seemed a tell-tale of some conceit very much like the
following:--Yes, she's a very pretty little pint-decanter of a girl: a
very pretty little Pale Sherry pint-decanter of a girl; and I--I'm a
quart decanter of--of--Port--potent Port! Now, Sherry for boys, and Port
for men--so I've heard men say; and Pierre is but a boy; but when his
father wedded me,--why, his father was turned of five-and-thirty years.

After a little further waiting for him, Mrs. Glendinning heard Pierre's
voice--"Yes, before eight o'clock at least, Lucy--no fear;" and then the
hall door banged, and Pierre returned to her.

But now she found that this unforeseen visit of Lucy had completely
routed all business capacity in her mercurial son; fairly capsizing him
again into, there was no telling what sea of pleasant pensiveness.

"Dear me! some other time, sister Mary."

"Not this time; that is very certain, Pierre. Upon my word I shall have
to get Lucy kidnapped, and temporarily taken out of the country, and you
handcuffed to the table, else there will be no having a preliminary
understanding with you, previous to calling in the lawyers. Well, I
shall yet manage you, one way or other. Good-bye, Pierre; I see you
don't want me now. I suppose I shan't see you till to-morrow morning.
Luckily, I have a very interesting book to read. Adieu!"

But Pierre remained in his chair; his gaze fixed upon the stilly sunset
beyond the meadows, and far away to the now golden hills. A glorious,
softly glorious, and most gracious evening, which seemed plainly a
tongue to all humanity, saying: I go down in beauty to rise in joy; Love
reigns throughout all worlds that sunsets visit; it is a foolish ghost
story; there is no such thing as misery. Would Love, which is
omnipotent, have misery in his domain? Would the god of sunlight decree
gloom? It is a flawless, speckless, fleckless, beautiful world
throughout; joy now, and joy forever!

Then the face, which before had seemed mournfully and reproachfully
looking out upon him from the effulgent sunset's heart; the face slid
from him; and left alone there with his soul's joy, thinking that that
very night he would utter the magic word of marriage to his Lucy; not a
happier youth than Pierre Glendinning sat watching that day's sun go
down.


IV.

After this morning of gayety, this noon of tragedy, and this evening so
full of chequered pensiveness; Pierre now possessed his soul in joyful
mildness and steadfastness; feeling none of that wild anguish of
anticipative rapture, which, in weaker minds, too often dislodges Love's
sweet bird from her nest.

The early night was warm, but dark--for the moon was not risen yet--and
as Pierre passed on beneath the pendulous canopies of the long arms of
the weeping elms of the village, an almost impenetrable blackness
surrounded him, but entered not the gently illuminated halls of his
heart. He had not gone very far, when in the distance beyond, he noticed
a light moving along the opposite side of the road, and slowly
approaching. As it was the custom for some of the more elderly, and
perhaps timid inhabitants of the village, to carry a lantern when going
abroad of so dark a night, this object conveyed no impression of novelty
to Pierre; still, as it silently drew nearer and nearer, the one only
distinguishable thing before him, he somehow felt a nameless
presentiment that the light must be seeking him. He had nearly gained
the cottage door, when the lantern crossed over toward him; and as his
nimble hand was laid at last upon the little wicket-gate, which he
thought was now to admit him to so much delight; a heavy hand was laid
upon himself, and at the same moment, the lantern was lifted toward his
face, by a hooded and obscure-looking figure, whose half-averted
countenance he could but indistinctly discern. But Pierre's own open
aspect, seemed to have been quickly scrutinized by the other.

"I have a letter for Pierre Glendinning," said the stranger, "and I
believe this is he." At the same moment, a letter was drawn forth, and
sought his hand.

"For me!" exclaimed Pierre, faintly, starting at the strangeness of the
encounter;--"methinks this is an odd time and place to deliver your
mail;--who are you?--Stay!"

But without waiting an answer, the messenger had already turned about,
and was re-crossing the road. In the first impulse of the moment, Pierre
stept forward, and would have pursued him; but smiling at his own
causeless curiosity and trepidation, paused again; and softly turned
over the letter in his hand. What mysterious correspondent is this,
thought he, circularly moving his thumb upon the seal; no one writes me
but from abroad; and their letters come through the office; and as for
Lucy--pooh!--when she herself is within, she would hardly have her notes
delivered at her own gate. Strange! but I'll in, and read it;--no, not
that;--I come to read again in her own sweet heart--that dear missive to
me from heaven,--and this impertinent letter would pre-occupy me. I'll
wait till I go home.

He entered the gate, and laid his hand upon the cottage knocker. Its
sudden coolness caused a slight, and, at any other time, an
unaccountable sympathetic sensation in his hand. To his unwonted mood,
the knocker seemed to say--"Enter not!--Begone, and first read thy
note."

Yielding now, half alarmed, and half bantering with himself, to these
shadowy interior monitions, he half-unconsciously quitted the door;
repassed the gate; and soon found himself retracing his homeward path.

He equivocated with himself no more; the gloom of the air had now burst
into his heart, and extinguished its light; then, first in all his life,
Pierre felt the irresistible admonitions and intuitions of Fate.

He entered the hall unnoticed, passed up to his chamber, and hurriedly
locking the door in the dark, lit his lamp. As the summoned flame
illuminated the room, Pierre, standing before the round center-table,
where the lamp was placed, with his hand yet on the brass circle which
regulated the wick, started at a figure in the opposite mirror. It bore
the outline of Pierre, but now strangely filled with features
transformed, and unfamiliar to him; feverish eagerness, fear, and
nameless forebodings of ill! He threw himself into a chair, and for a
time vainly struggled with the incomprehensible power that possessed
him. Then, as he avertedly drew the letter from his bosom, he whispered
to himself--Out on thee, Pierre! how sheepish now will ye feel when this
tremendous note will turn out to be an invitation to a supper to-morrow
night; quick, fool, and write the stereotyped reply: Mr. Pierre
Glendinning will be very happy to accept Miss so and so's polite
invitation.

Still for the moment he held the letter averted. The messenger had so
hurriedly accosted him, and delivered his duty, that Pierre had not yet
so much as gained one glance at the superscription of the note. And now
the wild thought passed through his mind of what would be the result,
should he deliberately destroy the note, without so much as looking at
the hand that had addressed it. Hardly had this half-crazy conceit fully
made itself legible in his soul, when he was conscious of his two hands
meeting in the middle of the sundered note! He leapt from his chair--By
heaven! he murmured, unspeakably shocked at the intensity of that mood
which had caused him unwittingly as it were, to do for the first time in
his whole life, an act of which he was privately ashamed. Though the
mood that was on him was none of his own willful seeking; yet now he
swiftly felt conscious that he had perhaps a little encouraged it,
through that certain strange infatuation of fondness, which the human
mind, however vigorous, sometimes feels for any emotion at once novel
and mystical. Not willingly, at such times--never mind how fearful we
may be--do we try to dissolve the spell which seems, for the time, to
admit us, all astonished, into the vague vestibule of the spiritual
worlds.

Pierre now seemed distinctly to feel two antagonistic agencies within
him; one of which was just struggling into his consciousness, and each
of which was striving for the mastery; and between whose respective
final ascendencies, he thought he could perceive, though but shadowly,
that he himself was to be the only umpire. One bade him finish the
selfish destruction of the note; for in some dark way the reading of it
would irretrievably entangle his fate. The other bade him dismiss all
misgivings; not because there was no possible ground for them, but
because to dismiss them was the manlier part, never mind what might
betide. This good angel seemed mildly to say--Read, Pierre, though by
reading thou may'st entangle thyself, yet may'st thou thereby
disentangle others. Read, and feel that best blessedness which, with the
sense of all duties discharged, holds happiness indifferent. The bad
angel insinuatingly breathed--Read it not, dearest Pierre; but destroy
it, and be happy. Then, at the blast of his noble heart, the bad angel
shrunk up into nothingness; and the good one defined itself clearer and
more clear, and came nigher and more nigh to him, smiling sadly but
benignantly; while forth from the infinite distances wonderful harmonies
stole into his heart; so that every vein in him pulsed to some heavenly
swell.


V.

"The name at the end of this letter will be wholly strange to thee.
Hitherto my existence has been utterly unknown to thee. This letter will
touch thee and pain thee. Willingly would I spare thee, but I can not.
My heart bears me witness, that did I think that the suffering these
lines would give thee, would, in the faintest degree, compare with what
mine has been, I would forever withhold them.

"Pierre Glendinning, thou art not the only child of thy father; in the
eye of the sun, the hand that traces this is thy sister's; yes, Pierre,
Isabel calls thee her brother--her brother! oh, sweetest of words, which
so often I have thought to myself, and almost deemed it profanity for an
outcast like me to speak or think. Dearest Pierre, my brother, my own
father's child! art thou an angel, that thou canst overleap all the
heartless usages and fashions of a banded world, that will call thee
fool, fool, fool! and curse thee, if thou yieldest to that heavenly
impulse which alone can lead thee to respond to the long tyrannizing,
and now at last unquenchable yearnings of my bursting heart? Oh, my
brother!

"But, Pierre Glendinning, I will be proud with thee. Let not my hapless
condition extinguish in me, the nobleness which I equally inherit with
thee. Thou shall not be cozened, by my tears and my anguish, into any
thing which thy most sober hour will repent. Read no further. If it suit
thee, burn this letter; so shalt thou escape the certainty of that
knowledge, which, if thou art now cold and selfish, may hereafter, in
some maturer, remorseful, and helpless hour, cause thee a poignant
upbraiding. No, I shall not, I will not implore thee.--Oh, my brother,
my dear, dear Pierre,--help me, fly to me; see, I perish without
thee;--pity, pity,--here I freeze in the wide, wide world;--no father,
no mother, no sister, no brother, no living thing in the fair form of
humanity, that holds me dear. No more, oh no more, dear Pierre, can I
endure to be an outcast in the world, for which the dear Savior died.
Fly to me, Pierre;--nay, I could tear what I now write,--as I have torn
so many other sheets, all written for thy eye, but which never reached
thee, because in my distraction, I knew not how to write to thee, nor
what to say to thee; and so, behold again how I rave.

"Nothing more; I will write no more;--silence becomes this grave;--the
heart-sickness steals over me, Pierre, my brother.

"Scarce know I what I have written. Yet will I write thee the fatal
line, and leave all the rest to thee, Pierre, my brother.--She that is
called Isabel Banford dwells in the little red farm-house, three miles
from the village, on the slope toward the lake. To-morrow
night-fall--not before--not by day, not by day, Pierre.

THY SISTER, ISABEL."


VI.

This letter, inscribed in a feminine, but irregular hand, and in some
places almost illegible, plainly attesting the state of the mind which
had dictated it;--stained, too, here and there, with spots of tears,
which chemically acted upon by the ink, assumed a strange and reddish
hue--as if blood and not tears had dropped upon the sheet;--and so
completely torn in two by Pierre's own hand, that it indeed seemed the
fit scroll of a torn, as well as bleeding heart;--this amazing letter,
deprived Pierre for the time of all lucid and definite thought or
feeling. He hung half-lifeless in his chair; his hand, clutching the
letter, was pressed against his heart, as if some assassin had stabbed
him and fled; and Pierre was now holding the dagger in the wound, to
stanch the outgushing of the blood.

Ay, Pierre, now indeed art thou hurt with a wound, never to be
completely healed but in heaven; for thee, the before undistrusted moral
beauty of the world is forever fled; for thee, thy sacred father is no
more a saint; all brightness hath gone from thy hills, and all peace
from thy plains; and now, now, for the first time, Pierre, Truth rolls a
black billow through thy soul! Ah, miserable thou, to whom Truth, in her
first tides, bears nothing but wrecks!

The perceptible forms of things; the shapes of thoughts; the pulses of
life, but slowly came back to Pierre. And as the mariner, shipwrecked
and cast on the beach, has much ado to escape the recoil of the wave
that hurled him there; so Pierre long struggled, and struggled, to
escape the recoil of that anguish, which had dashed him out of itself,
upon the beach of his swoon.

But man was not made to succumb to the villain Woe. Youth is not young
and a wrestler in vain. Pierre staggeringly rose to his feet; his wide
eyes fixed, and his whole form in a tremble.

"Myself am left, at least," he slowly and half-chokingly murmured. "With
myself I front thee! Unhand me all fears, and unlock me all spells!
Henceforth I will know nothing but Truth; glad Truth, or sad Truth; I
will know what is, and do what my deepest angel dictates.--The
letter!--Isabel,--sister,--brother,--me, _me_--my sacred father!--This
is some accursed dream!--nay, but this paper thing is forged,--a base
and malicious forgery, I swear;--Well didst thou hide thy face from me,
thou vile lanterned messenger, that didst accost me on the threshold of
Joy, with this lying warrant of Woe! Doth Truth come in the dark, and
steal on us, and rob us so, and then depart, deaf to all pursuing
invocations? If this night, which now wraps my soul, be genuine as that
which now wraps this half of the world; then Fate, I have a choice
quarrel with thee. Thou art a palterer and a cheat; thou hast lured me
on through gay gardens to a gulf. Oh! falsely guided in the days of my
Joy, am I now truly led in this night of my grief?--I will be a raver,
and none shall stay me! I will lift my hand in fury, for am I not
struck? I will be bitter in my breath, for is not this cup of gall? Thou
Black Knight, that with visor down, thus confrontest me, and mockest at
me; Lo! I strike through thy helm, and will see thy face, be it
Gorgon!--Let me go, ye fond affections; all piety leave me;--I will be
impious, for piety hath juggled me, and taught me to revere, where I
should spurn. From all idols, I tear all veils; henceforth I will see
the hidden things; and live right out in my own hidden life!--Now I feel
that nothing but Truth can move me so. This letter is not a forgery. Oh!
Isabel, thou art my sister; and I will love thee, and protect thee, ay,
and own thee through all. Ah! forgive me, ye heavens, for my ignorant
ravings, and accept this my vow.--Here I swear myself Isabel's. Oh! thou
poor castaway girl, that in loneliness and anguish must have long
breathed that same air, which I have only inhaled for delight; thou who
must even now be weeping, and weeping, cast into an ocean of uncertainty
as to thy fate, which heaven hath placed in my hands; sweet Isabel!
would I not be baser than brass, and harder, and colder than ice, if I
could be insensible to such claims as thine? Thou movest before me, in
rainbows spun of thy tears! I see thee long weeping, and God demands me
for thy comforter; and comfort thee, stand by thee, and fight for thee,
will thy leapingly-acknowledging brother, whom thy own father named
Pierre!"

He could not stay in his chamber: the house contracted to a nut-shell
around him; the walls smote his forehead; bare-headed he rushed from the
place, and only in the infinite air, found scope for that boundless
expansion of his life.




BOOK IV.

RETROSPECTIVE.


I.


In their precise tracings-out and subtile causations, the strongest and
fieriest emotions of life defy all analytical insight. We see the cloud,
and feel its bolt; but meteorology only idly essays a critical scrutiny
as to how that cloud became charged, and how this bolt so stuns. The
metaphysical writers confess, that the most impressive, sudden, and
overwhelming event, as well as the minutest, is but the product of an
infinite series of infinitely involved and untraceable foregoing
occurrences. Just so with every motion of the heart. Why this cheek
kindles with a noble enthusiasm; why that lip curls in scorn; these are
things not wholly imputable to the immediate apparent cause, which is
only one link in the chain; but to a long line of dependencies whose
further part is lost in the mid-regions of the impalpable air.

Idle then would it be to attempt by any winding way so to penetrate into
the heart, and memory, and inmost life, and nature of Pierre, as to show
why it was that a piece of intelligence which, in the natural course of
things, many amiable gentlemen, both young and old, have been known to
receive with a momentary feeling of surprise, and then a little
curiosity to know more, and at last an entire unconcern; idle would it
be, to attempt to show how to Pierre it rolled down on his soul like
melted lava, and left so deep a deposit of desolation, that all his
subsequent endeavors never restored the original temples to the soil,
nor all his culture completely revived its buried bloom.

But some random hints may suffice to deprive a little of its
strangeness, that tumultuous mood, into which so small a note had thrown
him.

There had long stood a shrine in the fresh-foliaged heart of Pierre, up
to which he ascended by many tableted steps of remembrance; and around
which annually he had hung fresh wreaths of a sweet and holy affection.
Made one green bower of at last, by such successive votive offerings of
his being; this shrine seemed, and was indeed, a place for the
celebration of a chastened joy, rather than for any melancholy rites.
But though thus mantled, and tangled with garlands, this shrine was of
marble--a niched pillar, deemed solid and eternal, and from whose top
radiated all those innumerable sculptured scrolls and branches, which
supported the entire one-pillared temple of his moral life; as in some
beautiful gothic oratories, one central pillar, trunk-like, upholds the
roof. In this shrine, in this niche of this pillar, stood the perfect
marble form of his departed father; without blemish, unclouded,
snow-white, and serene; Pierre's fond personification of perfect human
goodness and virtue. Before this shrine, Pierre poured out the fullness
of all young life's most reverential thoughts and beliefs. Not to God
had Pierre ever gone in his heart, unless by ascending the steps of that
shrine, and so making it the vestibule of his abstractest religion.

Blessed and glorified in his tomb beyond Prince Mausolus is that mortal
sire, who, after an honorable, pure course of life, dies, and is buried,
as in a choice fountain, in the filial breast of a tender-hearted and
intellectually appreciative child. For at that period, the Solomonic
insights have not poured their turbid tributaries into the pure-flowing
well of the childish life. Rare preservative virtue, too, have those
heavenly waters. Thrown into that fountain, all sweet recollections
become marbleized; so that things which in themselves were evanescent,
thus became unchangeable and eternal. So, some rare waters in Derbyshire
will petrify birds'-nests. But if fate preserves the father to a later
time, too often the filial obsequies are less profound; the canonization
less ethereal. The eye-expanded boy perceives, or vaguely thinks he
perceives, slight specks and flaws in the character he once so wholly
reverenced.

When Pierre was twelve years old, his father had died, leaving behind
him, in the general voice of the world, a marked reputation as a
gentleman and a Christian; in the heart of his wife, a green memory of
many healthy days of unclouded and joyful wedded life, and in the inmost
soul of Pierre, the impression of a bodily form of rare manly beauty and
benignity, only rivaled by the supposed perfect mould in which his
virtuous heart had been cast. Of pensive evenings, by the wide winter
fire, or in summer, in the southern piazza, when that mystical
night-silence so peculiar to the country would summon up in the minds of
Pierre and his mother, long trains of the images of the past; leading
all that spiritual procession, majestically and holily walked the
venerated form of the departed husband and father. Then their talk would
be reminiscent and serious, but sweet; and again, and again, still deep
and deeper, was stamped in Pierre's soul the cherished conceit, that his
virtuous father, so beautiful on earth, was now uncorruptibly sainted in
heaven. So choicely, and in some degree, secludedly nurtured, Pierre,
though now arrived at the age of nineteen, had never yet become so
thoroughly initiated into that darker, though truer aspect of things,
which an entire residence in the city from the earliest period of life,
almost inevitably engraves upon the mind of any keenly observant and
reflective youth of Pierre's present years. So that up to this period,
in his breast, all remained as it had been; and to Pierre, his father's
shrine seemed spotless, and still new as the marble of the tomb of him
of Arimathea.

Judge, then, how all-desolating and withering the blast, that for
Pierre, in one night, stripped his holiest shrine of all over-laid
bloom, and buried the mild statue of the saint beneath the prostrated
ruins of the soul's temple itself.


II.

As the vine flourishes, and the grape empurples close up to the very
walls and muzzles of cannoned Ehrenbreitstein; so do the sweetest joys
of life grow in the very jaws of its perils.

But is life, indeed, a thing for all infidel levities, and we, its
misdeemed beneficiaries, so utterly fools and infatuate, that what we
take to be our strongest tower of delight, only stands at the caprice of
the minutest event--the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or
the receipt of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small
characters by a sharpened feather? Are we so entirely insecure, that
that casket, wherein we have placed our holiest and most final joy, and
which we have secured by a lock of infinite deftness; can that casket be
picked and desecrated at the merest stranger's touch, when we think that
we alone hold the only and chosen key?

Pierre! thou art foolish; rebuild--no, not that, for thy shrine still
stands; it stands, Pierre, firmly stands; smellest thou not its yet
undeparted, embowering bloom? Such a note as thine can be easily enough
written, Pierre; impostors are not unknown in this curious world; or the
brisk novelist, Pierre, will write thee fifty such notes, and so steal
gushing tears from his reader's eyes; even as _thy_ note so strangely
made thine own manly eyes so arid; so glazed, and so arid,
Pierre--foolish Pierre!

Oh! mock not the poniarded heart. The stabbed man knows the steel; prate
not to him that it is only a tickling feather. Feels he not the interior
gash? What does this blood on my vesture? and what does this pang in my
soul?

And here again, not unreasonably, might invocations go up to those Three
Weird Ones, that tend Life's loom. Again we might ask them, What threads
were those, oh, ye Weird Ones, that ye wove in the years foregone; that
now to Pierre, they so unerringly conduct electric presentiments, that
his woe is woe, his father no more a saint, and Isabel a sister indeed?

Ah, fathers and mothers! all the world round, be heedful,--give heed!
Thy little one may not now comprehend the meaning of those words and
those signs, by which, in its innocent presence, thou thinkest to
disguise the sinister thing ye would hint. Not now he knows; not very
much even of the externals he consciously remarks; but if, in
after-life, Fate puts the chemic key of the cipher into his hands; then
how swiftly and how wonderfully, he reads all the obscurest and most
obliterate inscriptions he finds in his memory; yea, and rummages
himself all over, for still hidden writings to read. Oh, darkest lessons
of Life have thus been read; all faith in Virtue been murdered, and
youth gives itself up to an infidel scorn.

But not thus, altogether, was it now with Pierre; yet so like, in some
points, that the above true warning may not misplacedly stand.

His father had died of a fever; and, as is not uncommon in such
maladies, toward his end, he at intervals lowly wandered in his mind. At
such times, by unobserved, but subtle arts, the devoted family
attendants, had restrained his wife from being present at his side. But
little Pierre, whose fond, filial love drew him ever to that bed; they
heeded not innocent little Pierre, when his father was delirious; and
so, one evening, when the shadows intermingled with the curtains; and
all the chamber was hushed; and Pierre but dimly saw his father's face;
and the fire on the hearth lay in a broken temple of wonderful coals;
then a strange, plaintive, infinitely pitiable, low voice, stole forth
from the testered bed; and Pierre heard,--"My daughter! my daughter!"

"He wanders again," said the nurse.

"Dear, dear father!" sobbed the child--"thou hast not a daughter, but
here is thy own little Pierre."

But again the unregardful voice in the bed was heard; and now in a
sudden, pealing wail,--"My daughter!--God! God!--my daughter!"

The child snatched the dying man's hand; it faintly grew to his grasp;
but on the other side of the bed, the other hand now also emptily lifted
itself and emptily caught, as if at some other childish fingers. Then
both hands dropped on the sheet; and in the twinkling shadows of the
evening little Pierre seemed to see, that while the hand which he held
wore a faint, feverish flush, the other empty one was ashy white as a
leper's.

"It is past," whispered the nurse, "he will wander so no more now till
midnight,--that is his wont." And then, in her heart, she wondered how
it was, that so excellent a gentleman, and so thoroughly good a man,
should wander so ambiguously in his mind; and trembled to think of that
mysterious thing in the soul, which seems to acknowledge no human
jurisdiction, but in spite of the individual's own innocent self, will
still dream horrid dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts; and into
Pierre's awe-stricken, childish soul, there entered a kindred, though
still more nebulous conceit. But it belonged to the spheres of the
impalpable ether; and the child soon threw other and sweeter
remembrances over it, and covered it up; and at last, it was blended
with all other dim things, and imaginings of dimness; and so, seemed to
survive to no real life in Pierre. But though through many long years
the henbane showed no leaves in his soul; yet the sunken seed was
there: and the first glimpse of Isabel's letter caused it to spring
forth, as by magic. Then, again, the long-hushed, plaintive and
infinitely pitiable voice was heard,--"My daughter! my daughter!"
followed by the compunctious "God! God!" And to Pierre, once again the
empty hand lifted itself, and once again the ashy hand fell.


III.

In the cold courts of justice the dull head demands oaths, and holy writ
proofs; but in the warm halls of the heart one single, untestified
memory's spark shall suffice to enkindle such a blaze of evidence, that
all the corners of conviction are as suddenly lighted up as a midnight
city by a burning building, which on every side whirls its reddened
brands.

In a locked, round-windowed closet connecting with the chamber of
Pierre, and whither he had always been wont to go, in those sweetly
awful hours, when the spirit crieth to the spirit, Come into solitude
with me, twin-brother; come away: a secret have I; let me whisper it to
thee aside; in this closet, sacred to the Tadmore privacies and repose
of the sometimes solitary Pierre, there hung, by long cords from the
cornice, a small portrait in oil, before which Pierre had many a time
trancedly stood. Had this painting hung in any annual public exhibition,
and in its turn been described in print by the casual glancing critics,
they would probably have described it thus, and truthfully: "An
impromptu portrait of a fine-looking, gay-hearted, youthful gentleman.
He is lightly, and, as it were, airily and but grazingly seated in, or
rather flittingly tenanting an old-fashioned chair of Malacca. One arm
confining his hat and cane is loungingly thrown over the back of the
chair, while the fingers of the other hand play with his gold
watch-seal and key. The free-templed head is sideways turned, with a
peculiarly bright, and care-free, morning expression. He seems as if
just dropped in for a visit upon some familiar acquaintance. Altogether,
the painting is exceedingly clever and cheerful; with a fine, off-handed
expression about it. Undoubtedly a portrait, and no fancy-piece; and, to
hazard a vague conjecture, by an amateur."

So bright, and so cheerful then; so trim, and so young; so singularly
healthful, and handsome; what subtile element could so steep this whole
portrait, that, to the wife of the original, it was namelessly
unpleasant and repelling? The mother of Pierre could never abide this
picture which she had always asserted did signally belie her husband.
Her fond memories of the departed refused to hang one single wreath
around it. It is not he, she would emphatically and almost indignantly
exclaim, when more urgently besought to reveal the cause for so
unreasonable a dissent from the opinion of nearly all the other
connections and relatives of the deceased. But the portrait which she
held to do justice to her husband, correctly to convey his features in
detail, and more especially their truest, and finest, and noblest
combined expression; this portrait was a much larger one, and in the
great drawing-room below occupied the most conspicuous and honorable
place on the wall.

Even to Pierre these two paintings had always seemed strangely
dissimilar. And as the larger one had been painted many years after the
other, and therefore brought the original pretty nearly within his own
childish recollections; therefore, he himself could not but deem it by
far the more truthful and life-like presentation of his father. So that
the mere preference of his mother, however strong, was not at all
surprising to him, but rather coincided with his own conceit. Yet not
for this, must the other portrait be so decidedly rejected. Because, in
the first place, there was a difference in time, and some difference of
costume to be considered, and the wide difference of the styles of the
respective artiste, and the wide difference of those respective,
semi-reflected, ideal faces, which, even in the presence of the
original, a spiritual artist will rather choose to draw from than from
the fleshy face, however brilliant and fine. Moreover, while the larger
portrait was that of a middle-aged, married man, and seemed to possess
all the nameless and slightly portly tranquillities, incident to that
condition when a felicitous one; the smaller portrait painted a brisk,
unentangled, young bachelor, gayly ranging up and down in the world;
light-hearted, and a very little bladish perhaps; and charged to the
lips with the first uncloying morning fullness and freshness of life.
Here, certainly, large allowance was to be made in any careful, candid
estimation of these portraits. To Pierre this conclusion had become
well-nigh irresistible, when he placed side by side two portraits of
himself; one taken in his early childhood, a frocked and belted boy of
four years old; and the other, a grown youth of sixteen. Except an
indestructible, all-surviving something in the eyes and on the temples,
Pierre could hardly recognize the loud-laughing boy in the tall, and
pensively smiling youth. If a few years, then, can have in me made all
this difference, why not in my father? thought Pierre.

Besides all this, Pierre considered the history, and, so to speak, the
family legend of the smaller painting. In his fifteenth year, it was
made a present to him by an old maiden aunt, who resided in the city,
and who cherished the memory of Pierre's father, with all that wonderful
amaranthine devotion which an advanced maiden sister ever feels for the
idea of a beloved younger brother, now dead and irrevocably gone. As the
only child of that brother, Pierre was an object of the warmest and most
extravagant attachment on the part of this lonely aunt, who seemed to
see, transformed into youth once again, the likeness, and very soul of
her brother, in the fair, inheriting brow of Pierre. Though the portrait
we speak of was inordinately prized by her, yet at length the strict
canon of her romantic and imaginative love asserted the portrait to be
Pierre's--for Pierre was not only his father's only child, but his
namesake--so soon as Pierre should be old enough to value aright so holy
and inestimable a treasure. She had accordingly sent it to him, trebly
boxed, and finally covered with a water-proof cloth; and it was
delivered at Saddle Meadows, by an express, confidential messenger, an
old gentleman of leisure, once her forlorn, because rejected gallant,
but now her contented, and chatty neighbor. Henceforth, before a
gold-framed and gold-lidded ivory miniature,--a fraternal gift--aunt
Dorothea now offered up her morning and her evening rites, to the memory
of the noblest and handsomest of brothers. Yet an annual visit to the
far closet of Pierre--no slight undertaking now for one so stricken in
years, and every way infirm--attested the earnestness of that strong
sense of duty, that painful renunciation of self, which had induced her
voluntarily to part with the precious memorial.


IV.

"Tell me, aunt," the child Pierre had early said to her, long before the
portrait became his--"tell me, aunt, how this chair-portrait, as you
call it, was painted;--who painted it?--whose chair was this?--have you
the chair now?--I don't see it in your room here;--what is papa looking
at so strangely?--I should like to know now, what papa was thinking of,
then. Do, now, dear aunt, tell me all about this picture, so that when
it is mine, as you promise me, I shall know its whole history."

"Sit down, then, and be very still and attentive, my dear child," said
aunt Dorothea; while she a little averted her head, and tremulously and
inaccurately sought her pocket, till little Pierre cried--"Why, aunt,
the story of the picture is not in any little book, is it, that you are
going to take out and read to me?"

"My handkerchief, my child."

"Why, aunt, here it is, at your elbow; here, on the table; here, aunt;
take it, do; Oh, don't tell me any thing about the picture, now; I won't
hear it."

"Be still, my darling Pierre," said his aunt, taking the handkerchief,
"draw the curtain a little, dearest; the light hurts my eyes. Now, go
into the closet, and bring me my dark shawl;--take your time.--There;
thank you, Pierre; now sit down again, and I will begin.--The picture
was painted long ago, my child; you were not born then."

"Not born?" cried little Pierre.

"Not born," said his aunt.

"Well, go on, aunt; but don't tell me again that once upon a time I was
not little Pierre at all, and yet my father was alive. Go on, aunt,--do,
do!"

"Why, how nervous you are getting, my child;--Be patient; I am very old,
Pierre; and old people never like to be hurried."

"Now, my own dear Aunt Dorothea, do forgive me this once, and go on with
your story."

"When your poor father was quite a young man, my child, and was on one
of his long autumnal visits to his friends in this city, he was rather
intimate at times with a cousin of his, Ralph Winwood, who was about his
own age,--a fine youth he was, too, Pierre."

"I never saw him, aunt; pray, where is he now?" interrupted
Pierre;--"does he live in the country, now, as mother and I do?"

"Yes, my child; but a far-away, beautiful country, I hope;--he's in
heaven, I trust."

"Dead," sighed little Pierre--"go on, aunt."

"Now, cousin Ralph had a great love for painting, my child; and he
spent many hours in a room, hung all round with pictures and portraits;
and there he had his easel and brushes; and much liked to paint his
friends, and hang their faces on his walls; so that when all alone by
himself, he yet had plenty of company, who always wore their best
expressions to him, and never once ruffled him, by ever getting cross or
ill-natured, little Pierre. Often, he had besought your father to sit to
him; saying, that his silent circle of friends would never be complete,
till your father consented to join them. But in those days, my child,
your father was always in motion. It was hard for me to get him to stand
still, while I tied his cravat; for he never came to any one but me for
that. So he was always putting off, and putting off cousin Ralph. 'Some
other time, cousin; not to-day;--to-morrow, perhaps;--or next
week;'--and so, at last cousin Ralph began to despair. But I'll catch
him yet, cried sly cousin Ralph. So now he said nothing more to your
father about the matter of painting him; but every pleasant morning kept
his easel and brushes and every thing in readiness; so as to be ready
the first moment your father should chance to drop in upon him from his
long strolls; for it was now and then your father's wont to pay flying
little visits to cousin Ralph in his painting-room.--But, my child, you
may draw back the curtain now--it's getting very dim here, seems to me."

"Well, I thought so all along, aunt," said little Pierre, obeying; "but
didn't you say the light hurt your eyes."

"But it does not now, little Pierre."

"Well, well; go on, go on, aunt; you can't think how interested I am,"
said little Pierre, drawing his stool close up to the quilted satin hem
of his good Aunt Dorothea's dress.

"I will, my child. But first let me tell you, that about this time there
arrived in the port, a cabin-full of French emigrants of quality;--poor
people, Pierre, who were forced to fly from their native land, because
of the cruel, blood-shedding times there. But you have read all that in
the little history I gave you, a good while ago."

"I know all about it;--the French Revolution," said little Pierre.

"What a famous little scholar you are, my dear child,"--said Aunt
Dorothea, faintly smiling--"among those poor, but noble emigrants, there
was a beautiful young girl, whose sad fate afterward made a great noise
in the city, and made many eyes to weep, but in vain, for she never was
heard of any more."

"How? how? aunt;--I don't understand;--did she disappear then, aunt?"

"I was a little before my story, child. Yes, she did disappear, and
never was heard of again; but that was afterward, some time afterward,
my child. I am very sure it was; I could take my oath of that, Pierre."

"Why, dear aunt," said little Pierre, "how earnestly you talk--after
what? your voice is getting very strange; do now;--don't talk that way;
you frighten me so, aunt."

"Perhaps it is this bad cold I have to-day; it makes my voice a little
hoarse, I fear, Pierre. But I will try and not talk so hoarsely again.
Well, my child, some time before this beautiful young lady disappeared,
indeed it was only shortly after the poor emigrants landed, your father
made her acquaintance; and with many other humane gentlemen of the city,
provided for the wants of the strangers, for they were very poor indeed,
having been stripped of every thing, save a little trifling jewelry,
which could not go very far. At last, the friends of your father
endeavored to dissuade him from visiting these people so much; they were
fearful that as the young lady was so very beautiful, and a little
inclined to be intriguing--so some said--your father might be tempted to
marry her; which would not have been a wise thing in him; for though the
young lady might have been very beautiful, and good-hearted, yet no one
on this side the water certainly knew her history; and she was a
foreigner; and would not have made so suitable and excellent a match for
your father as your dear mother afterward did, my child. But, for
myself, I--who always knew your father very well in all his intentions,
and he was very confidential with me, too--I, for my part, never
credited that he would do so unwise a thing as marry the strange young
lady. At any rate, he at last discontinued his visits to the emigrants;
and it was after this that the young lady disappeared. Some said that
she must have voluntarily but secretly returned into her own country;
and others declared that she must have been kidnapped by French
emissaries; for, after her disappearance, rumor began to hint that she
was of the noblest birth, and some ways allied to the royal family; and
then, again, there were some who shook their heads darkly, and muttered
of drownings, and other dark things; which one always hears hinted when
people disappear, and no one can find them. But though your father and
many other gentlemen moved heaven and earth to find trace of her, yet,
as I said before, my child, she never re-appeared."

"The poor French lady!" sighed little Pierre. "Aunt, I'm afraid she was
murdered."

"Poor lady, there is no telling," said his aunt. "But listen, for I am
coming to the picture again. Now, at the time your father was so often
visiting the emigrants, my child, cousin Ralph was one of those who a
little fancied that your father was courting her; but cousin Ralph being
a quiet young man, and a scholar, not well acquainted with what is wise,
or what is foolish in the great world; cousin Ralph would not have been
at all mortified had your father really wedded with the refugee young
lady. So vainly thinking, as I told you, that your father was courting
her, he fancied it would be a very fine thing if he could paint your
father as her wooer; that is, paint him just after his coming from his
daily visits to the emigrants. So he watched his chance; every thing
being ready in his painting-room, as I told you before; and one
morning, sure enough, in dropt your father from his walk. But before he
came into the room, cousin Ralph had spied him from the window; and when
your father entered, cousin Ralph had the sitting-chair ready drawn out,
back of his easel, but still fronting toward him, and pretended to be
very busy painting. He said to your father--'Glad to see you, cousin
Pierre; I am just about something here; sit right down there now, and
tell me the news; and I'll sally out with you presently. And tell us
something of the emigrants, cousin Pierre,' he slyly added--wishing, you
see, to get your father's thoughts running that supposed wooing way, so
that he might catch some sort of corresponding expression you see,
little Pierre."

"I don't know that I precisely understand, aunt; but go on, I am so
interested; do go on, dear aunt."

"Well, by many little cunning shifts and contrivances, cousin Ralph kept
your father there sitting, and sitting in the chair, rattling and
rattling away, and so self-forgetful too, that he never heeded that all
the while sly cousin Ralph was painting and painting just as fast as
ever he could; and only making believe laugh at your father's wit; in
short, cousin Ralph was stealing his portrait, my child."

"Not _stealing_ it, I hope," said Pierre, "that would be very wicked."

"Well, then, we won't call it stealing, since I am sure that cousin
Ralph kept your father all the time off from him, and so, could not have
possibly picked his pocket, though indeed, he slyly picked his portrait,
so to speak. And if indeed it was stealing, or any thing of that sort;
yet seeing how much comfort that portrait has been to me, Pierre, and
how much it will yet be to you, I hope; I think we must very heartily
forgive cousin Ralph, for what he then did."

"Yes, I think we must indeed," chimed in little Pierre, now eagerly
eying the very portrait in question, which hung over the mantle.

"Well, by catching your father two or three times more in that way,
cousin Ralph at last finished the painting; and when it was all framed,
and every way completed, he would have surprised your father by hanging
it boldly up in his room among his other portraits, had not your father
one morning suddenly come to him--while, indeed, the very picture itself
was placed face down on a table and cousin Ralph fixing the cord to
it--came to him, and frightened cousin Ralph by quietly saying, that now
that he thought of it, it seemed to him that cousin Ralph had been
playing tricks with him; but he hoped it was not so. 'What do you mean?'
said cousin Ralph, a little flurried. 'You have not been hanging my
portrait up here, have you, cousin Ralph?' said your father, glancing
along the walls. 'I'm glad I don't see it. It is my whim, cousin
Ralph,--and perhaps it is a very silly one,--but if you have been lately
painting my portrait, I want you to destroy it; at any rate, don't show
it to any one, keep it out of sight. What's that you have there, cousin
Ralph?'

"Cousin Ralph was now more and more fluttered; not knowing what to
make--as indeed, to this day, I don't completely myself--of your
father's strange manner. But he rallied, and said--'This, cousin Pierre,
is a secret portrait I have here; you must be aware that we
portrait-painters are sometimes called upon to paint such. I, therefore,
can not show it to you, or tell you any thing about it.'

"'Have you been painting my portrait or not, cousin Ralph?' said your
father, very suddenly and pointedly.

"'I have painted nothing that looks as you there look,' said cousin
Ralph, evasively, observing in your father's face a fierce-like
expression, which he had never seen there before. And more than that,
your father could not get from him."

"And what then?" said little Pierre.

"Why not much, my child; only your father never so much as caught one
glimpse of that picture; indeed, never knew for certain, whether there
was such a painting in the world. Cousin Ralph secretly gave it to me,
knowing how tenderly I loved your father; making me solemnly promise
never to expose it anywhere where your father could ever see it, or any
way hear of it. This promise I faithfully kept; and it was only after
your dear father's death, that I hung it in my chamber. There, Pierre,
you now have the story of the chair-portrait."

"And a very strange one it is," said Pierre--"and so interesting, I
shall never forget it, aunt."

"I hope you never will, my child. Now ring the bell, and we will have a
little fruit-cake, and I will take a glass of wine, Pierre;--do you
hear, my child?--the bell--ring it. Why, what do you do standing there,
Pierre?"

"_Why_ didn't papa want to have cousin Ralph paint his picture, aunt?"

"How these children's minds do run!" exclaimed old aunt Dorothea staring
at little Pierre in amazement--"That indeed is more than I can tell you,
little Pierre. But cousin Ralph had a foolish fancy about it. He used to
tell me, that being in your father's room some few days after the last
scene I described, he noticed there a very wonderful work on
Physiognomy, as they call it, in which the strangest and shadowiest
rules were laid down for detecting people's innermost secrets by
studying their faces. And so, foolish cousin Ralph always flattered
himself, that the reason your father did not want his portrait taken
was, because he was secretly in love with the French young lady, and did
not want his secret published in a portrait; since the wonderful work on
Physiognomy had, as it were, indirectly warned him against running that
risk. But cousin Ralph being such a retired and solitary sort of a
youth, he always had such curious whimsies about things. For my part, I
don't believe your father ever had any such ridiculous ideas on the
subject. To be sure, I myself can not tell you _why_ he did not want his
picture taken; but when you get to be as old as I am, little Pierre, you
will find that every one, even the best of us, at times, is apt to act
very queerly and unaccountably; indeed some things we do, we can not
entirely explain the reason of, even to ourselves, little Pierre. But
you will know all about these strange matters by and by."

"I hope I shall, aunt," said little Pierre--"But, dear aunt, I thought
Marten was to bring in some fruit-cake?"

"Ring the bell for him, then, my child."

"Oh! I forgot," said little Pierre, doing her bidding.

By-and-by, while the aunt was sipping her wine; and the boy eating his
cake, and both their eyes were fixed on the portrait in question; little
Pierre, pushing his stool nearer the picture exclaimed--"Now, aunt, did
papa really look exactly like that? Did you ever see him in that same
buff vest, and huge-figured neckcloth? I remember the seal and key,
pretty well; and it was only a week ago that I saw mamma take them out
of a little locked drawer in her wardrobe--but I don't remember the
queer whiskers; nor the buff vest; nor the huge white-figured neckcloth;
did you ever see papa in that very neckcloth, aunt?"

"My child, it was I that chose the stuff for that neckcloth; yes, and
hemmed it for him, and worked P. G. in one corner; but that aint in the
picture. It is an excellent likeness, my child, neckcloth and all; as he
looked at that time. Why, little Pierre, sometimes I sit here all alone
by myself, gazing, and gazing, and gazing at that face, till I begin to
think your father is looking at me, and smiling at me, and nodding at
me, and saying--Dorothea! Dorothea!"

"How strange," said little Pierre, "I think it begins to look at me now,
aunt. Hark! aunt, it's so silent all round in this old-fashioned room,
that I think I hear a little jingling in the picture, as if the
watch-seal was striking against the key--Hark! aunt."

"Bless me, don't talk so strangely, my child."

"I heard mamma say once--but she did not say so to me--that, for her
part, she did not like aunt Dorothea's picture; it was not a good
likeness, so she said. Why don't mamma like the picture, aunt?"

"My child, you ask very queer questions. If your mamma don't like the
picture, it is for a very plain reason. She has a much larger and finer
one at home, which she had painted for herself; yes, and paid I don't
know how many hundred dollars for it; and that, too, is an excellent
likeness, _that_ must be the reason, little Pierre."

And thus the old aunt and the little child ran on; each thinking the
other very strange; and both thinking the picture still stranger; and
the face in the picture still looked at them frankly, and cheerfully, as
if there was nothing kept concealed; and yet again, a little ambiguously
and mockingly, as if slyly winking to some other picture, to mark what a
very foolish old sister, and what a very silly little son, were growing
so monstrously grave and speculative about a huge white-figured
neckcloth, a buff vest, and a very gentleman-like and amiable
countenance.

And so, after this scene, as usual, one by one, the fleet years ran on;
till the little child Pierre had grown up to be the tall Master Pierre,
and could call the picture his own; and now, in the privacy of his own
little closet, could stand, or lean, or sit before it all day long, if
he pleased, and keep thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking,
till by-and-by all thoughts were blurred, and at last there were no
thoughts at all.

Before the picture was sent to him, in his fifteenth year, it had been
only through the inadvertence of his mother, or rather through a casual
passing into a parlor by Pierre, that he had any way learned that his
mother did not approve of the picture. Because, as then Pierre was
still young, and the picture was the picture of his father, and the
cherished property of a most excellent, and dearly-beloved, affectionate
aunt; therefore the mother, with an intuitive delicacy, had refrained
from knowingly expressing her peculiar opinion in the presence of little
Pierre. And this judicious, though half-unconscious delicacy in the
mother, had been perhaps somewhat singularly answered by a like nicety
of sentiment in the child; for children of a naturally refined
organization, and a gentle nurture, sometimes possess a wonderful, and
often undreamed of, daintiness of propriety, and thoughtfulness, and
forbearance, in matters esteemed a little subtile even by their elders,
and self-elected betters. The little Pierre never disclosed to his
mother that he had, through another person, become aware of her thoughts
concerning Aunt Dorothea's portrait; he seemed to possess an intuitive
knowledge of the circumstance, that from the difference of their
relationship to his father, and for other minute reasons, he could in
some things, with the greater propriety, be more inquisitive concerning
him, with his aunt, than with his mother, especially touching the matter
of the chair-portrait. And Aunt Dorothea's reasons accounting for his
mother's distaste, long continued satisfactory, or at least not
unsufficiently explanatory.

And when the portrait arrived at the Meadows, it so chanced that his
mother was abroad; and so Pierre silently hung it up in his closet; and
when after a day or two his mother returned, he said nothing to her
about its arrival, being still strangely alive to that certain mild
mystery which invested it, and whose sacredness now he was fearful of
violating, by provoking any discussion with his mother about Aunt
Dorothea's gift, or by permitting himself to be improperly curious
concerning the reasons of his mother's private and self-reserved
opinions of it. But the first time--and it was not long after the
arrival of the portrait--that he knew of his mother's having entered
his closet; then, when he next saw her, he was prepared to hear what
she should voluntarily say about the late addition to its
embellishments; but as she omitted all mention of any thing of that
sort, he unobtrusively scanned her countenance, to mark whether any
little clouding emotion might be discoverable there. But he could
discern none. And as all genuine delicacies are by their nature
accumulative; therefore this reverential, mutual, but only tacit
forbearance of the mother and son, ever after continued uninvaded. And
it was another sweet, and sanctified, and sanctifying bond between them.
For, whatever some lovers may sometimes say, love does not always abhor
a secret, as nature is said to abhor a vacuum. Love is built upon
secrets, as lovely Venice upon invisible and incorruptible piles in the
sea. Love's secrets, being mysteries, ever pertain to the transcendent
and the infinite; and so they are as airy bridges, by which our further
shadows pass over into the regions of the golden mists and exhalations;
whence all poetical, lovely thoughts are engendered, and drop into us,
as though pearls should drop from rainbows.

As time went on, the chasteness and pure virginity of this mutual
reservation, only served to dress the portrait in sweeter, because still
more mysterious attractions; and to fling, as it were, fresh fennel and
rosemary around the revered memory of the father. Though, indeed, as
previously recounted, Pierre now and then loved to present to himself
for some fanciful solution the penultimate secret of the portrait, in so
far, as that involved his mother's distaste; yet the cunning analysis in
which such a mental procedure would involve him, never voluntarily
transgressed that sacred limit, where his mother's peculiar repugnance
began to shade off into ambiguous considerations, touching any unknown
possibilities in the character and early life of the original. Not, that
he had altogether forbidden his fancy to range in such fields of
speculation; but all such imaginings must be contributory to that pure,
exalted idea of his father, which, in his soul, was based upon the known
acknowledged facts of his father's life.


V.

If, when the mind roams up and down in the ever-elastic regions of
evanescent invention, any definite form or feature can be assigned to
the multitudinous shapes it creates out of the incessant dissolvings of
its own prior creations; then might we here attempt to hold and define
the least shadowy of those reasons, which about the period of
adolescence we now treat of, more frequently occurred to Pierre,
whenever he essayed to account for his mother's remarkable distaste for
the portrait. Yet will we venture one sketch.

Yes--sometimes dimly thought Pierre--who knows but cousin Ralph, after
all, may have been not so very far from the truth, when he surmised that
at one time my father did indeed cherish some passing emotion for the
beautiful young Frenchwoman. And this portrait being painted at that
precise time, and indeed with the precise purpose of perpetuating some
shadowy testification of the fact in the countenance of the original:
therefore, its expression is not congenial, is not familiar, is not
altogether agreeable to my mother: because, not only did my father's
features never look so to her (since it was afterward that she first
became acquainted with him), but also, that certain womanliness of
women; that thing I should perhaps call a tender jealousy, a fastidious
vanity, in any other lady, enables her to perceive that the glance of
the face in the portrait, is not, in some nameless way, dedicated to
herself, but to some other and unknown object; and therefore, is she
impatient of it, and it is repelling to her; for she must naturally be
intolerant of any imputed reminiscence in my father, which is not in
some way connected with her own recollections of him.

Whereas, the larger and more expansive portrait in the great
drawing-room, taken in the prime of life; during the best and rosiest
days of their wedded union; at the particular desire of my mother; and
by a celebrated artist of her own election, and costumed after her own
taste; and on all hands considered to be, by those who know, a
singularly happy likeness at the period; a belief spiritually reinforced
by my own dim infantile remembrances; for all these reasons, this
drawing-room portrait possesses an inestimable charm to her; there, she
indeed beholds her husband as he had really appeared to her; she does
not vacantly gaze upon an unfamiliar phantom called up from the distant,
and, to her, well-nigh fabulous days of my father's bachelor life. But
in that other portrait, she sees rehearsed to her fond eyes, the latter
tales and legends of his devoted wedded love. Yes, I think now that I
plainly see it must be so. And yet, ever new conceits come vaporing up
in me, as I look on the strange chair-portrait: which, though so very
much more unfamiliar to me, than it can possibly be to my mother, still
sometimes seems to say--Pierre, believe not the drawing-room painting;
that is not thy father; or, at least, is not _all_ of thy father.
Consider in thy mind, Pierre, whether we two paintings may not make only
one. Faithful wives are ever over-fond to a certain imaginary image of
their husbands; and faithful widows are ever over-reverential to a
certain imagined ghost of that same imagined image, Pierre. Look again,
I am thy father as he more truly was. In mature life, the world overlays
and varnishes us, Pierre; the thousand proprieties and polished
finenesses and grimaces intervene, Pierre; then, we, as it were,
abdicate ourselves, and take unto us another self, Pierre; in youth we
_are_, Pierre, but in age we _seem_. Look again. I am thy real father,
so much the more truly, as thou thinkest thou recognizest me not,
Pierre. To their young children, fathers are not wont to unfold
themselves entirely, Pierre. There are a thousand and one odd little
youthful peccadilloes, that we think we may as well not divulge to them,
Pierre. Consider this strange, ambiguous smile, Pierre; more narrowly
regard this mouth. Behold, what is this too ardent and, as it were,
unchastened light in these eyes, Pierre? I am thy father, boy. There was
once a certain, oh, but too lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Youth is
hot, and temptation strong, Pierre; and in the minutest moment momentous
things are irrevocably done, Pierre; and Time sweeps on, and the thing
is not always carried down by its stream, but may be left stranded on
its bank; away beyond, in the young, green countries, Pierre. Look
again. Doth thy mother dislike me for naught? Consider. Do not all her
spontaneous, loving impressions, ever strive to magnify, and
spiritualize, and deify, her husband's memory, Pierre? Then why doth she
cast despite upon me; and never speak to thee of me; and why dost thou
thyself keep silence before her, Pierre? Consider. Is there no little
mystery here? Probe a little, Pierre. Never fear, never fear. No matter
for thy father now. Look, do I not smile?--yes, and with an unchangeable
smile; and thus have I unchangeably smiled for many long years gone by,
Pierre. Oh, it is a permanent smile! Thus I smiled to cousin Ralph; and
thus in thy dear old Aunt Dorothea's parlor, Pierre; and just so, I
smile here to thee, and even thus in thy father's later life, when his
body may have been in grief, still--hidden away in Aunt Dorothea's
secretary--I thus smiled as before; and just so I'd smile were I now
hung up in the deepest dungeon of the Spanish Inquisition, Pierre;
though suspended in outer darkness, still would I smile with this smile,
though then not a soul should be near. Consider; for a smile is the
chosen vehicle for all ambiguities, Pierre. When we would deceive, we
smile; when we are hatching any nice little artifice, Pierre; only just
a little gratifying our own sweet little appetites, Pierre; then watch
us, and out comes the odd little smile. Once upon a time, there was a
lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Have you carefully, and analytically,
and psychologically, and metaphysically, considered her belongings and
surroundings, and all her incidentals, Pierre? Oh, a strange sort of
story, that, thy dear old Aunt Dorothea once told thee, Pierre. I once
knew a credulous old soul, Pierre. Probe, probe a little--see--there
seems one little crack there, Pierre--a wedge, a wedge. Something ever
comes of all persistent inquiry; we are not so continually curious for
nothing, Pierre; not for nothing, do we so intrigue and become wily
diplomatists, and glozers with our own minds, Pierre; and afraid of
following the Indian trail from the open plain into the dark thickets,
Pierre; but enough; a word to the wise.

Thus sometimes in the mystical, outer quietude of the long country
nights; either when the hushed mansion was banked round by the
thick-fallen December snows, or banked round by the immovable white
August moonlight; in the haunted repose of a wide story, tenanted only
by himself; and sentineling his own little closet; and standing guard,
as it were, before the mystical tent of the picture; and ever watching
the strangely concealed lights of the meanings that so mysteriously
moved to and fro within; thus sometimes stood Pierre before the portrait
of his father, unconsciously throwing himself open to all those
ineffable hints and ambiguities, and undefined half-suggestions, which
now and then people the soul's atmosphere, as thickly as in a soft,
steady snow-storm, the snow-flakes people the air. Yet as often starting
from these reveries and trances, Pierre would regain the assured element
of consciously bidden and self-propelled thought; and then in a moment
the air all cleared, not a snow-flake descended, and Pierre, upbraiding
himself for his self-indulgent infatuation, would promise never again
to fall into a midnight revery before the chair-portrait of his father.
Nor did the streams of these reveries seem to leave any conscious
sediment in his mind; they were so light and so rapid, that they rolled
their own alluvial along; and seemed to leave all Pierre's
thought-channels as clean and dry as though never any alluvial stream
had rolled there at all.

And so still in his sober, cherishing memories, his father's
beatification remained untouched; and all the strangeness of the
portrait only served to invest his idea with a fine, legendary romance;
the essence whereof was that very mystery, which at other times was so
subtly and evilly significant.

But now, _now!_--Isabel's letter read: swift as the first light that
slides from the sun, Pierre saw all preceding ambiguities, all mysteries
ripped open as if with a keen sword, and forth trooped thickening
phantoms of an infinite gloom. Now his remotest infantile
reminiscences--the wandering mind of his father--the empty hand, and the
ashen--the strange story of Aunt Dorothea--the mystical midnight
suggestions of the portrait itself; and, above all, his mother's
intuitive aversion, all, all overwhelmed him with reciprocal
testimonies.

And now, by irresistible intuitions, all that had been inexplicably
mysterious to him in the portrait, and all that had been inexplicably
familiar in the face, most magically these now coincided; the merriness
of the one not inharmonious with the mournfulness of the other, but by
some ineffable correlativeness, they reciprocally identified each other,
and, as it were, melted into each other, and thus interpenetratingly
uniting, presented lineaments of an added supernaturalness.

On all sides, the physical world of solid objects now slidingly
displaced itself from around him, and he floated into an ether of
visions; and, starting to his feet with clenched hands and outstaring
eyes at the transfixed face in the air, he ejaculated that wonderful
verse from Dante, descriptive of the two mutually absorbing shapes in
the Inferno:

        "Ah! how dost thou change,
    Agnello! See! thou art not double now,
    Nor only one!"




BOOK V.

MISGIVINGS AND PREPARATIONS.


I.

It was long after midnight when Pierre returned to the house. He had
rushed forth in that complete abandonment of soul, which, in so ardent a
temperament, attends the first stages of any sudden and tremendous
affliction; but now he returned in pallid composure, for the calm spirit
of the night, and the then risen moon, and the late revealed stars, had
all at last become as a strange subduing melody to him, which, though at
first trampled and scorned, yet by degrees had stolen into the windings
of his heart, and so shed abroad its own quietude in him. Now, from his
height of composure, he firmly gazed abroad upon the charred landscape
within him; as the timber man of Canada, forced to fly from the
conflagration of his forests, comes back again when the fires have
waned, and unblinkingly eyes the immeasurable fields of fire-brands that
here and there glow beneath the wide canopy of smoke.

It has been said, that always when Pierre would seek solitude in its
material shelter and walled isolation, then the closet communicating
with his chamber was his elected haunt. So, going to his room, he took
up the now dim-burning lamp he had left there, and instinctively entered
that retreat, seating himself, with folded arms and bowed head, in the
accustomed dragon-footed old chair. With leaden feet, and heart now
changing from iciness to a strange sort of indifference, and a numbing
sensation stealing over him, he sat there awhile, till, like the resting
traveler in snows, he began to struggle against this inertness as the
most treacherous and deadliest of symptoms. He looked up, and found
himself fronted by the no longer wholly enigmatical, but still
ambiguously smiling picture of his father. Instantly all his
consciousness and his anguish returned, but still without power to shake
the grim tranquillity which possessed him. Yet endure the smiling
portrait he could not; and obeying an irresistible nameless impulse, he
rose, and without unhanging it, reversed the picture on the wall.

This brought to sight the defaced and dusty back, with some wrinkled,
tattered paper over the joints, which had become loosened from the
paste. "Oh, symbol of thy reversed idea in my soul," groaned Pierre;
"thou shalt not hang thus. Rather cast thee utterly out, than
conspicuously insult thee so. I will no more have a father." He removed
the picture wholly from the wall, and the closet; and concealed it in a
large chest, covered with blue chintz, and locked it up there. But
still, in a square space of slightly discolored wall, the picture still
left its shadowy, but vacant and desolate trace. He now strove to banish
the least trace of his altered father, as fearful that at present all
thoughts concerning him were not only entirely vain, but would prove
fatally distracting and incapacitating to a mind, which was now loudly
called upon, not only to endure a signal grief, but immediately to act
upon it. Wild and cruel case, youth ever thinks; but mistakenly; for
Experience well knows, that action, though it seems an aggravation of
woe, is really an alleviative; though permanently to alleviate pain, we
must first dart some added pangs.

Nor now, though profoundly sensible that his whole previous moral being
was overturned, and that for him the fair structure of the world must,
in some then unknown way, be entirely rebuilded again, from the
lowermost corner stone up; nor now did Pierre torment himself with the
thought of that last desolation; and how the desolate place was to be
made flourishing again. He seemed to feel that in his deepest soul,
lurked an indefinite but potential faith, which could rule in the
interregnum of all hereditary beliefs, and circumstantial persuasions;
not wholly, he felt, was his soul in anarchy. The indefinite regent had
assumed the scepter as its right; and Pierre was not entirely given up
to his grief's utter pillage and sack.

To a less enthusiastic heart than Pierre's the foremost question in
respect to Isabel which would have presented itself, would have been,
_What_ must I do? But such a question never presented itself to Pierre;
the spontaneous responsiveness of his being left no shadow of
dubiousness as to the direct point he must aim at. But if the object was
plain, not so the path to it. _How_ must I do it? was a problem for
which at first there seemed no chance of solution. But without being
entirely aware of it himself, Pierre was one of those spirits, which not
in a determinate and sordid scrutiny of small pros and cons--but in an
impulsive subservience to the god-like dictation of events themselves,
find at length the surest solution of perplexities, and the brightest
prerogative of command. And as for him, _What_ must I do? was a question
already answered by the inspiration of the difficulty itself; so now he,
as it were, unconsciously discharged his mind, for the present, of all
distracting considerations concerning _How_ he should do it; assured
that the coming interview with Isabel could not but unerringly inspire
him there. Still, the inspiration which had thus far directed him had
not been entirely mute and undivulging as to many very bitter things
which Pierre foresaw in the wide sea of trouble into which he was
plunged.

If it be the sacred province and--by the wisest, deemed--the inestimable
compensation of the heavier woes, that they both purge the soul of
gay-hearted errors and replenish it with a saddened truth; that holy
office is not so much accomplished by any covertly inductive reasoning
process, whose original motive is received from the particular
affliction; as it is the magical effect of the admission into man's
inmost spirit of a before unexperienced and wholly inexplicable element,
which like electricity suddenly received into any sultry atmosphere of
the dark, in all directions splits itself into nimble lances of
purifying light; which at one and the same instant discharge all the air
of sluggishness and inform it with an illuminating property; so that
objects which before, in the uncertainty of the dark, assumed shadowy
and romantic outlines, now are lighted up in their substantial
realities; so that in these flashing revelations of grief's wonderful
fire, we see all things as they are; and though, when the electric
element is gone, the shadows once more descend, and the false outlines
of objects again return; yet not with their former power to deceive; for
now, even in the presence of the falsest aspects, we still retain the
impressions of their immovable true ones, though, indeed, once more
concealed.

Thus with Pierre. In the joyous young times, ere his great grief came
upon him, all the objects which surrounded him were concealingly
deceptive. Not only was the long-cherished image of his rather now
transfigured before him from a green foliaged tree into a blasted trunk,
but every other image in his mind attested the universality of that
electral light which had darted into his soul. Not even his lovely,
immaculate mother, remained entirely untouched, unaltered by the shock.
At her changed aspect, when first revealed to him, Pierre had gazed in a
panic; and now, when the electrical storm had gone by, he retained in
his mind, that so suddenly revealed image, with an infinite
mournfulness. She, who in her less splendid but finer and more spiritual
part, had ever seemed to Pierre not only as a beautiful saint before
whom to offer up his daily orisons, but also as a gentle lady-counsellor
and confessor, and her revered chamber as a soft satin-hung cabinet and
confessional;--his mother was no longer this all-alluring thing; no
more, he too keenly felt, could he go to his mother, as to one who
entirely sympathized with him; as to one before whom he could almost
unreservedly unbosom himself; as to one capable of pointing out to him
the true path where he seemed most beset. Wonderful, indeed, was that
electric insight which Fate had now given him into the vital character
of his mother. She well might have stood all ordinary tests; but when
Pierre thought of the touchstone of his immense strait applied to her
spirit, he felt profoundly assured that she would crumble into nothing
before it.

She was a noble creature, but formed chiefly for the gilded prosperities
of life, and hitherto mostly used to its unruffled serenities; bred and
expanded, in all developments, under the sole influence of hereditary
forms and world-usages. Not his refined, courtly, loving, equable
mother, Pierre felt, could unreservedly, and like a heaven's heroine,
meet the shock of his extraordinary emergency, and applaud, to his
heart's echo, a sublime resolve, whose execution should call down the
astonishment and the jeers of the world.

My mother!--dearest mother!--God hath given me a sister, and unto thee a
daughter, and covered her with the world's extremest infamy and scorn,
that so I and thou--_thou_, my mother, mightest gloriously own her, and
acknowledge her, and,---- Nay, nay, groaned Pierre, never, never, could
such syllables be one instant tolerated by her. Then, high-up, and
towering, and all-forbidding before Pierre grew the before unthought of
wonderful edifice of his mother's immense pride;--her pride of birth,
her pride of affluence, her pride of purity, and all the pride of
high-born, refined, and wealthy Life, and all the Semiramian pride of
woman. Then he staggered back upon himself, and only found support in
himself. Then Pierre felt that deep in him lurked a divine
unidentifiableness, that owned no earthly kith or kin. Yet was this
feeling entirely lonesome, and orphan-like. Fain, then, for one moment,
would he have recalled the thousand sweet illusions of Life; tho'
purchased at the price of Life's Truth; so that once more he might not
feel himself driven out an infant Ishmael into the desert, with no
maternal Hagar to accompany and comfort him.

Still, were these emotions without prejudice to his own love for his
mother, and without the slightest bitterness respecting her; and, least
of all, there was no shallow disdain toward her of superior virtue. He
too plainly saw, that not his mother had made his mother; but the
Infinite Haughtiness had first fashioned her; and then the haughty world
had further molded her; nor had a haughty Ritual omitted to finish her.

Wonderful, indeed, we repeat it, was the electrical insight which Pierre
now had into the character of his mother, for not even the vivid
recalling of her lavish love for him could suffice to gainsay his sudden
persuasion. Love me she doth, thought Pierre, but how? Loveth she me
with the love past all understanding? that love, which in the loved
one's behalf, would still calmly confront all hate? whose most
triumphing hymn, triumphs only by swelling above all opposing taunts and
despite?--Loving mother, here have I a loved, but world-infamous sister
to own;--and if thou lovest me, mother, thy love will love her, too, and
in the proudest drawing-room take her so much the more proudly by the
hand.--And as Pierre thus in fancy led Isabel before his mother; and in
fancy led her away, and felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth,
with her transfixing look of incredulous, scornful horror; then Pierre's
enthusiastic heart sunk in and in, and caved clean away in him, as he so
poignantly felt his first feeling of the dreary heart-vacancies of the
conventional life. Oh heartless, proud, ice-gilded world, how I hate
thee, he thought, that thy tyrannous, insatiate grasp, thus now in my
bitterest need--thus doth rob me even of my mother; thus doth make me
now doubly an orphan, without a green grave to bedew. My tears,--could
I weep them,--must now be wept in the desolate places; now to me is it,
as though both father and mother had gone on distant voyages, and,
returning, died in unknown seas.

She loveth me, ay;--but why? Had I been cast in a cripple's mold, how
then? Now, do I remember that in her most caressing love, there ever
gleamed some scaly, glittering folds of pride. Me she loveth with
pride's love; in me she thinks she seeth her own curled and haughty
beauty; before my glass she stands,--pride's priestess--and to her
mirrored image, not to me, she offers up her offerings of kisses. Oh,
small thanks I owe thee, Favorable Goddess, that didst clothe this form
with all the beauty of a man, that so thou mightest hide from me all the
truth of a man. Now I see that in his beauty a man is snared, and made
stone-blind, as the worm within its silk. Welcome then be Ugliness and
Poverty and Infamy, and all ye other crafty ministers of Truth, that
beneath the hoods and rags of beggars hide yet the belts and crowns of
kings. And dimmed be all beauty that must own the clay; and dimmed be
all wealth, and all delight, and all the annual prosperities of earth,
that but gild the links, and stud with diamonds the base rivets and the
chains of Lies. Oh, now methinks I a little see why of old the men _of_
Truth went barefoot, girded with a rope, and ever moving under
mournfulness as underneath a canopy. I remember now those first wise
words, wherewith our Savior Christ first spoke in his first speech to
men:--'Blessed are the poor in spirit, and blessed they that mourn.' Oh,
hitherto I have but piled up words; bought books, and bought some small
experiences, and builded me in libraries; now I sit down and read. Oh,
now I know the night, and comprehend the sorceries of the moon, and all
the dark persuadings that have their birth in storms and winds. Oh, not
long will Joy abide, when Truth doth come; nor Grief her laggard be.
Well may this head hang on my breast--it holds too much; well may my
heart knock at my ribs,--prisoner impatient of his iron bars. Oh, men
are jailers all; jailers of themselves; and in Opinion's world
ignorantly hold their noblest part a captive to their vilest; as
disguised royal Charles when caught by peasants. The heart! the heart!
'tis God's anointed; let me pursue the heart!


II.

But if the presentiment in Pierre of his mother's pride, as bigotedly
hostile to the noble design he cherished; if this feeling was so
wretched to him; far more so was the thought of another and a deeper
hostility, arising from her more spiritual part. For her pride would not
be so scornful, as her wedded memories reject with horror, the
unmentionable imputation involved in the mere fact of Isabel's
existence. In what galleries of conjecture, among what horrible haunting
toads and scorpions, would such a revelation lead her? When Pierre
thought of this, the idea of at all divulging his secret to his mother,
not only was made repelling by its hopelessness, as an infirm attack
upon her citadel of pride, but was made in the last degree inhuman, as
torturing her in her tenderest recollections, and desecrating the
whitest altar in her sanctuary.

Though the conviction that he must never disclose his secret to his
mother was originally an unmeditated, and as it were, an inspired one;
yet now he was almost pains-taking in scrutinizing the entire
circumstances of the matter, in order that nothing might be overlooked.
For already he vaguely felt, that upon the concealment, or the
disclosure of this thing, with reference to his mother, hinged his whole
future course of conduct, his whole earthly weal, and Isabel's. But the
more and the more that he pondered upon it, the more and the more fixed
became his original conviction. He considered that in the case of a
disclosure, all human probability pointed to his mother's scornful
rejection of his suit as a pleader for Isabel's honorable admission into
the honorable mansion of the Glendinnings. Then in that case,
unconsciously thought Pierre, I shall have given the deep poison of a
miserable truth to my mother, without benefit to any, and positive harm
to all. And through Pierre's mind there then darted a baleful thought;
how that the truth should not always be paraded; how that sometimes a
lie is heavenly, and truth infernal. Filially infernal, truly, thought
Pierre, if I should by one vile breath of truth, blast my father's
blessed memory in the bosom of my mother, and plant the sharpest dagger
of grief in her soul. I will not do it!

But as this resolution in him opened up so dark and wretched a
background to his view, he strove to think no more of it now, but
postpone it until the interview with Isabel should have in some way more
definitely shaped his purposes. For, when suddenly encountering the
shock of new and unanswerable revelations, which he feels must
revolutionize all the circumstances of his life, man, at first, ever
seeks to shun all conscious definitiveness in his thoughts and purposes;
as assured, that the lines that shall precisely define his present
misery, and thereby lay out his future path; these can only be defined
by sharp stakes that cut into his heart.


III.

Most melancholy of all the hours of earth, is that one long, gray hour,
which to the watcher by the lamp intervenes between the night and day;
when both lamp and watcher, over-tasked, grow sickly in the pallid
light; and the watcher, seeking for no gladness in the dawn, sees naught
but garish vapors there; and almost invokes a curse upon the public
day, that shall invade his lonely night of sufferance.

The one small window of his closet looked forth upon the meadow, and
across the river, and far away to the distant heights, storied with the
great deeds of the Glendinnings. Many a time had Pierre sought this
window before sunrise, to behold the blood-red, out-flinging dawn, that
would wrap those purple hills as with a banner. But now the morning
dawned in mist and rain, and came drizzlingly upon his heart. Yet as the
day advanced, and once more showed to him the accustomed features of his
room by that natural light, which, till this very moment, had never
lighted him but to his joy; now that the day, and not the night, was
witness to his woe; now first the dread reality came appallingly upon
him. A sense of horrible forlornness, feebleness, impotence, and
infinite, eternal desolation possessed him. It was not merely mental,
but corporeal also. He could not stand; and when he tried to sit, his
arms fell floorwards as tied to leaden weights. Dragging his ball and
chain, he fell upon his bed; for when the mind is cast down, only in
sympathetic proneness can the body rest; whence the bed is often Grief's
first refuge. Half stupefied, as with opium, he fell into the
profoundest sleep.

In an hour he awoke, instantly recalling all the previous night; and now
finding himself a little strengthened, and lying so quietly and silently
there, almost without bodily consciousness, but his soul unobtrusively
alert; careful not to break the spell by the least movement of a limb,
or the least turning of his head. Pierre steadfastly faced his grief,
and looked deep down into its eyes; and thoroughly, and calmly, and
summarily comprehended it now--so at least he thought--and what it
demanded from him; and what he must quickly do in its more immediate
sequences; and what that course of conduct was, which he must pursue in
the coming unevadable breakfast interview with his mother; and what, for
the present must be his plan with Lucy. His time of thought was brief.
Rising from his bed, he steadied himself upright a moment; and then
going to his writing-desk, in a few at first faltering, but at length
unlagging lines, traced the following note:

     "I must ask pardon of you, Lucy, for so strangely absenting myself
     last night. But you know me well enough to be very sure that I
     would not have done so without important cause. I was in the street
     approaching your cottage, when a message reached me, imperatively
     calling me away. It is a matter which will take up all my time and
     attention for, possibly, two or three days. I tell you this, now,
     that you may be prepared for it. And I know that however unwelcome
     this may be to you, you will yet bear with it for my sake; for,
     indeed, and indeed, Lucy dear, I would not dream of staying from
     you so long, unless irresistibly coerced to it. Do not come to the
     mansion until I come to you; and do not manifest any curiosity or
     anxiety about me, should you chance in the interval to see my
     mother in any other place. Keep just as cheerful as if I were by
     you all the time. Do this, now, I conjure you; and so farewell!"

He folded the note, and was about sealing it, when he hesitated a
moment, and instantly unfolding it, read it to himself. But he could not
adequately comprehend his own writing, for a sudden cloud came over him.
This passed; and taking his pen hurriedly again, he added the following
postscript:

     "Lucy, this note may seem mysterious; but if it shall, I did not
     mean to make it so; nor do I know that I could have helped it. But
     the only reason is this, Lucy: the matter which I have alluded to,
     is of such a nature, that, for the present I stand virtually
     pledged not to disclose it to any person but those more directly
     involved in it. But where one can not reveal the thing itself, it
     only makes it the more mysterious to write round it this way. So
     merely know me entirely unmenaced in person, and eternally faithful
     to you; and so be at rest till I see you."

Then sealing the note, and ringing the bell, he gave it in strict charge
to a servant, with directions to deliver it at the earliest practicable
moment, and not wait for any answer. But as the messenger was departing
the chamber, he called him back, and taking the sealed note again, and
hollowing it in his hand, scrawled inside of it in pencil the following
words: "Don't write me; don't inquire for me;" and then returned it to
the man, who quitted him, leaving Pierre rooted in thought in the middle
of the room.

But he soon roused himself, and left the mansion; and seeking the cool,
refreshing meadow stream, where it formed a deep and shady pool, he
bathed; and returning invigorated to his chamber, changed his entire
dress; in the little trifling concernments of his toilette, striving
utterly to banish all thought of that weight upon his soul. Never did he
array himself with more solicitude for effect. It was one of his fond
mother's whims to perfume the lighter contents of his wardrobe; and it
was one of his own little femininenesses--of the sort sometimes
curiously observable in very robust-bodied and big-souled men, as
Mohammed, for example--to be very partial to all pleasant essences. So
that when once more he left the mansion in order to freshen his cheek
anew to meet the keen glance of his mother--to whom the secret of his
possible pallor could not be divulged; Pierre went forth all redolent;
but alas! his body only the embalming cerements of his buried dead
within.


IV.

His stroll was longer than he meant; and when he returned up the Linden
walk leading to the breakfast-room, and ascended the piazza steps, and
glanced into the wide window there, he saw his mother seated not far
from the table; her face turned toward his own; and heard her gay voice,
and peculiarly light and buoyant laugh, accusing him, and not her, of
being the morning's laggard now. Dates was busy among some spoons and
napkins at a side-stand.

Summoning all possible cheerfulness to his face, Pierre entered the
room. Remembering his carefulness in bathing and dressing; and knowing
that there is no air so calculated to give bloom to the cheek as that of
a damply fresh, cool, and misty morning, Pierre persuaded himself that
small trace would now be found on him of his long night of watching.

'Good morning, sister;--Such a famous stroll! I have been all the way
to---- '

'Where? good heavens! where? for such a look as that!--why, Pierre,
Pierre? what ails thee? Dates, I will touch the bell presently.'

As the good servitor fumbled for a moment among the napkins, as if
unwilling to stir so summarily from his accustomed duty, and not without
some of a well and long-tried old domestic's vague, intermitted
murmuring, at being wholly excluded from a matter of family interest;
Mrs. Glendinning kept her fixed eye on Pierre, who, unmindful that the
breakfast was not yet entirely ready, seating himself at the table,
began helping himself--though but nervously enough--to the cream and
sugar. The moment the door closed on Dates, the mother sprang to her
feet, and threw her arms around her son; but in that embrace, Pierre
miserably felt that their two hearts beat not together in such unison as
before.

'What haggard thing possesses thee, my son? Speak, this is
incomprehensible! Lucy;--fie!--not she?--no love-quarrel there;--speak,
speak, my darling boy!

'My dear sister,' began Pierre.

'Sister me not, now, Pierre;--I am thy mother.'

'Well, then, dear mother, thou art quite as incomprehensible to me as I
to---- '

'Talk faster, Pierre--this calmness freezes me. Tell me; for, by my
soul, something most wonderful must have happened to thee. Thou art my
son, and I command thee. It is not Lucy; it is something else. Tell me.'

'My dear mother,' said Pierre, impulsively moving his chair backward
from the table, 'if thou wouldst only believe me when I say it, I have
really nothing to tell thee. Thou knowest that sometimes, when I happen
to feel very foolishly studious and philosophical, I sit up late in my
chamber; and then, regardless of the hour, foolishly run out into the
air, for a long stroll across the meadows. I took such a stroll last
night; and had but little time left for napping afterward; and what nap
I had I was none the better for. But I won't be so silly again, soon; so
do, dearest mother, stop looking at me, and let us to breakfast.--Dates!
Touch the bell there, sister.'

'Stay, Pierre!--There is a heaviness in this hour. I feel, I know, that
thou art deceiving me;--perhaps I erred in seeking to wrest thy secret
from thee; but believe me, my son, I never thought thou hadst any secret
thing from me, except thy first love for Lucy--and that, my own
womanhood tells me, was most pardonable and right. But now, what can it
be? Pierre, Pierre! consider well before thou determinest upon
withholding confidence from me. I am thy mother. It may prove a fatal
thing. Can that be good and virtuous, Pierre, which shrinks from a
mother's knowledge? Let us not loose hands so, Pierre; thy confidence
from me, mine goes from thee. Now, shall I touch the bell?'

Pierre, who had thus far been vainly seeking to occupy his hands with
his cap and spoon; he now paused, and unconsciously fastened a
speechless glance of mournfulness upon his mother. Again he felt
presentiments of his mother's newly-revealed character. He foresaw the
supposed indignation of her wounded pride; her gradually estranged
affections thereupon; he knew her firmness, and her exaggerated ideas of
the inalienable allegiance of a son. He trembled to think, that now
indeed was come the first initial moment of his heavy trial. But though
he knew all the significance of his mother's attitude, as she stood
before him, intently eying him, with one hand upon the bell-cord; and
though he felt that the same opening of the door that should now admit
Dates, could not but give eternal exit to all confidence between him and
his mother; and though he felt, too, that this was his mother's latent
thought; nevertheless, he was girded up in his well-considered
resolution.

"Pierre, Pierre! shall I touch the bell?"

"Mother, stay!--yes do, sister."

The bell was rung; and at the summons Dates entered; and looking with
some significance at Mrs. Glendinning, said,--"His Reverence has come,
my mistress, and is now in the west parlor."

"Show Mr. Falsgrave in here immediately; and bring up the coffee; did I
not tell you I expected him to breakfast this morning?"

"Yes, my mistress; but I thought that--that--just then"--glancing
alarmedly from mother to son.

"Oh, my good Dates, nothing has happened," cried Mrs. Glendinning,
lightly, and with a bitter smile, looking toward her son,--"show Mr.
Falsgrave in. Pierre, I did not see thee, to tell thee, last night; but
Mr. Falsgrave breakfasts with us by invitation. I was at the parsonage
yesterday, to see him about that wretched affair of Delly, and we are
finally to settle upon what is to be done this morning. But my mind is
made up concerning Ned; no such profligate shall pollute this place;
nor shall the disgraceful Delly."

Fortunately, the abrupt entrance of the clergyman, here turned away
attention from the sudden pallor of Pierre's countenance, and afforded
him time to rally.

"Good morning, madam; good morning, sir;" said Mr. Falsgrave, in a
singularly mild, flute-like voice, turning to Mrs. Glendinning and her
son; the lady receiving him with answering cordiality, but Pierre too
embarrassed just then to be equally polite. As for one brief moment Mr.
Falsgrave stood before the pair, ere taking the offered chair from
Dates, his aspect was eminently attractive.

There are certain ever-to-be-cherished moments in the life of almost any
man, when a variety of little foregoing circumstances all unite to make
him temporarily oblivious of whatever may be hard and bitter in his
life, and also to make him most amiably and ruddily disposed; when the
scene and company immediately before him are highly agreeable; and if at
such a time he chance involuntarily to put himself into a scenically
favorable bodily posture; then, in that posture, however transient, thou
shalt catch the noble stature of his Better Angel; catch a heavenly
glimpse of the latent heavenliness of man. It was so with Mr. Falsgrave
now. Not a house within a circuit of fifty miles that he preferred
entering before the mansion-house of Saddle Meadows; and though the
business upon which he had that morning come, was any thing but
relishable to him, yet that subject was not in his memory then. Before
him stood united in one person, the most exalted lady and the most
storied beauty of all the country round; and the finest, most
intellectual, and most congenial youth he knew. Before him also, stood
the generous foundress and the untiring patroness of the beautiful
little marble church, consecrated by the good Bishop, not four years
gone by. Before him also, stood--though in polite disguise--the same
untiring benefactress, from whose purse, he could not help suspecting,
came a great part of his salary, nominally supplied by the rental of the
pews. He had been invited to breakfast; a meal, which, in a
well-appointed country family, is the most cheerful circumstance of
daily life; he smelt all Java's spices in the aroma from the silver
coffee-urn; and well he knew, what liquid deliciousness would soon come
from it. Besides all this, and many more minutenesses of the kind, he
was conscious that Mrs. Glendinning entertained a particular partiality
for him (though not enough to marry him, as he ten times knew by very
bitter experience), and that Pierre was not behindhand in his esteem.

And the clergyman was well worthy of it. Nature had been royally
bountiful to him in his person. In his happier moments, as the present,
his face was radiant with a courtly, but mild benevolence; his person
was nobly robust and dignified; while the remarkable smallness of his
feet, and the almost infantile delicacy, and vivid whiteness and purity
of his hands, strikingly contrasted with his fine girth and stature. For
in countries like America, where there is no distinct hereditary caste
of gentlemen, whose order is factitiously perpetuated as race-horses and
lords are in kingly lands; and especially, in those agricultural
districts, where, of a hundred hands, that drop a ballot for the
Presidency, ninety-nine shall be of the brownest and the brawniest; in
such districts, this daintiness of the fingers, when united with a
generally manly aspect, assumes a remarkableness unknown in European
nations.

This most prepossessing form of the clergyman lost nothing by the
character of his manners, which were polished and unobtrusive, but
peculiarly insinuating, without the least appearance of craftiness or
affectation. Heaven had given him his fine, silver-keyed person for a
flute to play on in this world; and he was nearly the perfect master of
it. His graceful motions had the undulatoriness of melodious sounds.
You almost thought you heard, not saw him. So much the wonderful, yet
natural gentleman he seemed, that more than once Mrs. Glendinning had
held him up to Pierre as a splendid example of the polishing and
gentlemanizing influences of Christianity upon the mind and manners;
declaring, that extravagant as it might seem, she had always been of his
father's fancy,--that no man could be a complete gentleman, and preside
with dignity at his own table, unless he partook of the church's
sacraments. Nor in Mr. Falsgrave's case was this maxim entirely absurd.
The child of a poor northern farmer who had wedded a pretty sempstress,
the clergyman had no heraldic line of ancestry to show, as warrant and
explanation of his handsome person and gentle manners; the first, being
the willful partiality of nature; and the second, the consequence of a
scholastic life, attempered by a taste for the choicest female society,
however small, which he had always regarded as the best relish of
existence. If now his manners thus responded to his person, his mind
answered to them both, and was their finest illustration. Besides his
eloquent persuasiveness in the pulpit, various fugitive papers upon
subjects of nature, art, and literature, attested not only his refined
affinity to all beautiful things, visible or invisible; but likewise
that he possessed a genius for celebrating such things, which in a less
indolent and more ambitious nature, would have been sure to have gained
a fair poet's name ere now. For this Mr. Falsgrave was just hovering
upon his prime of years; a period which, in such a man, is the sweetest,
and, to a mature woman, by far the most attractive of manly life. Youth
has not yet completely gone with its beauty, grace, and strength; nor
has age at all come with its decrepitudes; though the finest undrossed
parts of it--its mildness and its wisdom--have gone on before, as
decorous chamberlains precede the sedan of some crutched king.

Such was this Mr. Falsgrave, who now sat at Mrs. Glendinning's breakfast
table, a corner of one of that lady's generous napkins so inserted into
his snowy bosom, that its folds almost invested him as far down as the
table's edge; and he seemed a sacred priest, indeed, breakfasting in his
surplice.

"Pray, Mr. Falsgrave," said Mrs. Glendinning, "break me off a bit of
that roll."

Whether or not his sacerdotal experiences had strangely refined and
spiritualized so simple a process as breaking bread; or whether it was
from the spotless aspect of his hands: certain it is that Mr. Falsgrave
acquitted himself on this little occasion, in a manner that beheld of
old by Leonardo, might have given that artist no despicable hint
touching his celestial painting. As Pierre regarded him, sitting there
so mild and meek; such an image of white-browed and white-handed, and
napkined immaculateness; and as he felt the gentle humane radiations
which came from the clergyman's manly and rounded beautifulness; and as
he remembered all the good that he knew of this man, and all the good
that he had heard of him, and could recall no blemish in his character;
and as in his own concealed misery and forlornness, he contemplated the
open benevolence, and beaming excellent-heartedness of Mr. Falsgrave,
the thought darted through his mind, that if any living being was
capable of giving him worthy counsel in his strait; and if to any one he
could go with Christian propriety and some small hopefulness, that
person was the one before him.

"Pray, Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, pleasantly, as Pierre was
silently offering to help him to some tongue--"don't let me rob you of
it--pardon me, but you seem to have very little yourself this morning, I
think. An execrable pun, I know: but"--turning toward Mrs.
Glendinning--"when one is made to feel very happy, one is somehow apt to
say very silly things. Happiness and silliness--ah, it's a suspicious
coincidence."

"Mr. Falsgrave," said the hostess--"Your cup is empty. Dates!--We were
talking yesterday, Mr. Falsgrave, concerning that vile fellow, Ned."

"Well, Madam," responded the gentleman, a very little uneasily.

"He shall not stay on any ground of mine; my mind is made up, sir.
Infamous man!--did he not have a wife as virtuous and beautiful now, as
when I first gave her away at your altar?--It was the sheerest and most
gratuitous profligacy."

The clergyman mournfully and assentingly moved his head.

"Such men," continued the lady, flushing with the sincerest
indignation--"are to my way of thinking more detestable than murderers."

"That is being a little hard upon them, my dear Madam," said Mr.
Falsgrave, mildly.

"Do you not think so, Pierre"--now, said the lady, turning earnestly
upon her son--"is not the man, who has sinned like that Ned, worse than
a murderer? Has he not sacrificed one woman completely, and given infamy
to another--to both of them--for their portion. If his own legitimate
boy should now hate him, I could hardly blame him."

"My dear Madam," said the clergyman, whose eyes having followed Mrs.
Glendinning's to her son's countenance, and marking a strange
trepidation there, had thus far been earnestly scrutinizing Pierre's not
wholly repressible emotion;--"My dear Madam," he said, slightly bending
over his stately episcopal-looking person--"Virtue has, perhaps, an
over-ardent champion in you; you grow too warm; but Mr. Glendinning,
here, he seems to grow too cold. Pray, favor us with your views, Mr.
Glendinning?"

"I will not think now of the man," said Pierre, slowly, and looking away
from both his auditors--"let us speak of Delly and her infant--she has,
or had one, I have loosely heard;--their case is miserable indeed."

"The mother deserves it," said the lady, inflexibly--"and the
child--Reverend sir, what are the words of the Bible?"

"'The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children to the third
generation,'" said Mr. Falsgrave, with some slight reluctance in his
tones. "But Madam, that does not mean, that the community is in any way
to take the infamy of the children into their own voluntary hands, as
the conscious delegated stewards of God's inscrutable dispensations.
Because it is declared that the infamous consequences of sin shall be
hereditary, it does not follow that our personal and active loathing of
sin, should descend from the sinful sinner to his sinless child."

"I understand you, sir," said Mrs. Glendinning, coloring slightly, "you
think me too censorious. But if we entirely forget the parentage of the
child, and every way receive the child as we would any other, feel for
it in all respects the same, and attach no sign of ignominy to it--how
then is the Bible dispensation to be fulfilled? Do we not then put
ourselves in the way of its fulfilment, and is that wholly free from
impiety?"

Here it was the clergyman's turn to color a little, and there was a just
perceptible tremor of the under lip.

"Pardon me," continued the lady, courteously, "but if there is any one
blemish in the character of the Reverend Mr. Falsgrave, it is that the
benevolence of his heart, too much warps in him the holy rigor of our
Church's doctrines. For my part, as I loathe the man, I loathe the
woman, and never desire to behold the child."

A pause ensued, during which it was fortunate for Pierre, that by the
social sorcery of such occasions as the present, the eyes of all three
were intent upon the cloth; all three for the moment, giving loose to
their own distressful meditations upon the subject in debate, and Mr.
Falsgrave vexedly thinking that the scene was becoming a little
embarrassing.

Pierre was the first who spoke; as before, he steadfastly kept his eyes
away from both his auditors; but though he did not designate his mother,
something in the tone of his voice showed that what he said was
addressed more particularly to her.

"Since we seem to have been strangely drawn into the ethical aspect of
this melancholy matter," said he, "suppose we go further in it; and let
me ask, how it should be between the legitimate and the illegitimate
child--children of one father--when they shall have passed their
childhood?"

Here the clergyman quickly raising his eyes, looked as surprised and
searchingly at Pierre, as his politeness would permit.

"Upon my word"--said Mrs. Glendinning, hardly less surprised, and making
no attempt at disguising it--"this is an odd question you put; you have
been more attentive to the subject than I had fancied. But what do you
mean, Pierre? I did not entirely understand you."

"Should the legitimate child shun the illegitimate, when one father is
father to both?" rejoined Pierre, bending his head still further over
his plate.

The clergyman looked a little down again, and was silent; but still
turned his head slightly sideways toward his hostess, as if awaiting
some reply to Pierre from her.

"Ask the world, Pierre"--said Mrs. Glendinning warmly--"and ask your own
heart."

"My own heart? I will, Madam"--said Pierre, now looking up steadfastly;
"but what do _you_ think, Mr. Falsgrave?" letting his glance drop
again--"should the one shun the other; should the one refuse his highest
sympathy and perfect love for the other, especially if that other be
deserted by all the rest of the world? What think you would have been
our blessed Savior's thoughts on such a matter? And what was that he so
mildly said to the adulteress?"

A swift color passed over the clergyman's countenance, suffusing even
his expanded brow; he slightly moved in his chair, and looked
uncertainly from Pierre to his mother. He seemed as a shrewd,
benevolent-minded man, placed between opposite opinions--merely
opinions--who, with a full, and doubly-differing persuasion in himself,
still refrains from uttering it, because of an irresistible dislike to
manifesting an absolute dissent from the honest convictions of any
person, whom he both socially and morally esteems.

"Well, what do you reply to my son?"--said Mrs. Glendinning at last.

"Madam and sir"--said the clergyman, now regaining his entire
self-possession. "It is one of the social disadvantages which we of the
pulpit labor under, that we are supposed to know more of the moral
obligations of humanity than other people. And it is a still more
serious disadvantage to the world, that our unconsidered, conversational
opinions on the most complex problems of ethics, are too apt to be
considered authoritative, as indirectly proceeding from the church
itself. Now, nothing can be more erroneous than such notions; and
nothing so embarrasses me, and deprives me of that entire serenity,
which is indispensable to the delivery of a careful opinion on moral
subjects, than when sudden questions of this sort are put to me in
company. Pardon this long preamble, for I have little more to say. It is
not every question, however direct, Mr. Glendinning, which can be
conscientiously answered with a yes or no. Millions of circumstances
modify all moral questions; so that though conscience may possibly
dictate freely in any known special case; yet, by one universal maxim,
to embrace all moral contingencies,--this is not only impossible, but
the attempt, to me, seems foolish."

At this instant, the surplice-like napkin dropped from the clergyman's
bosom, showing a minute but exquisitely cut cameo brooch, representing
the allegorical union of the serpent and dove. It had been the gift of
an appreciative friend, and was sometimes worn on secular occasions like
the present.

"I agree with you, sir"--said Pierre, bowing. "I fully agree with you.
And now, madam, let us talk of something else."

"You madam me very punctiliously this morning, Mr. Glendinning"--said
his mother, half-bitterly smiling, and half-openly offended, but still
more surprised at Pierre's frigid demeanor.

"'Honor thy father and mother;'" said Pierre--"_both_ father and
mother," he unconsciously added. "And now that it strikes me, Mr.
Falsgrave, and now that we have become so strangely polemical this
morning, let me say, that as that command is justly said to be the only
one with a promise, so it seems to be without any contingency in the
application. It would seem--would it not, sir?--that the most deceitful
and hypocritical of fathers should be equally honored by the son, as the
purest."

"So it would certainly seem, according to the strict letter of the
Decalogue--certainly."

"And do you think, sir, that it should be so held, and so applied in
actual life? For instance, should I honor my father, if I knew him to be
a seducer?"

"Pierre! Pierre!" said his mother, profoundly coloring, and half rising;
"there is no need of these argumentative assumptions. You very immensely
forget yourself this morning."

"It is merely the interest of the general question, Madam," returned
Pierre, coldly. "I am sorry. If your former objection does not apply
here, Mr. Falsgrave, will you favor me with an answer to my question?"

"There you are again, Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, thankful for
Pierre's hint; "that is another question in morals absolutely incapable
of a definite answer, which shall be universally applicable." Again the
surplice-like napkin chanced to drop.

"I am tacitly rebuked again then, sir," said Pierre, slowly; "but I
admit that perhaps you are again in the right. And now, Madam, since Mr.
Falsgrave and yourself have a little business together, to which my
presence is not necessary, and may possibly prove quite dispensable,
permit me to leave you. I am going off on a long ramble, so you need not
wait dinner for me. Good morning, Mr. Falsgrave; good morning, Madam,"
looking toward his mother.

As the door closed upon him, Mr. Falsgrave spoke--"Mr. Glendinning looks
a little pale to-day: has he been ill?"

"Not that I know of," answered the lady, indifferently, "but did you
ever see young gentleman so stately as he was! Extraordinary!" she
murmured; "what can this mean--Madam--Madam? But your cup is empty
again, sir"--reaching forth her hand.

"No more, no more, Madam," said the clergyman.

"Madam? pray don't Madam me any more, Mr. Falsgrave; I have taken a
sudden hatred to that title."

"Shall it be Your Majesty, then?" said the clergyman, gallantly; "the
May Queens are so styled, and so should be the Queens of October."

Here the lady laughed. "Come," said she, "let us go into another room,
and settle the affair of that infamous Ned and that miserable Delly."


V.

The swiftness and unrepellableness of the billow which, with its first
shock, had so profoundly whelmed Pierre, had not only poured into his
soul a tumult of entirely new images and emotions, but, for the time, it
almost entirely drove out of him all previous ones. The things that any
way bore directly upon the pregnant fact of Isabel, these things were
all animate and vividly present to him; but the things which bore more
upon himself, and his own personal condition, as now forever involved
with his sister's, these things were not so animate and present to him.
The conjectured past of Isabel took mysterious hold of his father;
therefore, the idea of his father tyrannized over his imagination; and
the possible future of Isabel, as so essentially though indirectly
compromisable by whatever course of conduct his mother might hereafter
ignorantly pursue with regard to himself, as henceforth, through Isabel,
forever altered to her; these considerations brought his mother with
blazing prominence before him.

Heaven, after all, hath been a little merciful to the miserable man; not
entirely untempered to human nature are the most direful blasts of Fate.
When on all sides assailed by prospects of disaster, whose final ends
are in terror hidden from it, the soul of man--either, as instinctively
convinced that it can not battle with the whole host at once; or else,
benevolently blinded to the larger arc of the circle which menacingly
hems it in;--whichever be the truth, the soul of man, thus surrounded,
can not, and does never intelligently confront the totality of its
wretchedness. The bitter drug is divided into separate draughts for him:
to-day he takes one part of his woe; to-morrow he takes more; and so on,
till the last drop is drunk.

Not that in the despotism of other things, the thought of Lucy, and the
unconjecturable suffering into which she might so soon be plunged, owing
to the threatening uncertainty of the state of his own future, as now in
great part and at all hazards dedicated to Isabel; not that this thought
had thus far been alien to him. Icy-cold, and serpent-like, it had
overlayingly crawled in upon his other shuddering imaginings; but those
other thoughts would as often upheave again, and absorb it into
themselves, so that it would in that way soon disappear from his
cotemporary apprehension. The prevailing thoughts connected with Isabel
he now could front with prepared and open eyes; but the occasional
thought of Lucy, when _that_ started up before him, he could only cover
his bewildered eyes with his bewildered hands. Nor was this the
cowardice of selfishness, but the infinite sensitiveness of his soul. He
could bear the agonizing thought of Isabel, because he was immediately
resolved to help her, and to assuage a fellow-being's grief; but, as
yet, he could not bear the thought of Lucy, because the very resolution
that promised balm to Isabel obscurely involved the everlasting peace of
Lucy, and therefore aggravatingly threatened a far more than
fellow-being's happiness.

Well for Pierre it was, that the penciling presentiments of his mind
concerning Lucy as quickly erased as painted their tormenting images.
Standing half-befogged upon the mountain of his Fate, all that part of
the wide panorama was wrapped in clouds to him; but anon those
concealings slid aside, or rather, a quick rent was made in them;
disclosing far below, half-vailed in the lower mist, the winding
tranquil vale and stream of Lucy's previous happy life; through the
swift cloud-rent he caught one glimpse of her expectant and angelic face
peeping from the honey-suckled window of her cottage; and the next
instant the stormy pinions of the clouds locked themselves over it
again; and all was hidden as before; and all went confused in whirling
rack and vapor as before. Only by unconscious inspiration, caught from
the agencies invisible to man, had he been enabled to write that first
obscurely announcing note to Lucy; wherein the collectedness, and the
mildness, and the calmness, were but the natural though insidious
precursors of the stunning bolts on bolts to follow.

But, while thus, for the most part wrapped from his consciousness and
vision, still, the condition of his Lucy, as so deeply affected now, was
still more and more disentangling and defining itself from out its
nearer mist, and even beneath the general upper fog. For when
unfathomably stirred, the subtler elements of man do not always reveal
themselves in the concocting act; but, as with all other potencies, show
themselves chiefly in their ultimate resolvings and results. Strange
wild work, and awfully symmetrical and reciprocal, was that now going on
within the self-apparently chaotic breast of Pierre. As in his own
conscious determinations, the mournful Isabel was being snatched from
her captivity of world-wide abandonment; so, deeper down in the more
secret chambers of his unsuspecting soul, the smiling Lucy, now as dead
and ashy pale, was being bound a ransom for Isabel's salvation. Eye for
eye, and tooth for tooth. Eternally inexorable and unconcerned is Fate,
a mere heartless trader in men's joys and woes.

Nor was this general and spontaneous self-concealment of all the most
momentous interests of his love, as irretrievably involved with Isabel
and his resolution respecting her; nor was this unbidden thing in him
unseconded by the prompting of his own conscious judgment, when in the
tyranny of the master-event itself, that judgment was permitted some
infrequent play. He could not but be aware, that all meditation on Lucy
now was worse than useless. How could he now map out his and her young
life-chart, when all was yet misty-white with creamy breakers! Still
more: divinely dedicated as he felt himself to be; with divine commands
upon him to befriend and champion Isabel, through all conceivable
contingencies of Time and Chance; how could he insure himself against
the insidious inroads of self-interest, and hold intact all his
unselfish magnanimities, if once he should permit the distracting
thought of Lucy to dispute with Isabel's the pervading possession of his
soul?

And if--though but unconsciously as yet--he was almost superhumanly
prepared to make a sacrifice of all objects dearest to him, and cut
himself away from his last hopes of common happiness, should they cross
his grand enthusiast resolution;--if this was so with him; then, how
light as gossamer, and thinner and more impalpable than airiest threads
of gauze, did he hold all common conventional regardings;--his
hereditary duty to his mother, his pledged worldly faith and honor to
the hand and seal of his affiancement?

Not that at present all these things did thus present themselves to
Pierre; but these things were foetally forming in him. Impregnations
from high enthusiasms he had received; and the now incipient offspring
which so stirred, with such painful, vague vibrations in his soul; this,
in its mature development, when it should at last come forth in living
deeds, would scorn all personal relationship with Pierre, and hold his
heart's dearest interests for naught.

Thus, in the Enthusiast to Duty, the heaven-begotten Christ is born; and
will not own a mortal parent, and spurns and rends all mortal bonds.


VI.

One night, one day, and a small part of the one ensuing evening had been
given to Pierre to prepare for the momentous interview with Isabel.

Now, thank God, thought Pierre, the night is past,--the night of Chaos
and of Doom; the day only, and the skirt of evening now remain. May
heaven new-string my soul, and confirm me in the Christ-like feeling I
first felt. May I, in all my least shapeful thoughts still square myself
by the inflexible rule of holy right. Let no unmanly, mean temptation
cross my path this day; let no base stone lie in it. This day I will
forsake the censuses of men, and seek the suffrages of the god-like
population of the trees, which now seem to me a nobler race than man.
Their high foliage shall drop heavenliness upon me; my feet in contact
with their mighty roots, immortal vigor shall so steal into me. Guide
me, gird me, guard me, this day, ye sovereign powers! Bind me in bonds I
can not break; remove all sinister allurings from me; eternally this day
deface in me the detested and distorted images of all the convenient
lies and duty-subterfuges of the diving and ducking moralities of this
earth. Fill me with consuming fire for them; to my life's muzzle, cram
me with your own intent. Let no world-syren come to sing to me this day,
and wheedle from me my undauntedness. I cast my eternal die this day, ye
powers. On my strong faith in ye Invisibles, I stake three whole
felicities, and three whole lives this day. If ye forsake me
now,--farewell to Faith, farewell to Truth, farewell to God; exiled for
aye from God and man, I shall declare myself an equal power with both;
free to make war on Night and Day, and all thoughts and things of mind
and matter, which the upper and the nether firmaments do clasp!


VII.

But Pierre, though, charged with the fire of all divineness, his
containing thing was made of clay. Ah, muskets the gods have made to
carry infinite combustions, and yet made them of clay!

Save me from being bound to Truth, liege lord, as I am now. How shall I
steal yet further into Pierre, and show how this heavenly fire was
helped to be contained in him, by mere contingent things, and things
that he knew not. But I shall follow the endless, winding way,--the
flowing river in the cave of man; careless whither I be led, reckless
where I land.

Was not the face--though mutely mournful--beautiful, bewitchingly? How
unfathomable those most wondrous eyes of supernatural light! In those
charmed depths, Grief and Beauty plunged and dived together. So
beautiful, so mystical, so bewilderingly alluring; speaking of a
mournfulness infinitely sweeter and more attractive than all
mirthfulness; that face of glorious suffering; that face of touching
loveliness; that face was Pierre's own sister's; that face was Isabel's;
that face Pierre had visibly seen; into those same supernatural eyes
our Pierre had looked. Thus, already, and ere the proposed encounter, he
was assured that, in a transcendent degree, womanly beauty, and not
womanly ugliness, invited him to champion the right. Be naught concealed
in this book of sacred truth. How, if accosted in some squalid lane, a
humped, and crippled, hideous girl should have snatched his garment's
hem, with--"Save me, Pierre--love me, own me, brother; I am thy
sister!"--Ah, if man were wholly made in heaven, why catch we
hell-glimpses? Why in the noblest marble pillar that stands beneath the
all-comprising vault, ever should we descry the sinister vein? We lie in
nature very close to God; and though, further on, the stream may be
corrupted by the banks it flows through; yet at the fountain's rim,
where mankind stand, there the stream infallibly bespeaks the fountain.

So let no censorious word be here hinted of mortal Pierre. Easy for me
to slyly hide these things, and always put him before the eye as perfect
as immaculate; unsusceptible to the inevitable nature and the lot of
common men. I am more frank with Pierre than the best men are with
themselves. I am all unguarded and magnanimous with Pierre; therefore
you see his weakness, and therefore only. In reserves men build imposing
characters; not in revelations. He who shall be wholly honest, though
nobler than Ethan Allen; that man shall stand in danger of the meanest
mortal's scorn.




BOOK VI.

ISABEL, AND THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL.


I.

Half wishful that the hour would come; half shuddering that every moment
it still came nearer and more near to him; dry-eyed, but wet with that
dark day's rain; at fall of eve, Pierre emerged from long wanderings in
the primeval woods of Saddle Meadows, and for one instant stood
motionless upon their sloping skirt.

Where he stood was in the rude wood road, only used by sledges in the
time of snow; just where the out-posted trees formed a narrow arch, and
fancied gateway leading upon the far, wide pastures sweeping down toward
the lake. In that wet and misty eve the scattered, shivering pasture
elms seemed standing in a world inhospitable, yet rooted by inscrutable
sense of duty to their place. Beyond, the lake lay in one sheet of
blankness and of dumbness, unstirred by breeze or breath; fast bound
there it lay, with not life enough to reflect the smallest shrub or
twig. Yet in that lake was seen the duplicate, stirless sky above. Only
in sunshine did that lake catch gay, green images; and these but
displaced the imaged muteness of the unfeatured heavens.

On both sides, in the remoter distance, and also far beyond the mild
lake's further shore, rose the long, mysterious mountain masses; shaggy
with pines and hemlocks, mystical with nameless, vapory exhalations, and
in that dim air black with dread and gloom. At their base, profoundest
forests lay entranced, and from their far owl-haunted depths of caves
and rotted leaves, and unused and unregarded inland overgrowth of
decaying wood--for smallest sticks of which, in other climes many a
pauper was that moment perishing; from out the infinite inhumanities of
those profoundest forests, came a moaning, muttering, roaring,
intermitted, changeful sound: rain-shakings of the palsied trees,
slidings of rocks undermined, final crashings of long-riven boughs, and
devilish gibberish of the forest-ghosts.

But more near, on the mild lake's hither shore, where it formed a long
semi-circular and scooped acclivity of corn-fields, there the small and
low red farm-house lay; its ancient roof a bed of brightest mosses; its
north front (from the north the moss-wind blows), also moss-incrusted,
like the north side of any vast-trunked maple in the groves. At one
gabled end, a tangled arbor claimed support, and paid for it by generous
gratuities of broad-flung verdure, one viny shaft of which pointed
itself upright against the chimney-bricks, as if a waving lightning-rod.
Against the other gable, you saw the lowly dairy-shed; its sides close
netted with traced Madeira vines; and had you been close enough, peeping
through that imprisoning tracery, and through the light slats barring
the little embrasure of a window, you might have seen the gentle and
contented captives--the pans of milk, and the snow-white Dutch cheeses
in a row, and the molds of golden butter, and the jars of lily cream. In
front, three straight gigantic lindens stood guardians of this verdant
spot. A long way up, almost to the ridge-pole of the house, they showed
little foliage; but then, suddenly, as three huge green balloons, they
poised their three vast, inverted, rounded cones of verdure in the air.

Soon as Pierre's eye rested on the place, a tremor shook him. Not alone
because of Isabel, as there a harborer now, but because of two dependent
and most strange coincidences which that day's experience had brought to
him. He had gone to breakfast with his mother, his heart charged to
overflowing with presentiments of what would probably be her haughty
disposition concerning such a being as Isabel, claiming her maternal
love: and lo! the Reverend Mr. Falsgrave enters, and Ned and Delly are
discussed, and that whole sympathetic matter, which Pierre had despaired
of bringing before his mother in all its ethic bearings, so as
absolutely to learn her thoughts upon it, and thereby test his own
conjectures; all that matter had been fully talked about; so that,
through that strange coincidence, he now perfectly knew his mother's
mind, and had received forewarnings, as if from heaven, not to make any
present disclosure to her. That was in the morning; and now, at eve
catching a glimpse of the house where Isabel was harboring, at once he
recognized it as the rented farm-house of old Walter Ulver, father to
the self-same Delly, forever ruined through the cruel arts of Ned.

Strangest feelings, almost supernatural, now stole into Pierre. With
little power to touch with awe the souls of less susceptible,
reflective, and poetic beings, such coincidences, however frequently
they may recur, ever fill the finer organization with sensations which
transcend all verbal renderings. They take hold of life's subtlest
problem. With the lightning's flash, the query is spontaneously
propounded--chance, or God? If too, the mind thus influenced be likewise
a prey to any settled grief, then on all sides the query magnifies, and
at last takes in the all-comprehending round of things. For ever is it
seen, that sincere souls in suffering, then most ponder upon final
causes. The heart, stirred to its depths, finds correlative sympathy in
the head, which likewise is profoundly moved. Before miserable men, when
intellectual, all the ages of the world pass as in a manacled
procession, and all their myriad links rattle in the mournful mystery.

Pacing beneath the long-skirting shadows of the elevated wood, waiting
for the appointed hour to come, Pierre strangely strove to imagine to
himself the scene which was destined to ensue. But imagination utterly
failed him here; the reality was too real for him; only the face, the
face alone now visited him; and so accustomed had he been of late to
confound it with the shapes of air, that he almost trembled when he
thought that face to face, that face must shortly meet his own.

And now the thicker shadows begin to fall; the place is lost to him;
only the three dim, tall lindens pilot him as he descends the hill,
hovering upon the house. He knows it not, but his meditative route is
sinuous; as if that moment his thought's stream was likewise
serpentining: laterally obstructed by insinuated misgivings as to the
ultimate utilitarian advisability of the enthusiast resolution that was
his. His steps decrease in quickness as he comes more nigh, and sees one
feeble light struggling in the rustic double-casement. Infallibly he
knows that his own voluntary steps are taking him forever from the
brilliant chandeliers of the mansion of Saddle Meadows, to join company
with the wretched rush-lights of poverty and woe. But his sublime
intuitiveness also paints to him the sun-like glories of god-like truth
and virtue; which though ever obscured by the dense fogs of earth, still
shall shine eventually in unclouded radiance, casting illustrative light
upon the sapphire throne of God.


II.

He stands before the door; the house is steeped in silence; he knocks;
the casement light flickers for a moment, and then moves away; within,
he hears a door creak on its hinges; then his whole heart beats wildly
as the outer latch is lifted; and holding the light above her
supernatural head, Isabel stands before him. It is herself. No word is
spoken; no other soul is seen. They enter the room of the double
casement; and Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and
spiritual awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel's gaze of loveliness and
loneliness; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more than
natural musicalness is heard:--

"And so, thou art my brother;--shall I call thee Pierre?"

Steadfastly, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of the
person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes her; and in
that one instant sees in the imploring face, not only the nameless
touchingness of that of the sewing-girl, but also the subtler expression
of the portrait of his then youthful father, strangely translated, and
intermarryingly blended with some before unknown, foreign feminineness.
In one breath, Memory and Prophecy, and Intuition tell him--"Pierre,
have no reserves; no minutest possible doubt;--this being is thy sister;
thou gazest on thy father's flesh."

"And so thou art my brother!--shall I call thee Pierre?"

He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting arms.

"Thou art! thou art!"

He felt a faint struggling within his clasp; her head drooped against
him; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glossiness of her long and
unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks aside, he now gazed upon the
death-like beauty of the face, and caught immortal sadness from it. She
seemed as dead; as suffocated,--the death that leaves most unimpaired
the latent tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance.

He would have called aloud for succor; but the slow eyes opened upon
him; and slowly he felt the girl's supineness leaving her; and now she
recovers herself a little,--and again he feels her faintly struggling in
his arms, as if somehow abashed, and incredulous of mortal right to hold
her so. Now Pierre repents his over-ardent and incautious warmth, and
feels himself all reverence for her. Tenderly he leads her to a bench
within the double casement; and sits beside her; and waits in silence,
till the first shock of this encounter shall have left her more composed
and more prepared to hold communion with him.

"How feel'st thou now, my sister?"

"Bless thee! bless thee!"

Again the sweet, wild power of the musicalness of the voice, and some
soft, strange touch of foreignness in the accent,--so it fancifully
seemed to Pierre, thrills through and through his soul. He bent and
kissed her brow; and then feels her hand seeking his, and then clasping
it without one uttered word.

All his being is now condensed in that one sensation of the clasping
hand. He feels it as very small and smooth, but strangely hard. Then he
knew that by the lonely labor of her hands, his own father's daughter
had earned her living in the same world, where he himself, her own
brother, had so idly dwelled. Once more he reverently kissed her brow,
and his warm breath against it murmured with a prayer to heaven.

"I have no tongue to speak to thee, Pierre, my brother. My whole being,
all my life's thoughts and longings are in endless arrears to thee; then
how can I speak to thee? Were it God's will, Pierre, my utmost blessing
now, were to lie down and die. Then should I be at peace. Bear with me,
Pierre."

"Eternally will I do that, my beloved Isabel! Speak not to me yet
awhile, if that seemeth best to thee, if that only is possible to thee.
This thy clasping hand, my sister, _this_ is now thy tongue to me."

"I know not where to begin to speak to thee, Pierre; and yet my soul
o'erbrims in me."

"From my heart's depths, I love and reverence thee; and feel for thee,
backward and forward, through all eternity!"

"Oh, Pierre, can'st thou not cure in me this dreaminess, this
bewilderingness I feel? My poor head swims and swims, and will not
pause. My life can not last long thus; I am too full without discharge.
Conjure tears for me, Pierre; that my heart may not break with the
present feeling,--more death-like to me than all my grief gone by!"

"Ye thirst-slaking evening skies, ye hilly dews and mists, distil your
moisture here! The bolt hath passed; why comes not the following
shower?--Make her to weep!"

Then her head sought his support; and big drops fell on him; and anon,
Isabel gently slid her head from him, and sat a little composedly beside
him.

"If thou feelest in endless arrears of thought to me, my sister; so do I
feel toward thee. I too, scarce know what I should speak to thee. But
when thou lookest on me, my sister, thou beholdest one, who in his soul
hath taken vows immutable, to be to thee, in all respects, and to the
uttermost bounds and possibilities of Fate, thy protecting and
all-acknowledging brother!"

"Not mere sounds of common words, but inmost tones of my heart's deepest
melodies should now be audible to thee. Thou speakest to a human thing,
but something heavenly should answer thee;--some flute heard in the air
should answer thee; for sure thy most undreamed-of accents, Pierre, sure
they have not been unheard on high. Blessings that are imageless to all
mortal fancyings, these shall be thine for this."

"Blessing like to thine, doth but recoil and bless homeward to the heart
that uttered it. I can not bless thee, my sister, as thou dost bless
thyself in blessing my unworthiness. But, Isabel, by still keeping
present the first wonder of our meeting, we shall make our hearts all
feebleness. Let me then rehearse to thee what Pierre is; what life
hitherto he hath been leading; and what hereafter he shall lead;--so
thou wilt be prepared."

"Nay, Pierre, that is my office; thou art first entitled to my tale,
then, if it suit thee, thou shalt make me the unentitled gift of thine.
Listen to me, now. The invisible things will give me strength;--it is
not much, Pierre;--nor aught very marvelous. Listen then;--I feel
soothed down to utterance now."

During some brief, interluding, silent pauses in their interview thus
far, Pierre had heard a soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, meditative stepping
on the floor above; and in the frequent pauses that intermitted the
strange story in the following chapter, that same soft, slow, sad,
to-and-fro, meditative, and most melancholy stepping, was again and
again audible in the silent room.


III.

"I never knew a mortal mother. The farthest stretch of my life's memory
can not recall one single feature of such a face. If, indeed, mother of
mine hath lived, she is long gone, and cast no shadow on the ground she
trod. Pierre, the lips that do now speak to thee, never touched a
woman's breast; I seem not of woman born. My first dim life-thoughts
cluster round an old, half-ruinous house in some region, for which I now
have no chart to seek it out. If such a spot did ever really exist, that
too seems to have been withdrawn from all the remainder of the earth. It
was a wild, dark house, planted in the midst of a round, cleared,
deeply-sloping space, scooped out of the middle of deep stunted pine
woods. Ever I shrunk at evening from peeping out of my window, lest the
ghostly pines should steal near to me, and reach out their grim arms to
snatch me into their horrid shadows. In summer the forest unceasingly
hummed with unconjecturable voices of unknown birds and beasts. In
winter its deep snows were traced like any paper map, with dotting
night-tracks of four-footed creatures, that, even to the sun, were never
visible, and never were seen by man at all. In the round open space the
dark house stood, without one single green twig or leaf to shelter it;
shadeless and shelterless in the heart of shade and shelter. Some of the
windows were rudely boarded up, with boards nailed straight up and down;
and those rooms were utterly empty, and never were entered, though they
were doorless. But often, from the echoing corridor, I gazed into them
with fear; for the great fire-places were all in ruins; the lower tier
of back-stones were burnt into one white, common crumbling; and the
black bricks above had fallen upon the hearths, heaped here and there
with the still falling soot of long-extinguished fires. Every
hearth-stone in that house had one long crack through it; every floor
drooped at the corners; and outside, the whole base of the house, where
it rested on the low foundation of greenish stones, was strewn with
dull, yellow molderings of the rotting sills. No name; no scrawled or
written thing; no book, was in the house; no one memorial speaking of
its former occupants. It was dumb as death. No grave-stone, or mound, or
any little hillock around the house, betrayed any past burials of man or
child. And thus, with no trace then to me of its past history, thus it
hath now entirely departed and perished from my slightest knowledge as
to where that house so stood, or in what region it so stood. None other
house like it have I ever seen. But once I saw plates of the outside of
French chateaux which powerfully recalled its dim image to me,
especially the two rows of small dormer windows projecting from the
inverted hopper-roof. But that house was of wood, and these of stone.
Still, sometimes I think that house was not in this country, but
somewhere in Europe; perhaps in France; but it is all bewildering to me;
and so you must not start at me, for I can not but talk wildly upon so
wild a theme.

"In this house I never saw any living human soul, but an old man and
woman. The old man's face was almost black with age, and was one purse
of wrinkles, his hoary beard always tangled, streaked with dust and
earthy crumbs. I think in summer he toiled a little in the garden, or
some spot like that, which lay on one side of the house. All my ideas
are in uncertainty and confusion here. But the old man and the old woman
seem to have fastened themselves indelibly upon my memory. I suppose
their being the only human things around me then, _that_ caused the hold
they took upon me. They seldom spoke to me; but would sometimes, of
dark, gusty nights, sit by the fire and stare at me, and then mumble to
each other, and then stare at me again. They were not entirely unkind to
me; but, I repeat, they seldom or never spoke to me. What words or
language they used to each other, this it is impossible for me to
recall. I have often wished to; for then I might at least have some
additional idea whether the house was in this country or somewhere
beyond the sea. And here I ought to say, that sometimes I have, I know
not what sort of vague remembrances of at one time--shortly after the
period I now speak of--chattering in two different childish languages;
one of which waned in me as the other and latter grew. But more of this
anon. It was the woman that gave me my meals; for I did not eat with
them. Once they sat by the fire with a loaf between them, and a bottle
of some thin sort of reddish wine; and I went up to them, and asked to
eat with them, and touched the loaf. But instantly the old man made a
motion as if to strike me, but did not, and the woman, glaring at me,
snatched the loaf and threw it into the fire before them. I ran
frightened from the room; and sought a cat, which I had often tried to
coax into some intimacy, but, for some strange cause, without success.
But in my frightened loneliness, then, I sought the cat again, and found
her up-stairs, softly scratching for some hidden thing among the litter
of the abandoned fire-places. I called to her, for I dared not go into
the haunted chamber; but she only gazed sideways and unintelligently
toward me; and continued her noiseless searchings. I called again, and
then she turned round and hissed at me; and I ran down stairs, still
stung with the thought of having been driven away there, too. I now knew
not where to go to rid myself of my loneliness. At last I went outside
of the house, and sat down on a stone, but its coldness went up to my
heart, and I rose and stood on my feet. But my head was dizzy; I could
not stand; I fell, and knew no more. But next morning I found myself in
bed in my uncheerable room, and some dark bread and a cup of water by
me.

"It has only been by chance that I have told thee this one particular
reminiscence of my early life in that house. I could tell many more like
it, but this is enough to show what manner of life I led at that time.
Every day that I then lived, I felt all visible sights and all audible
sounds growing stranger and stranger, and fearful and more fearful to
me. To me the man and the woman were just like the cat; none of them
would speak to me; none of them were comprehensible to me. And the man,
and the woman, and the cat, were just like the green foundation stones
of the house to me; I knew not whence they came, or what cause they had
for being there. I say again, no living human soul came to the house but
the man and the woman; but sometimes the old man early trudged away to a
road that led through the woods, and would not come back till late in
the evening; he brought the dark bread, and the thin, reddish wine with
him. Though the entrance to the wood was not so very far from the door,
yet he came so slowly and infirmly trudging with his little load, that
it seemed weary hours on hours between my first descrying him among the
trees, and his crossing the splintered threshold.

"Now the wide and vacant blurrings of my early life thicken in my mind.
All goes wholly memoryless to me now. It may have been that about that
time I grew sick with some fever, in which for a long interval I lost
myself. Or it may be true, which I have heard, that after the period of
our very earliest recollections, then a space intervenes of entire
unknowingness, followed again by the first dim glimpses of the
succeeding memory, more or less distinctly embracing all our past up to
that one early gap in it.

"However this may be, nothing more can I recall of the house in the wide
open space; nothing of how at last I came to leave it; but I must have
been still extremely young then. But some uncertain, tossing memory have
I of being at last in another round, open space, but immensely larger
than the first one, and with no encircling belt of woods. Yet often it
seems to me that there were three tall, straight things like pine-trees
somewhere there nigh to me at times; and that they fearfully shook and
snapt as the old trees used to in the mountain storms. And the floors
seemed sometimes to droop at the corners still more steeply than the old
floors did; and changefully drooped too, so that I would even seem to
feel them drooping under me.

"Now, too, it was that, as it sometimes seems to me, I first and last
chattered in the two childish languages I spoke of a little time ago.
There seemed people about me, some of whom talked one, and some the
other; but I talked both; yet one not so readily as the other; and but
beginningly as it were; still this other was the one which was gradually
displacing the former. The men who--as it sometimes dreamily seems to me
at times--often climbed the three strange tree-like things, they
talked--I needs must think--if indeed I have any real thought about so
bodiless a phantom as this is--they talked the language which I speak of
as at this time gradually waning in me. It was a bonny tongue; oh, seems
to me so sparkling-gay and lightsome; just the tongue for a child like
me, if the child had not been so sad always. It was pure children's
language, Pierre; so twittering--such a chirp.

"In thy own mind, thou must now perceive, that most of these dim
remembrances in me, hint vaguely of a ship at sea. But all is dim and
vague to me. Scarce know I at any time whether I tell you real things,
or the unrealest dreams. Always in me, the solidest things melt into
dreams, and dreams into solidities. Never have I wholly recovered from
the effects of my strange early life. This it is, that even now--this
moment--surrounds thy visible form, my brother, with a mysterious
mistiness; so that a second face, and a third face, and a fourth face
peep at me from within thy own. Now dim, and more dim, grows in me all
the memory of how thou and I did come to meet. I go groping again amid
all sorts of shapes, which part to me; so that I seem to advance through
the shapes; and yet the shapes have eyes that look at me. I turn round,
and they look at me; I step forward, and they look at me.--Let me be
silent now; do not speak to me."


IV.

Filled with nameless wonderings at this strange being, Pierre sat mute,
intensely regarding her half-averted aspect. Her immense soft tresses of
the jettiest hair had slantingly fallen over her as though a curtain
were half drawn from before some saint enshrined. To Pierre, she seemed
half unearthly; but this unearthliness was only her mysteriousness, not
any thing that was repelling or menacing to him. And still, the low
melodies of her far interior voice hovered in sweet echoes in the room;
and were trodden upon, and pressed like gushing grapes, by the steady
invisible pacing on the floor above.

She moved a little now, and after some strange wanderings more
coherently continued.

"My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet
another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a
not entirely silent country. Through this country, and by the house,
wound a green and lagging river. That house must have been in some
lowland; for the first house I spoke of seems to me to have been
somewhere among mountains, or near to mountains;--the sounds of the far
waterfalls,--I seem to hear them now; the steady up-pointed cloud-shapes
behind the house in the sunset sky--I seem to see them now. But this
other house, this second one, or third one, I know not which, I say
again it was in some lowland. There were no pines around it; few trees
of any sort; the ground did not slope so steeply as around the first
house. There were cultivated fields about it, and in the distance
farm-houses, and out-houses, and cattle, and fowls, and many objects of
that familiar sort. This house I am persuaded was in this country; on
this side of the sea. It was a very large house, and full of people; but
for the most part they lived separately. There were some old people in
it, and there were young men, and young women in it,--some very
handsome; and there were children in it. It seemed a happy place to some
of these people; many of them were always laughing; but it was not a
happy place for me.

"But here I may err, because of my own consciousness I can not identify
in myself--I mean in the memory of my whole foregoing life,--I say, I
can not identify that thing which is called happiness; that thing whose
token is a laugh, or a smile, or a silent serenity on the lip. I may
have been happy, but it is not in my conscious memory now. Nor do I feel
a longing for it, as though I had never had it; my spirit seeks
different food from happiness; for I think I have a suspicion of what it
is. I have suffered wretchedness, but not because of the absence of
happiness, and without praying for happiness. I pray for peace--for
motionlessness--for the feeling of myself, as of some plant, absorbing
life without seeking it, and existing without individual sensation. I
feel that there can be no perfect peace in individualness. Therefore I
hope one day to feel myself drank up into the pervading spirit animating
all things. I feel I am an exile here. I still go straying.--Yes; in thy
speech, thou smilest.--But let me be silent again. Do not answer me.
When I resume, I will not wander so, but make short end."

Reverently resolved not to offer the slightest let or hinting hindrance
to the singular tale rehearsing to him, but to sit passively and receive
its marvelous droppings into his soul, however long the pauses; and as
touching less mystical considerations, persuaded that by so doing he
should ultimately derive the least nebulous and imperfect account of
Isabel's history; Pierre still sat waiting her resuming, his eyes fixed
upon the girl's wonderfully beautiful ear, which chancing to peep forth
from among her abundant tresses, nestled in that blackness like a
transparent sea-shell of pearl.

She moved a little now; and after some strange wanderings more
coherently continued; while the sound of the stepping on the floor
above--it seemed to cease.

"I have spoken of the second or rather the third spot in my memory of
the past, as it first appeared to me; I mean, I have spoken of the
people in the house, according to my very earliest recallable impression
of them. But I stayed in that house for several years--five, six,
perhaps, seven years--and during that interval of my stay, all things
changed to me, because I learned more, though always dimly. Some of its
occupants departed; some changed from smiles to tears; some went moping
all the day; some grew as savages and outrageous, and were dragged
below by dumb-like men into deep places, that I knew nothing of, but
dismal sounds came through the lower floor, groans and clanking
fallings, as of iron in straw. Now and then, I saw coffins silently at
noon-day carried into the house, and in five minutes' time emerge again,
seemingly heavier than they entered; but I saw not who was in them.
Once, I saw an immense-sized coffin, endwise pushed through a lower
window by three men who did not speak; and watching, I saw it pushed out
again, and they drove off with it. But the numbers of those invisible
persons who thus departed from the house, were made good by other
invisible persons arriving in close carriages. Some in rags and tatters
came on foot, or rather were driven on foot. Once I heard horrible
outcries, and peeping from my window, saw a robust but squalid and
distorted man, seemingly a peasant, tied by cords with four long ends to
them, held behind by as many ignorant-looking men who with a lash drove
the wild squalid being that way toward the house. Then I heard answering
hand-clappings, shrieks, howls, laughter, blessings, prayers, oaths,
hymns, and all audible confusions issuing from all the chambers of the
house.

"Sometimes there entered the house--though only transiently, departing
within the hour they came--people of a then remarkable aspect to me.
They were very composed of countenance; did not laugh; did not groan;
did not weep; did not make strange faces; did not look endlessly
fatigued; were not strangely and fantastically dressed; in short, did
not at all resemble any people I had ever seen before, except a little
like some few of the persons of the house, who seemed to have authority
over the rest. These people of a remarkable aspect to me, I thought they
were strangely demented people;--composed of countenance, but wandering
of mind; soul-composed and bodily-wandering, and strangely demented
people.

"By-and-by, the house seemed to change again, or else my mind took in
more, and modified its first impressions. I was lodged up-stairs in a
little room; there was hardly any furniture in the room; sometimes I
wished to go out of it; but the door was locked. Sometimes the people
came and took me out of the room, into a much larger and very long room,
and here I would collectively see many of the other people of the house,
who seemed likewise brought from distant and separate chambers. In this
long room they would vacantly roam about, and talk vacant talk to each
other. Some would stand in the middle of the room gazing steadily on the
floor for hours together, and never stirred, but only breathed and gazed
upon the floor. Some would sit crouching in the corner, and sit
crouching there, and only breathe and crouch in the corners. Some kept
their hands tight on their hearts, and went slowly promenading up and
down, moaning and moaning to themselves. One would say to another--"Feel
of it--here, put thy hand in the break." Another would mutter--"Broken,
broken, broken"--and would mutter nothing but that one word broken. But
most of them were dumb, and could not, or would not speak, or had
forgotten how to speak. They were nearly all pale people. Some had hair
white as snow, and yet were quite young people. Some were always talking
about Hell, Eternity, and God; and some of all things as fixedly
decreed; others would say nay to this, and then they would argue, but
without much conviction either way. But once nearly all the people
present--even the dumb moping people, and the sluggish persons crouching
in the corners--nearly all of them laughed once, when after a whole
day's loud babbling, two of these predestinarian opponents, said each to
the other--'Thou hast convinced me, friend; but we are quits; for so
also, have I convinced thee, the other way; now then, let's argue it all
over again; for still, though mutually converted, we are still at odds.'
Some harangued the wall; some apostrophized the air; some hissed at the
air; some lolled their tongues out at the air; some struck the air; some
made motions, as if wrestling with the air, and fell out of the arms of
the air, panting from the invisible hug.

"Now, as in the former thing, thou must, ere this, have suspected what
manner of place this second or third house was, that I then lived in.
But do not speak the word to me. That word has never passed my lips;
even now, when I hear the word, I run from it; when I see it printed in
a book, I run from the book. The word is wholly unendurable to me. Who
brought me to the house; how I came there, I do not know. I lived a long
time in the house; that alone I know; I say I know, but still I am
uncertain; still Pierre, still the--oh the dreaminess, the
bewilderingness--it never entirely leaves me. Let me be still again."

She leaned away from him; she put her small hard hand to her forehead;
then moved it down, very slowly, but still hardly over her eyes, and
kept it there, making no other sign, and still as death. Then she moved
and continued her vague tale of terribleness.

"I must be shorter; I did not mean to turn off into the mere
offshootings of my story, here and there; but the dreaminess I speak of
leads me sometimes; and I, as impotent then, obey the dreamy prompting.
Bear with me; now I will be briefer."

"It came to pass, at last, that there was a contention about me in the
house; some contention which I heard in the after rumor only, not at the
actual time. Some strangers had arrived; or had come in haste, being
sent for to the house. Next day they dressed me in new and pretty, but
still plain clothes, and they took me down stairs, and out into the air,
and into a carriage with a pleasant-looking woman, a stranger to me; and
I was driven off a good way, two days nearly we drove away, stopping
somewhere over-night; and on the evening of the second day we came to
another house, and went into it, and stayed there.

"This house was a much smaller one than the other, and seemed sweetly
quiet to me after that. There was a beautiful infant in it; and this
beautiful infant always archly and innocently smiling on me, and
strangely beckoning me to come and play with it, and be glad with it;
and be thoughtless, and be glad and gleeful with it; this beautiful
infant first brought me to my own mind, as it were; first made me
sensible that I was something different from stones, trees, cats; first
undid in me the fancy that all people were as stones, trees, cats; first
filled me with the sweet idea of humanness; first made me aware of the
infinite mercifulness, and tenderness, and beautifulness of humanness;
and this beautiful infant first filled me with the dim thought of
Beauty; and equally, and at the same time, with the feeling of the
Sadness; of the immortalness and universalness of the Sadness. I now
feel that I should soon have gone,---- stop me now; do not let me go
that way. I owe all things to that beautiful infant. Oh, how I envied
it, lying in its happy mother's breast, and drawing life and gladness,
and all its perpetual smilingness from that white and smiling breast.
That infant saved me; but still gave me vague desirings. Now I first
began to reflect in my mind; to endeavor after the recalling past
things; but try as I would, little could I recall, but the
bewilderingness;--and the stupor, and the torpor, and the blackness, and
the dimness, and the vacant whirlingness of the bewilderingness. Let me
be still again."

And the stepping on the floor above,--it then resumed.


V.

"I must have been nine, or ten, or eleven years old, when the
pleasant-looking woman carried me away from the large house. She was a
farmer's wife; and now that was my residence, the farm-house. They
taught me to sew, and work with wool, and spin the wool; I was nearly
always busy now. This being busy, too, this it must have been, which
partly brought to me the power of being sensible of myself as something
human. Now I began to feel strange differences. When I saw a snake
trailing through the grass, and darting out the fire-fork from its
mouth, I said to myself, That thing is not human, but I am human. When
the lightning flashed, and split some beautiful tree, and left it to rot
from all its greenness, I said, That lightning is not human, but I am
human. And so with all other things. I can not speak coherently here;
but somehow I felt that all good, harmless men and women were human
things, placed at cross-purposes, in a world of snakes and lightnings,
in a world of horrible and inscrutable inhumanities. I have had no
training of any sort. All my thoughts well up in me; I know not whether
they pertain to the old bewilderings or not; but as they are, they are,
and I can not alter them, for I had nothing to do with putting them in
my mind, and I never affect any thoughts, and I never adulterate any
thoughts; but when I speak, think forth from the tongue, speech being
sometimes before the thought; so, often, my own tongue teaches me new
things.

"Now as yet I never had questioned the woman, or her husband, or the
young girls, their children, why I had been brought to the house, or how
long I was to stay in the house. There I was; just as I found myself in
the world; there I was; for what cause I had been brought into the
world, would have been no stranger question to me, than for what cause I
had been brought to the house. I knew nothing of myself, or any thing
pertaining to myself; I felt my pulse, my thought; but other things I
was ignorant of, except the general feeling of my humanness among the
inhumanities. But as I grew older, I expanded in my mind. I began to
learn things out of me; to see still stranger, and minuter differences.
I called the woman mother, and so did the other girls; yet the woman
often kissed them, but seldom me. She always helped them first at table.
The farmer scarcely ever spoke to me. Now months, years rolled on, and
the young girls began to stare at me. Then the bewilderingness of the
old starings of the solitary old man and old woman, by the cracked
hearth-stone of the desolate old house, in the desolate, round, open
space; the bewilderingness of those old starings now returned to me; and
the green starings, and the serpent hissings of the uncompanionable cat,
recurred to me, and the feeling of the infinite forlornness of my life
rolled over me. But the woman was very kind to me; she taught the girls
not to be cruel to me; she would call me to her, and speak cheerfully to
me, and I thanked--not God, for I had been taught no God--I thanked the
bright human summer, and the joyful human sun in the sky; I thanked the
human summer and the sun, that they had given me the woman; and I would
sometimes steal away into the beautiful grass, and worship the kind
summer and the sun; and often say over to myself the soft words, summer
and the sun.

"Still, weeks and years ran on, and my hair began to vail me with its
fullness and its length; and now often I heard the word beautiful,
spoken of my hair, and beautiful, spoken of myself. They would not say
the word openly to me, but I would by chance overhear them whispering
it. The word joyed me with the human feeling of it. They were wrong not
to say it openly to me; my joy would have been so much the more assured
for the openness of their saying beautiful, to me; and I know it would
have filled me with all conceivable kindness toward every one. Now I
had heard the word beautiful, whispered, now and then, for some months,
when a new being came to the house; they called him gentleman. His face
was wonderful to me. Something strangely like it, and yet again unlike
it, I had seen before, but where, I could not tell. But one day, looking
into the smooth water behind the house, there I saw the
likeness--something strangely like, and yet unlike, the likeness of his
face. This filled me with puzzlings. The new being, the gentleman, he
was very gracious to me; he seemed astonished, confounded at me; he
looked at me, then at a very little, round picture--so it seemed--which
he took from his pocket, and yet concealed from me. Then he kissed me,
and looked with tenderness and grief upon me; and I felt a tear fall on
me from him. Then he whispered a word into my ear. 'Father,' was the
word he whispered; the same word by which the young girls called the
farmer. Then I knew it was the word of kindness and of kisses. I kissed
the gentleman.

"When he left the house I wept for him to come again. And he did come
again. All called him my father now. He came to see me once every month
or two; till at last he came not at all; and when I wept and asked for
him, they said the word _Dead_ to me. Then the bewilderings of the
comings and the goings of the coffins at the large and populous house;
these bewilderings came over me. What was it to be dead? What is it to
be living? Wherein is the difference between the words Death and Life?
Had I been ever dead? Was I living? Let me be still again. Do not speak
to me."

And the stepping on the floor above; again it did resume.

"Months ran on; and now I somehow learned that my father had every now
and then sent money to the woman to keep me with her in the house; and
that no more money had come to her after he was dead; the last penny of
the former money was now gone. Now the farmer's wife looked troubledly
and painfully at me; and the farmer looked unpleasantly and impatiently
at me. I felt that something was miserably wrong; I said to myself, I am
one too many; I must go away from the pleasant house. Then the
bewilderings of all the loneliness and forlornness of all my forlorn and
lonely life; all these bewilderings and the whelmings of the
bewilderings rolled over me; and I sat down without the house, but could
not weep.

"But I was strong, and I was a grown girl now. I said to the woman--Keep
me hard at work; let me work all the time, but let me stay with thee.
But the other girls were sufficient to do the work; me they wanted not.
The farmer looked out of his eyes at me, and the out-lookings of his
eyes said plainly to me--Thee we do not want; go from us; thou art one
too many; and thou art more than one too many. Then I said to the
woman--Hire me out to some one; let me work for some one.--But I spread
too wide my little story. I must make an end.

"The woman listened to me, and through her means I went to live at
another house, and earned wages there. My work was milking the cows, and
making butter, and spinning wool, and weaving carpets of thin strips of
cloth. One day there came to this house a pedler. In his wagon he had a
guitar, an old guitar, yet a very pretty one, but with broken strings.
He had got it slyly in part exchange from the servants of a grand house
some distance off. Spite of the broken strings, the thing looked very
graceful and beautiful to me; and I knew there was melodiousness lurking
in the thing, though I had never seen a guitar before, nor heard of one;
but there was a strange humming in my heart that seemed to prophesy of
the hummings of the guitar. Intuitively, I knew that the strings were
not as they should be. I said to the man--I will buy of thee the thing
thou callest a guitar. But thou must put new strings to it. So he went
to search for them; and brought the strings, and restringing the guitar,
tuned it for me. So with part of my earnings I bought the guitar.
Straightway I took it to my little chamber in the gable, and softly laid
it on my bed. Then I murmured; sung and murmured to it; very lowly, very
softly; I could hardly hear myself. And I changed the modulations of my
singings and my murmurings; and still sung, and murmured, lowly,
softly,--more and more; and presently I heard a sudden sound: sweet and
low beyond all telling was the sweet and sudden sound. I clapt my hands;
the guitar was speaking to me; the dear guitar was singing to me;
murmuring and singing to me, the guitar. Then I sung and murmured to it
with a still different modulation; and once more it answered me from a
different string; and once more it murmured to me, and it answered to me
with a different string. The guitar was human; the guitar taught me the
secret of the guitar; the guitar learned me to play on the guitar. No
music-master have I ever had but the guitar. I made a loving friend of
it; a heart friend of it. It sings to me as I to it. Love is not all on
one side with my guitar. All the wonders that are unimaginable and
unspeakable; all these wonders are translated in the mysterious
melodiousness of the guitar. It knows all my past history. Sometimes it
plays to me the mystic visions of the confused large house I never name.
Sometimes it brings to me the bird-twitterings in the air; and sometimes
it strikes up in me rapturous pulsations of legendary delights eternally
unexperienced and unknown to me. Bring me the guitar."


VI.

Entranced, lost, as one wandering bedazzled and amazed among innumerable
dancing lights, Pierre had motionlessly listened to this
abundant-haired, and large-eyed girl of mystery.

"Bring me the guitar!"

Starting from his enchantment, Pierre gazed round the room, and saw the
instrument leaning against a corner. Silently he brought it to the girl,
and silently sat down again.

"Now listen to the guitar; and the guitar shall sing to thee the sequel
of my story; for not in words can it be spoken. So listen to the
guitar."

Instantly the room was populous with sounds of melodiousness, and
mournfulness, and wonderfulness; the room swarmed with the
unintelligible but delicious sounds. The sounds seemed waltzing in the
room; the sounds hung pendulous like glittering icicles from the corners
of the room; and fell upon him with a ringing silveryness; and were
drawn up again to the ceiling, and hung pendulous again, and dropt down
upon him again with the ringing silveryness. Fire-flies seemed buzzing
in the sounds; summer-lightnings seemed vividly yet softly audible in
the sounds.

And still the wild girl played on the guitar; and her long dark shower
of curls fell over it, and vailed it; and still, out from the vail came
the swarming sweetness, and the utter unintelligibleness, but the
infinite significancies of the sounds of the guitar.

"Girl of all-bewildering mystery!" cried Pierre--"Speak to me;--sister,
if thou indeed canst be a thing that's mortal--speak to me, if thou be
Isabel!"

    "Mystery! Mystery!
     Mystery of Isabel!
     Mystery! Mystery!
     Isabel and Mystery!"

Among the waltzings, and the droppings, and the swarmings of the sounds,
Pierre now heard the tones above deftly stealing and winding among the
myriad serpentinings of the other melody:--deftly stealing and winding
as respected the instrumental sounds, but in themselves wonderfully and
abandonedly free and bold--bounding and rebounding as from multitudinous
reciprocal walls; while with every syllable the hair-shrouded form of
Isabel swayed to and fro with a like abandonment, and suddenness, and
wantonness:--then it seemed not like any song; seemed not issuing from
any mouth; but it came forth from beneath the same vail concealing the
guitar.

Now a strange wild heat burned upon his brow; he put his hand to it.
Instantly the music changed; and drooped and changed; and changed and
changed; and lingeringly retreated as it changed; and at last was wholly
gone.

Pierre was the first to break the silence.

"Isabel, thou hast filled me with such wonderings; I am so distraught
with thee, that the particular things I had to tell to thee, when I
hither came; these things I can not now recall, to speak them to
thee:--I feel that something is still unsaid by thee, which at some
other time thou wilt reveal. But now I can stay no longer with thee.
Know me eternally as thy loving, revering, and most marveling brother,
who will never desert thee, Isabel. Now let me kiss thee and depart,
till to-morrow night; when I shall open to thee all my mind, and all my
plans concerning me and thee. Let me kiss thee, and adieu!"

As full of unquestioning and unfaltering faith in him, the girl sat
motionless and heard him out. Then silently rose, and turned her
boundlessly confiding brow to him. He kissed it thrice, and without
another syllable left the place.




BOOK VII.

INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN PIERRE'S TWO INTERVIEWS WITH ISABEL AT THE
FARM-HOUSE.


I.

Not immediately, not for a long time, could Pierre fully, or by any
approximation, realize the scene which he had just departed. But the
vague revelation was now in him, that the visible world, some of which
before had seemed but too common and prosaic to him; and but too
intelligible; he now vaguely felt, that all the world, and every
misconceivedly common and prosaic thing in it, was steeped a million
fathoms in a mysteriousness wholly hopeless of solution. First, the
enigmatical story of the girl, and the profound sincerity of it, and yet
the ever accompanying haziness, obscurity, and almost miraculousness of
it;--first, this wonderful story of the girl had displaced all
commonness and prosaicness from his soul; and then, the inexplicable
spell of the guitar, and the subtleness of the melodious appealings of
the few brief words from Isabel sung in the conclusion of the
melody--all this had bewitched him, and enchanted him, till he had sat
motionless and bending over, as a tree-transformed and mystery-laden
visitant, caught and fast bound in some necromancer's garden.

But as now burst from these sorceries, he hurried along the open road,
he strove for the time to dispel the mystic feeling, or at least
postpone it for a while, until he should have time to rally both body
and soul from the more immediate consequences of that day's long
fastings and wanderings, and that night's never-to-be-forgotten scene.
He now endeavored to beat away all thoughts from him, but of present
bodily needs.

Passing through the silent village, he heard the clock tell the mid hour
of night. Hurrying on, he entered the mansion by a private door, the key
of which hung in a secret outer place. Without undressing, he flung
himself upon the bed. But remembering himself again, he rose and
adjusted his alarm-clock, so that it would emphatically repeat the hour
of five. Then to bed again, and driving off all intrudings of
thoughtfulness, and resolutely bending himself to slumber, he by-and-by
fell into its at first reluctant, but at last welcoming and hospitable
arms. At five he rose; and in the east saw the first spears of the
advanced-guard of the day.

It had been his purpose to go forth at that early hour, and so avoid all
casual contact with any inmate of the mansion, and spend the entire day
in a second wandering in the woods, as the only fit prelude to the
society of so wild a being as his new-found sister Isabel. But the
familiar home-sights of his chamber strangely worked upon him. For an
instant, he almost could have prayed Isabel back into the wonder-world
from which she had so slidingly emerged. For an instant, the fond,
all-understood blue eyes of Lucy displaced the as tender, but mournful
and inscrutable dark glance of Isabel. He seemed placed between them, to
choose one or the other; then both seemed his; but into Lucy's eyes
there stole half of the mournfulness of Isabel's, without diminishing
hers.

Again the faintness, and the long life-weariness benumbed him. He left
the mansion, and put his bare forehead against the restoring wind. He
re-entered the mansion, and adjusted the clock to repeat emphatically
the call of seven; and then lay upon his bed. But now he could not
sleep. At seven he changed his dress; and at half-past eight went below
to meet his mother at the breakfast table, having a little before
overheard her step upon the stair.


II.

He saluted her; but she looked gravely and yet alarmedly, and then in a
sudden, illy-repressed panic, upon him. Then he knew he must be
wonderfully changed. But his mother spoke not to him, only to return his
good-morning. He saw that she was deeply offended with him, on many
accounts; moreover, that she was vaguely frightened about him, and
finally that notwithstanding all this, her stung pride conquered all
apprehensiveness in her; and he knew his mother well enough to be very
certain that, though he should unroll a magician's parchment before her
now, she would verbally express no interest, and seek no explanation
from him. Nevertheless, he could not entirely abstain from testing the
power of her reservedness.

"I have been quite an absentee, sister Mary," said he, with ill-affected
pleasantness.

"Yes, Pierre. How does the coffee suit you this morning? It is some new
coffee."

"It is very nice; very rich and odorous, sister Mary."

"I am glad you find it so, Pierre."

"Why don't you call me brother Pierre?"

"Have I not called you so? Well, then, brother Pierre,--is that better?"

"Why do you look so indifferently and icily upon me, sister Mary?"

"Do I look indifferently and icily? Then I will endeavor to look
otherwise. Give me the toast there, Pierre."

"You are very deeply offended at me, my dear mother."

"Not in the slightest degree, Pierre. Have you seen Lucy lately?"

"I have not, my mother."

"Ah! A bit of salmon, Pierre."

"You are too proud to show toward me what you are this moment feeling,
my mother."

Mrs. Glendinning slowly rose to her feet, and her full stature of
womanly beauty and majesty stood imposingly over him.

"Tempt me no more, Pierre. I will ask no secret from thee; all shall be
voluntary between us, as it ever has been, until very lately, or all
shall be nothing between us. Beware of me, Pierre. There lives not that
being in the world of whom thou hast more reason to beware, so you
continue but a little longer to act thus with me."

She reseated herself, and spoke no more. Pierre kept silence; and after
snatching a few mouthfuls of he knew not what, silently quitted the
table, and the room, and the mansion.


III.

As the door of the breakfast-room closed upon Pierre, Mrs. Glendinning
rose, her fork unconsciously retained in her hand. Presently, as she
paced the room in deep, rapid thought, she became conscious of something
strange in her grasp, and without looking at it, to mark what it was,
impulsively flung it from her. A dashing noise was heard, and then a
quivering. She turned; and hanging by the side of Pierre's portrait, she
saw her own smiling picture pierced through, and the fork, whose silver
tines had caught in the painted bosom, vibratingly rankled in the wound.

She advanced swiftly to the picture, and stood intrepidly before it.

"Yes, thou art stabbed! but the wrong hand stabbed thee; this should
have been _thy_ silver blow," turning to Pierre's portrait face.
"Pierre, Pierre, thou hast stabbed me with a poisoned point. I feel my
blood chemically changing in me. I, the mother of the only surnamed
Glendinning, I feel now as though I had borne the last of a swiftly to
be extinguished race. For swiftly to be extinguished is that race, whose
only heir but so much as impends upon a deed of shame. And some deed of
shame, or something most dubious and most dark, is in thy soul, or else
some belying specter, with a cloudy, shame-faced front, sat at yon seat
but now! What can it be? Pierre, unbosom. Smile not so lightly upon my
heavy grief. Answer; what is it, boy? Can it? can it?
no--yes--surely--can it? it can not be! But he was not at Lucy's
yesterday; nor was she here; and she would not see me when I called.
What can this bode? But not a mere broken match--broken as lovers
sometimes break, to mend the break with joyful tears, so soon again--not
a mere broken match can break my proud heart so. If that indeed be part,
it is not all. But no, no, no; it can not, can not be. He would not,
could not, do so mad, so impious a thing. It was a most surprising face,
though I confessed it not to him, nor even hinted that I saw it. But no,
no, no, it can not be. Such young peerlessness in such humbleness, can
not have an honest origin. Lilies are not stalked on weeds, though
polluted, they sometimes may stand among them. She must be both poor and
vile--some chance-blow of a splendid, worthless rake, doomed to inherit
both parts of her infecting portion--vileness and beauty. No, I will not
think it of him. But what then? Sometimes I have feared that my pride
would work me some woe incurable, by closing both my lips, and
varnishing all my front, where I perhaps ought to be wholly in the
melted and invoking mood. But who can get at one's own heart, to mend
it? Right one's self against another, that, one may sometimes do; but
when that other is one's own self, these ribs forbid. Then I will live
my nature out. I will stand on pride. I will not budge. Let come what
will, I shall not half-way run to meet it, to beat it off. Shall a
mother abase herself before her stripling boy? Let him tell me of
himself, or let him slide adown!"


IV.

Pierre plunged deep into the woods, and paused not for several miles;
paused not till he came to a remarkable stone, or rather, smoothed mass
of rock, huge as a barn, which, wholly isolated horizontally, was yet
sweepingly overarched by beech-trees and chestnuts.

It was shaped something like a lengthened egg, but flattened more; and,
at the ends, pointed more; and yet not pointed, but irregularly
wedge-shaped. Somewhere near the middle of its under side, there was a
lateral ridge; and an obscure point of this ridge rested on a second
lengthwise-sharpened rock, slightly protruding from the ground. Beside
that one obscure and minute point of contact, the whole enormous and
most ponderous mass touched not another object in the wide terraqueous
world. It was a breathless thing to see. One broad haunched end hovered
within an inch of the soil, all along to the point of teetering contact;
but yet touched not the soil. Many feet from that--beneath one part of
the opposite end, which was all seamed and half-riven--the vacancy was
considerably larger, so as to make it not only possible, but convenient
to admit a crawling man; yet no mortal being had ever been known to have
the intrepid heart to crawl there.

It might well have been the wonder of all the country round. But strange
to tell, though hundreds of cottage hearthstones--where, of long
winter-evenings, both old men smoked their pipes and young men shelled
their corn--surrounded it, at no very remote distance, yet had the
youthful Pierre been the first known publishing discoverer of this
stone, which he had thereupon fancifully christened the Memnon Stone.
Possibly, the reason why this singular object had so long remained
unblazoned to the world, was not so much because it had never before
been lighted on--though indeed, both belted and topped by the dense deep
luxuriance of the aboriginal forest, it lay like Captain Kidd's sunken
hull in the gorge of the river Hudson's Highlands,--its crown being full
eight fathoms under high-foliage mark during the great spring-tide of
foliage;--and besides this, the cottagers had no special motive for
visiting its more immediate vicinity at all; their timber and fuel being
obtained from more accessible woodlands--as because, even, if any of the
simple people should have chanced to have beheld it, they, in their
hoodwinked unappreciativeness, would not have accounted it any very
marvelous sight, and therefore, would never have thought it worth their
while to publish it abroad. So that in real truth, they might have seen
it, and yet afterward have forgotten so inconsiderable a circumstance.
In short, this wondrous Memnon Stone could be no Memnon Stone to them;
nothing but a huge stumbling-block, deeply to be regretted as a vast
prospective obstacle in the way of running a handy little cross-road
through that wild part of the Manor.

Now one day while reclining near its flank, and intently eying it, and
thinking how surprising it was, that in so long-settled a country he
should have been the first discerning and appreciative person to light
upon such a great natural curiosity, Pierre happened to brush aside
several successive layers of old, gray-haired, close cropped, nappy
moss, and beneath, to his no small amazement, he saw rudely hammered in
the rock some half-obliterate initials--"S. ye W." Then he knew, that
ignorant of the stone, as all the simple country round might
immemorially have been, yet was not himself the only human being who had
discovered that marvelous impending spectacle: but long and long ago, in
quite another age, the stone had been beheld, and its wonderfulness
fully appreciated--as the painstaking initials seemed to testify--by
some departed man, who, were he now alive, might possibly wag a beard
old as the most venerable oak of centuries' growth. But who,--who in
Methuselah's name,--who might have been this "S. ye W?" Pierre
pondered long, but could not possibly imagine; for the initials, in
their antiqueness, seemed to point to some period before the era of
Columbus' discovery of the hemisphere. Happening in the end to mention
the strange matter of these initials to a white-haired old gentleman,
his city kinsman, who, after a long and richly varied, but unfortunate
life, had at last found great solace in the Old Testament, which he was
continually studying with ever-increasing admiration; this white-haired
old kinsman, after having learnt all the particulars about the
stone--its bulk, its height, the precise angle of its critical
impendings, and all that,--and then, after much prolonged cogitation
upon it, and several long-drawn sighs, and aged looks of hoar
significance, and reading certain verses in Ecclesiastes; after all
these tedious preliminaries, this not-at-all-to-be-hurried white-haired
old kinsman, had laid his tremulous hand upon Pierre's firm young
shoulder, and slowly whispered--"Boy; 'tis Solomon the Wise." Pierre
could not repress a merry laugh at this; wonderfully diverted by what
seemed to him so queer and crotchety a conceit; which he imputed to the
alledged dotage of his venerable kinsman, who he well knew had once
maintained, that the old Scriptural Ophir was somewhere on our northern
sea-coast; so no wonder the old gentleman should fancy that King Solomon
might have taken a trip--as a sort of amateur supercargo--of some Tyre
or Sidon gold-ship across the water, and happened to light on the Memnon
Stone, while rambling about with bow and quiver shooting partridges.

But merriment was by no means Pierre's usual mood when thinking of this
stone; much less when seated in the woods, he, in the profound
significance of that deep forest silence, viewed its marvelous
impendings. A flitting conceit had often crossed him, that he would like
nothing better for a head-stone than this same imposing pile; in which,
at times, during the soft swayings of the surrounding foliage, there
seemed to lurk some mournful and lamenting plaint, as for some sweet boy
long since departed in the antediluvian time.

Not only might this stone well have been the wonder of the simple
country round, but it might well have been its terror. Sometimes,
wrought to a mystic mood by contemplating its ponderous inscrutableness,
Pierre had called it the Terror Stone. Few could be bribed to climb its
giddy height, and crawl out upon its more hovering end. It seemed as if
the dropping of one seed from the beak of the smallest flying bird would
topple the immense mass over, crashing against the trees.

It was a very familiar thing to Pierre; he had often climbed it, by
placing long poles against it, and so creeping up to where it sloped in
little crumbling stepping-places; or by climbing high up the neighboring
beeches, and then lowering himself down upon the forehead-like summit by
the elastic branches. But never had he been fearless enough--or rather
fool-hardy enough, it may be, to crawl on the ground beneath the vacancy
of the higher end; that spot first menaced by the Terror Stone should it
ever really topple.


V.

Yet now advancing steadily, and as if by some interior
pre-determination, and eying the mass unfalteringly; he then threw
himself prone upon the wood's last year's leaves, and slid himself
straight into the horrible interspace, and lay there as dead. He spoke
not, for speechless thoughts were in him. These gave place at last to
things less and less unspeakable; till at last, from beneath the very
brow of the beetlings and the menacings of the Terror Stone came the
audible words of Pierre:--

"If the miseries of the undisclosable things in me, shall ever unhorse
me from my manhood's seat; if to vow myself all Virtue's and all
Truth's, be but to make a trembling, distrusted slave of me; if Life is
to prove a burden I can not bear without ignominious cringings; if
indeed our actions are all fore-ordained, and we are Russian serfs to
Fate; if invisible devils do titter at us when we most nobly strive; if
Life be a cheating dream, and virtue as unmeaning and unsequeled with
any blessing as the midnight mirth of wine; if by sacrificing myself for
Duty's sake, my own mother re-sacrifices me; if Duty's self be but a
bugbear, and all things are allowable and unpunishable to man;--then do
thou, Mute Massiveness, fall on me! Ages thou hast waited; and if these
things be thus, then wait no more; for whom better canst thou crush than
him who now lies here invoking thee?"

A down-darting bird, all song, swiftly lighted on the unmoved and
eternally immovable balancings of the Terror Stone, and cheerfully
chirped to Pierre. The tree-boughs bent and waved to the rushes of a
sudden, balmy wind; and slowly Pierre crawled forth, and stood haughtily
upon his feet, as he owed thanks to none, and went his moody way.


VI.

When in his imaginative ruminating moods of early youth, Pierre had
christened the wonderful stone by the old resounding name of Memnon, he
had done so merely from certain associative remembrances of that
Egyptian marvel, of which all Eastern travelers speak. And when the
fugitive thought had long ago entered him of desiring that same stone
for his head-stone, when he should be no more; then he had only yielded
to one of those innumerable fanciful notions, tinged with dreamy
painless melancholy, which are frequently suggested to the mind of a
poetic boy. But in after-times, when placed in far different
circumstances from those surrounding him at the Meadows, Pierre pondered
on the stone, and his young thoughts concerning it, and, later, his
desperate act in crawling under it; then an immense significance came to
him, and the long-passed unconscious movements of his then youthful
heart seemed now prophetic to him, and allegorically verified by the
subsequent events.

For, not to speak of the other and subtler meanings which lie crouching
behind the colossal haunches of this stone, regarded as the menacingly
impending Terror Stone--hidden to all the simple cottagers, but revealed
to Pierre--consider its aspects as the Memnon Stone. For Memnon was that
dewey, royal boy, son of Aurora, and born King of Egypt, who, with
enthusiastic rashness flinging himself on another's account into a
rightful quarrel, fought hand to hand with his overmatch, and met his
boyish and most dolorous death beneath the walls of Troy. His wailing
subjects built a monument in Egypt to commemorate his untimely fate.
Touched by the breath of the bereaved Aurora, every sunrise that statue
gave forth a mournful broken sound, as of a harp-string suddenly
sundered, being too harshly wound.

Herein lies an unsummed world of grief. For in this plaintive fable we
find embodied the Hamletism of the antique world; the Hamletism of three
thousand years ago: "The flower of virtue cropped by a too rare
mischance." And the English Tragedy is but Egyptian Memnon, Montaignized
and modernized; for being but a mortal man Shakspeare had his fathers
too.

Now as the Memnon Statue survives down to this present day, so does that
nobly-striving but ever-shipwrecked character in some royal youths (for
both Memnon and Hamlet were the sons of kings), of which that statue is
the melancholy type. But Memnon's sculptured woes did once melodiously
resound; now all is mute. Fit emblem that of old, poetry was a
consecration and an obsequy to all hapless modes of human life; but in a
bantering, barren, and prosaic, heartless age, Aurora's music-moan is
lost among our drifting sands which whelm alike the monument and the
dirge.


VII.

As Pierre went on through the woods, all thoughts now left him but those
investing Isabel. He strove to condense her mysterious haze into some
definite and comprehensible shape. He could not but infer that the
feeling of bewilderment, which she had so often hinted of during their
interview, had caused her continually to go aside from the straight line
of her narration; and finally to end it in an abrupt and enigmatical
obscurity. But he also felt assured, that as this was entirely
unintended, and now, doubtless, regretted by herself, so their coming
second interview would help to clear up much of this mysteriousness;
considering that the elapsing interval would do much to tranquilize her,
and rally her into less of wonderfulness to him; he did not therefore
so much accuse his unthinkingness in naming the postponing hour he had.
For, indeed, looking from the morning down the vista of the day, it
seemed as indefinite and interminable to him. He could not bring himself
to confront any face or house; a plowed field, any sign of tillage, the
rotted stump of a long-felled pine, the slightest passing trace of man
was uncongenial and repelling to him. Likewise in his own mind all
remembrances and imaginings that had to do with the common and general
humanity had become, for the time, in the most singular manner
distasteful to him. Still, while thus loathing all that was common in
the two different worlds--that without, and that within--nevertheless,
even in the most withdrawn and subtlest region of his own essential
spirit, Pierre could not now find one single agreeable twig of thought
whereon to perch his weary soul.

Men in general seldom suffer from this utter pauperism of the spirit. If
God hath not blessed them with incurable frivolity, men in general have
still some secret thing of self-conceit or virtuous gratulation; men in
general have always done some small self-sacrificing deed for some other
man; and so, in those now and then recurring hours of despondent
lassitude, which must at various and differing intervals overtake almost
every civilized human being; such persons straightway bethink them of
their one, or two, or three small self-sacrificing things, and suck
respite, consolation, and more or less compensating deliciousness from
it. But with men of self-disdainful spirits; in whose chosen souls
heaven itself hath by a primitive persuasion unindoctrinally fixed that
most true Christian doctrine of the utter nothingness of good works; the
casual remembrance of their benevolent well-doings, does never distill
one drop of comfort for them, even as (in harmony with the correlative
Scripture doctrine) the recalling of their outlived errors and
mis-deeds, conveys to them no slightest pang or shadow of reproach.

Though the clew-defying mysteriousness of Isabel's narration, did now
for the time, in this particular mood of his, put on a repelling aspect
to our Pierre; yet something must occupy the soul of man; and Isabel was
nearest to him then; and Isabel he thought of; at first, with great
discomfort and with pain, but anon (for heaven eventually rewards the
resolute and duteous thinker) with lessening repugnance, and at last
with still-increasing willingness and congenialness. Now he recalled his
first impressions, here and there, while she was rehearsing to him her
wild tale; he recalled those swift but mystical corroborations in his
own mind and memory, which by shedding another twinkling light upon her
history, had but increased its mystery, while at the same time
remarkably substantiating it.

Her first recallable recollection was of an old deserted chateau-like
house in a strange, French-like country, which she dimly imagined to be
somewhere beyond the sea. Did not this surprisingly correspond with
certain natural inferences to be drawn from his Aunt Dorothea's account
of the disappearance of the French young lady? Yes; the French young
lady's disappearance on this side the water was only contingent upon her
reappearance on the other; then he shuddered as he darkly pictured the
possible sequel of her life, and the wresting from her of her infant,
and its immurement in the savage mountain wilderness.

But Isabel had also vague impressions of herself crossing the
sea;--_re_crossing, emphatically thought Pierre, as he pondered on the
unbidden conceit, that she had probably first unconsciously and
smuggledly crossed it hidden beneath her sorrowing mother's heart. But
in attempting to draw any inferences, from what he himself had ever
heard, for a coinciding proof or elucidation of this assumption of
Isabel's actual crossing the sea at so tender an age; here Pierre felt
all the inadequateness of both his own and Isabel's united knowledge, to
clear up the profound mysteriousness of her early life. To the
certainty of this irremovable obscurity he bowed himself, and strove to
dismiss it from his mind, as worse than hopeless. So, also, in a good
degree, did he endeavor to drive out of him, Isabel's reminiscence of
the, to her, unnameable large house, from which she had been finally
removed by the pleasant woman in the coach. This episode in her life,
above all other things, was most cruelly suggestive to him, as possibly
involving his father in the privity to a thing, at which Pierre's inmost
soul fainted with amazement and abhorrence. Here the helplessness of all
further light, and the eternal impossibility of logically exonerating
his dead father, in his own mind, from the liability to this, and many
other of the blackest self-insinuated suppositions; all this came over
Pierre with a power so infernal and intense, that it could only have
proceeded from the unretarded malice of the Evil One himself. But
subtilly and wantonly as these conceits stole into him, Pierre as
subtilly opposed them; and with the hue-and-cry of his whole indignant
soul, pursued them forth again into the wide Tartarean realm from which
they had emerged.

The more and the more that Pierre now revolved the story of Isabel in
his mind, so much the more he amended his original idea, that much of
its obscurity would depart upon a second interview. He saw, or seemed to
see, that it was not so much Isabel who had by her wild idiosyncrasies
mystified the narration of her history, as it was the essential and
unavoidable mystery of her history itself, which had invested Isabel
with such wonderful enigmas to him.


VIII.

The issue of these reconsiderings was the conviction, that all he could
now reasonably anticipate from Isabel, in further disclosure on the
subject of her life, were some few additional particulars bringing it
down to the present moment; and, also, possibly filling out the latter
portion of what she had already revealed to him. Nor here, could he
persuade himself, that she would have much to say. Isabel had not been
so digressive and withholding as he had thought. What more, indeed,
could she now have to impart, except by what strange means she had at
last come to find her brother out; and the dreary recital of how she had
pecuniarily wrestled with her destitute condition; how she had come to
leave one place of toiling refuge for another, till now he found her in
humble servitude at farmer Ulver's? Is it possible then, thought Pierre,
that there lives a human creature in this common world of everydays,
whose whole history may be told in little less than two-score words, and
yet embody in that smallness a fathomless fountain of ever-welling
mystery? Is it possible, after all, that spite of bricks and shaven
faces, this world we live in is brimmed with wonders, and I and all
mankind, beneath our garbs of common-placeness, conceal enigmas that the
stars themselves, and perhaps the highest seraphim can not resolve?

The intuitively certain, however literally unproven fact of Isabel's
sisterhood to him, was a link that he now felt binding him to a before
unimagined and endless chain of wondering. His very blood seemed to flow
through all his arteries with unwonted subtileness, when he thought that
the same tide flowed through the mystic veins of Isabel. All his
occasional pangs of dubiousness as to the grand governing thing of
all--the reality of the physical relationship--only recoiled back upon
him with added tribute of both certainty and insolubleness.

She is my sister--my own father's daughter. Well; why do I believe it?
The other day I had not so much as heard the remotest rumor of her
existence; and what has since occurred to change me? What so new and
incontestable vouchers have I handled? None at all. But I have seen her.
Well; grant it; I might have seen a thousand other girls, whom I had
never seen before; but for that, I would not own any one among them for
my sister. But the portrait, the chair-portrait, Pierre? Think of that.
But that was painted before Isabel was born; what can that portrait have
to do with Isabel? It is not the portrait of Isabel, it is my father's
portrait; and yet my mother swears it is not he.

Now alive as he was to all these searching argumentative itemizings of
the minutest known facts any way bearing upon the subject; and yet, at
the same time, persuaded, strong as death, that in spite of them, Isabel
was indeed his sister; how could Pierre, naturally poetic, and therefore
piercing as he was; how could he fail to acknowledge the existence of
that all-controlling and all-permeating wonderfulness, which, when
imperfectly and isolatedly recognized by the generality, is so
significantly denominated The Finger of God? But it is not merely the
Finger, it is the whole outspread Hand of God; for doth not Scripture
intimate, that He holdeth all of us in the hollow of His hand?--a
Hollow, truly!

Still wandering through the forest, his eye pursuing its ever-shifting
shadowy vistas; remote from all visible haunts and traces of that
strangely wilful race, who, in the sordid traffickings of clay and mud,
are ever seeking to denationalize the natural heavenliness of their
souls; there came into the mind of Pierre, thoughts and fancies never
imbibed within the gates of towns; but only given forth by the
atmosphere of primeval forests, which, with the eternal ocean, are the
only unchanged general objects remaining to this day, from those that
originally met the gaze of Adam. For so it is, that the apparently most
inflammable or evaporable of all earthly things, wood and water, are, in
this view, immensely the most endurable.

Now all his ponderings, however excursive, wheeled round Isabel as their
center; and back to her they came again from every excursion; and again
derived some new, small germs for wonderment.

The question of Time occurred to Pierre. How old was Isabel? According
to all reasonable inferences from the presumed circumstances of her
life, she was his elder, certainly, though by uncertain years; yet her
whole aspect was that of more than childlikeness; nevertheless, not only
did he feel his muscular superiority to her, so to speak, which made him
spontaneously alive to a feeling of elderly protectingness over her; not
only did he experience the thoughts of superior world-acquaintance, and
general cultured knowledge; but spite of reason's self, and irrespective
of all mere computings, he was conscious of a feeling which
independently pronounced him her senior in point of Time, and Isabel a
child of everlasting youngness. This strange, though strong conceit of
his mysterious persuasion, doubtless, had its untraced, and but
little-suspected origin in his mind, from ideas born of his devout
meditations upon the artless infantileness of her face; which, though
profoundly mournful in the general expression, yet did not, by any
means, for that cause, lose one whit in its singular infantileness; as
the faces of real infants, in their earliest visibleness, do oft-times
wear a look of deep and endless sadness. But it was not the sadness, nor
indeed, strictly speaking, the infantileness of the face of Isabel which
so singularly impressed him with the idea of her original and changeless
youthfulness. It was something else; yet something which entirely eluded
him.

Imaginatively exalted by the willing suffrages of all mankind into
higher and purer realms than men themselves inhabit; beautiful
women--those of them at least who are beautiful in soul as well as
body--do, notwithstanding the relentless law of earthly fleetingness,
still seem, for a long interval, mysteriously exempt from the
incantations of decay; for as the outward loveliness touch by touch
departs, the interior beauty touch by touch replaces that departing
bloom, with charms, which, underivable from earth, possess the
ineffaceableness of stars. Else, why at the age of sixty, have some
women held in the strongest bonds of love and fealty, men young enough
to be their grandsons? And why did all-seducing Ninon unintendingly
break scores of hearts at seventy? It is because of the perennialness of
womanly sweetness.

Out from the infantile, yet eternal mournfulness of the face of Isabel,
there looked on Pierre that angelic childlikeness, which our Savior
hints is the one only investiture of translated souls; for of such--even
of little children--is the other world.

Now, unending as the wonderful rivers, which once bathed the feet of the
primeval generations, and still remain to flow fast by the graves of all
succeeding men, and by the beds of all now living; unending,
ever-flowing, ran through the soul of Pierre, fresh and fresher, further
and still further, thoughts of Isabel. But the more his thoughtful river
ran, the more mysteriousness it floated to him; and yet the more
certainty that the mysteriousness was unchangeable. In her life there
was an unraveled plot; and he felt that unraveled it would eternally
remain to him. No slightest hope or dream had he, that what was dark and
mournful in her would ever be cleared up into some coming atmosphere of
light and mirth. Like all youths, Pierre had conned his novel-lessons;
had read more novels than most persons of his years; but their false,
inverted attempts at systematizing eternally unsystemizable elements;
their audacious, intermeddling impotency, in trying to unravel, and
spread out, and classify, the more thin than gossamer threads which make
up the complex web of life; these things over Pierre had no power now.
Straight through their helpless miserableness he pierced; the one
sensational truth in him transfixed like beetles all the speculative
lies in them. He saw that human life doth truly come from that, which
all men are agreed to call by the name of _God_; and that it partakes of
the unravelable inscrutableness of God. By infallible presentiment he
saw, that not always doth life's beginning gloom conclude in gladness;
that wedding-bells peal not ever in the last scene of life's fifth act;
that while the countless tribes of common novels laboriously spin veils
of mystery, only to complacently clear them up at last; and while the
countless tribe of common dramas do but repeat the same; yet the
profounder emanations of the human mind, intended to illustrate all that
can be humanly known of human life; these never unravel their own
intricacies, and have no proper endings; but in imperfect,
unanticipated, and disappointing sequels (as mutilated stumps), hurry to
abrupt intermergings with the eternal tides of time and fate.

So Pierre renounced all thought of ever having Isabel's dark lantern
illuminated to him. Her light was lidded, and the lid was locked. Nor
did he feel a pang at this. By posting hither and thither among the
reminiscences of his family, and craftily interrogating his remaining
relatives on his father's side, he might possibly rake forth some few
small grains of dubious and most unsatisfying things, which, were he
that way strongly bent, would only serve the more hopelessly to cripple
him in his practical resolves. He determined to pry not at all into this
sacred problem. For him now the mystery of Isabel possessed all the
bewitchingness of the mysterious vault of night, whose very darkness
evokes the witchery.

The thoughtful river still ran on in him, and now it floated still
another thing to him.

Though the letter of Isabel gushed with all a sister's sacred longings
to embrace her brother, and in the most abandoned terms painted the
anguish of her life-long estrangement from him; and though, in effect,
it took vows to this,--that without his continual love and sympathy,
further life for her was only fit to be thrown into the nearest
unfathomed pool, or rushing stream; yet when the brother and the sister
had encountered, according to the set appointment, none of these
impassionedments had been repeated. She had more than thrice thanked
God, and most earnestly blessed himself, that now he had come near to
her in her loneliness; but no gesture of common and customary sisterly
affection. Nay, from his embrace had she not struggled? nor kissed him
once; nor had he kissed her, except when the salute was solely sought by
him.

Now Pierre began to see mysteries interpierced with mysteries, and
mysteries eluding mysteries; and began to seem to see the mere
imaginariness of the so supposed solidest principle of human
association. Fate had done this thing for them. Fate had separated the
brother and the sister, till to each other they somehow seemed so not at
all. Sisters shrink not from their brother's kisses. And Pierre felt
that never, never would he be able to embrace Isabel with the mere
brotherly embrace; while the thought of any other caress, which took
hold of any domesticness, was entirely vacant from his uncontaminated
soul, for it had never consciously intruded there.

Therefore, forever unsistered for him by the stroke of Fate, and
apparently forever, and twice removed from the remotest possibility of
that love which had drawn him to his Lucy; yet still the object of the
ardentest and deepest emotions of his soul; therefore, to him, Isabel
wholly soared out of the realms of mortalness, and for him became
transfigured in the highest heaven of uncorrupted Love.




BOOK VIII.

THE SECOND INTERVIEW AT THE FARM-HOUSE, AND THE SECOND PART OF THE STORY
OF ISABEL. THEIR IMMEDIATE IMPULSIVE EFFECT UPON PIERRE.


I.

His second interview with Isabel was more satisfying, but none the less
affecting and mystical than the first, though in the beginning, to his
no small surprise, it was far more strange and embarrassing.

As before, Isabel herself admitted him into the farm-house, and spoke no
word to him till they were both seated in the room of the double
casement, and himself had first addressed her. If Pierre had any way
predetermined how to deport himself at the moment, it was to manifest by
some outward token the utmost affection for his sister; but her rapt
silence and that atmosphere of unearthliness which invested her, now
froze him to his seat; his arms refused to open, his lips refused to
meet in the fraternal kiss; while all the while his heart was
overflowing with the deepest love, and he knew full well, that his
presence was inexpressibly grateful to the girl. Never did love and
reverence so intimately react and blend; never did pity so join with
wonder in casting a spell upon the movements of his body, and impeding
him in its command.

After a few embarrassed words from Pierre, and a brief reply, a pause
ensued, during which not only was the slow, soft stepping overhead
quite audible, as at intervals on the night before, but also some slight
domestic sounds were heard from the adjoining room; and noticing the
unconsciously interrogating expression of Pierre's face, Isabel thus
spoke to him:

"I feel, my brother, that thou dost appreciate the peculiarity and the
mystery of my life, and of myself, and therefore I am at rest concerning
the possibility of thy misconstruing any of my actions. It is only when
people refuse to admit the uncommonness of some persons and the
circumstances surrounding them, that erroneous conceits are nourished,
and their feelings pained. My brother, if ever I shall seem reserved and
unembracing to thee, still thou must ever trust the heart of Isabel, and
permit no doubt to cross thee there. My brother, the sounds thou hast
just overheard in yonder room, have suggested to thee interesting
questions connected with myself. Do not speak; I fervently understand
thee. I will tell thee upon what terms I have been living here; and how
it is that I, a hired person, am enabled to receive thee in this seemly
privacy; for as thou mayest very readily imagine, this room is not my
own. And this reminds me also that I have yet some few further trifling
things to tell thee respecting the circumstances which have ended in
bestowing upon me so angelical a brother."

"I can not retain that word"--said Pierre, with earnest lowness, and
drawing a little nearer to her--"of right, it only pertains to thee."

"My brother, I will now go on, and tell thee all that I think thou
couldst wish to know, in addition to what was so dimly rehearsed last
night. Some three months ago, the people of the distant farm-house,
where I was then staying, broke up their household and departed for some
Western country. No place immediately presented itself where my services
were wanted, but I was hospitably received at an old neighbor's hearth,
and most kindly invited to tarry there, till some employ should offer.
But I did not wait for chance to help me; my inquiries resulted in
ascertaining the sad story of Delly Ulver, and that through the fate
which had overtaken her, her aged parents were not only plunged into the
most poignant grief, but were deprived of the domestic help of an only
daughter, a circumstance whose deep discomfort can not be easily
realized by persons who have always been ministered to by servants.
Though indeed my natural mood--if I may call it so, for want of a better
term--was strangely touched by thinking that the misery of Delly should
be the source of benefit to me; yet this had no practically operative
effect upon me,--my most inmost and truest thoughts seldom have;--and so
I came hither, and my hands will testify that I did not come entirely
for naught. Now, my brother, since thou didst leave me yesterday, I have
felt no small surprise, that thou didst not then seek from me, how and
when I came to learn the name of Glendinning as so closely associated
with myself; and how I came to know Saddle Meadows to be the family
seat, and how I at last resolved upon addressing thee, Pierre, and none
other; and to what may be attributed that very memorable scene in the
sewing-circle at the Miss Pennies."

"I have myself been wondering at myself that these things should
hitherto have so entirely absented themselves from my mind," responded
Pierre;--"but truly, Isabel, thy all-abounding hair falls upon me with
some spell which dismisses all ordinary considerations from me, and
leaves me only sensible to the Nubian power in thine eyes. But go on,
and tell me every thing and any thing. I desire to know all, Isabel, and
yet, nothing which thou wilt not voluntarily disclose. I feel that
already I know the pith of all; that already I feel toward thee to the
very limit of all; and that, whatever remains for thee to tell me, can
but corroborate and confirm. So go on, my dearest,--ay, my only sister."

Isabel fixed her wonderful eyes upon him with a gaze of long
impassionment; then rose suddenly to her feet, and advanced swiftly
toward him; but more suddenly paused, and reseated herself in silence,
and continued so for a time, with her head averted from him, and mutely
resting on her hand, gazing out of the open casement upon the soft
heat-lightning, occasionally revealed there.

She resumed anon.


II.

"My brother, thou wilt remember that certain part of my story which in
reference to my more childish years spent remote from here, introduced
the gentleman--my--yes, _our_ father, Pierre. I can not describe to
thee, for indeed, I do not myself comprehend how it was, that though at
the time I sometimes called him my father, and the people of the house
also called him so, sometimes when speaking of him to me; yet--partly, I
suppose, because of the extraordinary secludedness of my previous
life--I did not then join in my mind with the word father, all those
peculiar associations which the term ordinarily inspires in children.
The word father only seemed a word of general love and endearment to
me--little or nothing more; it did not seem to involve any claims of any
sort, one way or the other. I did not ask the name of my father; for I
could have had no motive to hear him named, except to individualize the
person who was so peculiarly kind to me; and individualized in that way
he already was, since he was generally called by us _the gentleman_, and
sometimes _my father_. As I have no reason to suppose that had I then or
afterward, questioned the people of the house as to what more particular
name my father went by in the world, they would have at all disclosed it
to me; and, indeed, since, for certain singular reasons, I now feel
convinced that on that point they were pledged to secrecy; I do not
know that I ever would have come to learn my father's name,--and by
consequence, ever have learned the least shade or shadow of knowledge as
to you, Pierre, or any of your kin--had it not been for the merest
little accident, which early revealed it to me, though at the moment I
did not know the value of that knowledge. The last time my father
visited the house, he chanced to leave his handkerchief behind him. It
was the farmer's wife who first discovered it. She picked it up, and
fumbling at it a moment, as if rapidly examining the corners, tossed it
to me, saying, 'Here, Isabel, here is the good gentleman's handkerchief;
keep it for him now, till he comes to see little Bell again.' Gladly I
caught the handkerchief, and put it into my bosom. It was a white one;
and upon closely scanning it, I found a small line of fine faded
yellowish writing in the middle of it. At that time I could not read
either print or writing, so I was none the wiser then; but still, some
secret instinct told me, that the woman would not so freely have given
me the handkerchief, had she known there was any writing on it. I
forbore questioning her on the subject; I waited till my father should
return, to secretly question him. The handkerchief had become dusty by
lying on the uncarpeted floor. I took it to the brook and washed it, and
laid it out on the grass where none would chance to pass; and I ironed
it under my little apron, so that none would be attracted to it, to look
at it again. But my father never returned; so, in my grief, the
handkerchief became the more and the more endeared to me; it absorbed
many of the secret tears I wept in memory of my dear departed friend,
whom, in my child-like ignorance, I then equally called _my father_ and
_the gentleman_. But when the impression of his death became a fixed
thing to me, then again I washed and dried and ironed the precious
memorial of him, and put it away where none should find it but myself,
and resolved never more to soil it with my tears; and I folded it in
such a manner, that the name was invisibly buried in the heart of it,
and it was like opening a book and turning over many blank leaves before
I came to the mysterious writing, which I knew should be one day read by
me, without direct help from any one. Now I resolved to learn my
letters, and learn to read, in order that of myself I might learn the
meaning of those faded characters. No other purpose but that only one,
did I have in learning then to read. I easily induced the woman to give
me my little teachings, and being uncommonly quick, and moreover, most
eager to learn, I soon mastered the alphabet, and went on to spelling,
and by-and-by to reading, and at last to the complete deciphering of the
talismanic word--Glendinning. I was yet very ignorant. _Glendinning_,
thought I, what is that? It sounds something like
_gentleman_;--Glen-din-ning;--just as many syllables as _gentleman_;
and--G--it begins with the same letter; yes, it must mean _my father_. I
will think of him by that word now;--I will not think of the
_gentleman_, but of _Glendinning_. When at last I removed from that
house and went to another, and still another, and as I still grew up and
thought more to myself, that word was ever humming in my head, I saw it
would only prove the key to more. But I repressed all undue curiosity,
if any such has ever filled my breast. I would not ask of any one, who
it was that had been Glendinning; where he had lived; whether, ever any
other girl or boy had called him father as I had done. I resolved to
hold myself in perfect patience, as somehow mystically certain, that
Fate would at last disclose to me, of itself, and at the suitable time,
whatever Fate thought it best for me to know. But now, my brother, I
must go aside a little for a moment.--Hand me the guitar."

Surprised and rejoiced thus far at the unanticipated newness, and the
sweet lucidness and simplicity of Isabel's narrating, as compared with
the obscure and marvelous revelations of the night before, and all eager
for her to continue her story in the same limpid manner, but
remembering into what a wholly tumultuous and unearthly frame of mind
the melodies of her guitar had formerly thrown him; Pierre now, in
handing the instrument to Isabel, could not entirely restrain something
like a look of half-regret, accompanied rather strangely with a
half-smile of gentle humor. It did not pass unnoticed by his sister, who
receiving the guitar, looked up into his face with an expression which
would almost have been arch and playful, were it not for the
ever-abiding shadows cast from her infinite hair into her unfathomed
eyes, and redoubledly shot back again from them.

"Do not be alarmed, my brother; and do not smile at me; I am not going
to play the Mystery of Isabel to thee to-night. Draw nearer to me now.
Hold the light near to me."

So saying she loosened some ivory screws of the guitar, so as to open a
peep lengthwise through its interior.

"Now hold it thus, my brother; thus; and see what thou wilt see; but
wait one instant till I hold the lamp." So saying, as Pierre held the
instrument before him as directed, Isabel held the lamp so as to cast
its light through the round sounding-hole into the heart of the guitar.

"Now, Pierre, now."

Eagerly Pierre did as he was bid; but somehow felt disappointed, and yet
surprised at what he saw. He saw the word _Isabel_, quite legibly but
still fadedly gilded upon a part of one side of the interior, where it
made a projecting curve.

"A very curious place thou hast chosen, Isabel, wherein to have the
ownership of the guitar engraved. How did ever any person get in there
to do it, I should like to know?"

The girl looked surprisedly at him a moment; then took the instrument
from him, and looked into it herself. She put it down, and continued.

"I see, my brother, thou dost not comprehend. When one knows every thing
about any object, one is too apt to suppose that the slightest hint
will suffice to throw it quite as open to any other person. _I_ did not
have the name gilded there, my brother."

"How?" cried Pierre.

"The name was gilded there when I first got the guitar, though then I
did not know it. The guitar must have been expressly made for some one
by the name of Isabel; because the lettering could only have been put
there before the guitar was put together."

"Go on--hurry," said Pierre.

"Yes, one day, after I had owned it a long time, a strange whim came
into me. Thou know'st that it is not at all uncommon for children to
break their dearest playthings in order to gratify a half-crazy
curiosity to find out what is in the hidden heart of them. So it is with
children, sometimes. And, Pierre, I have always been, and feel that I
must always continue to be a child, though I should grow to three score
years and ten. Seized with this sudden whim, I unscrewed the part I
showed thee, and peeped in, and saw 'Isabel.' Now I have not yet told
thee, that from as early a time as I can remember, I have nearly always
gone by the name of Bell. And at the particular time I now speak of, my
knowledge of general and trivial matters was sufficiently advanced to
make it quite a familiar thing to me, that Bell was often a diminutive
for Isabella, or Isabel. It was therefore no very strange affair, that
considering my age, and other connected circumstances at the time, I
should have instinctively associated the word Isabel, found in the
guitar, with my own abbreviated name, and so be led into all sorts of
fancyings. They return upon me now. Do not speak to me."

She leaned away from him, toward the occasionally illuminated casement,
in the same manner as on the previous night, and for a few moments
seemed struggling with some wild bewilderment But now she suddenly
turned, and fully confronted Pierre with all the wonderfulness of her
most surprising face.

"I am called woman, and thou, man, Pierre; but there is neither man nor
woman about it. Why should I not speak out to thee? There is no sex in
our immaculateness. Pierre, the secret name in the guitar even now
thrills me through and through. Pierre, think! think! Oh, canst thou not
comprehend? see it?--what I mean, Pierre? The secret name in the guitar
thrills me, thrills me, whirls me, whirls me; so secret, wholly hidden,
yet constantly carried about in it; unseen, unsuspected, always
vibrating to the hidden heart-strings--broken heart-strings; oh, my
mother, my mother, my mother!"

As the wild plaints of Isabel pierced into his bosom's core, they
carried with them the first inkling of the extraordinary conceit, so
vaguely and shrinkingly hinted at in her till now entirely
unintelligible words.

She lifted her dry burning eyes of long-fringed fire to him.

"Pierre--I have no slightest proof--but the guitar was _hers_, I know, I
feel it was. Say, did I not last night tell thee, how it first sung to
me upon the bed, and answered me, without my once touching it? and how
it always sung to me and answered me, and soothed and loved me,--Hark
now; thou shalt hear my mother's spirit."

She carefully scanned the strings, and tuned them carefully; then placed
the guitar in the casement-bench, and knelt before it; and in low,
sweet, and changefully modulated notes, so barely audible, that Pierre
bent over to catch them; breathed the word _mother, mother, mother_!
There was profound silence for a time; when suddenly, to the lowest and
least audible note of all, the magical untouched guitar responded with a
quick spark of melody, which in the following hush, long vibrated and
subsidingly tingled through the room; while to his augmented wonder, he
now espied, quivering along the metallic strings of the guitar, some
minute scintillations, seemingly caught from the instrument's close
proximity to the occasionally irradiated window.

The girl still kept kneeling; but an altogether unwonted expression
suddenly overcast her whole countenance. She darted one swift glance at
Pierre; and then with a single toss of her hand tumbled her unrestrained
locks all over her, so that they tent-wise invested her whole kneeling
form close to the floor, and yet swept the floor with their wild
redundancy. Never Saya of Limeean girl, at dim mass in St. Dominic's
cathedral, so completely muffled the human figure. To Pierre, the deep
oaken recess of the double-casement, before which Isabel was kneeling,
seemed now the immediate vestibule of some awful shrine, mystically
revealed through the obscurely open window, which ever and anon was
still softly illumined by the mild heat-lightnings and
ground-lightnings, that wove their wonderfulness without, in the
unsearchable air of that ebonly warm and most noiseless summer night.

Some unsubduable word was on Pierre's lip, but a sudden voice from out
the veil bade him be silent.

"Mother--mother--mother!"

Again, after a preluding silence, the guitar as magically responded as
before; the sparks quivered along its strings; and again Pierre felt as
in the immediate presence of the spirit.

"Shall I, mother?--Art thou ready? Wilt thou tell me?--Now? Now?"

These words were lowly and sweetly murmured in the same way with the
word _mother_, being changefully varied in their modulations, till at
the last _now_, the magical guitar again responded; and the girl swiftly
drew it to her beneath her dark tent of hair. In this act, as the long
curls swept over the strings of the guitar, the strange sparks--still
quivering there--caught at those attractive curls; the entire casement
was suddenly and wovenly illumined; then waned again; while now, in the
succeeding dimness, every downward undulating wave and billow of
Isabel's tossed tresses gleamed here and there like a tract of
phosphorescent midnight sea; and, simultaneously, all the four winds of
the world of melody broke loose, and again as on the previous night,
only in a still more subtile, and wholly inexplicable way, Pierre felt
himself surrounded by ten thousand sprites and gnomes, and his whole
soul was swayed and tossed by supernatural tides; and again he heard the
wondrous, rebounding, chanted words:

    "Mystery! Mystery!
     Mystery of Isabel!
     Mystery! Mystery!
     Isabel and Mystery!
         Mystery!"


III.

Almost deprived of consciousness by the spell flung over him by the
marvelous girl, Pierre unknowingly gazed away from her, as on vacancy;
and when at last stillness had once more fallen upon the room--all
except the stepping--and he recovered his self-possession, and turned to
look where he might now be, he was surprised to see Isabel composedly,
though avertedly, seated on the bench; the longer and fuller tresses of
her now ungleaming hair flung back, and the guitar quietly leaning in
the corner.

He was about to put some unconsidered question to her, but she
half-anticipated it by bidding him, in a low, but nevertheless almost
authoritative tone, not to make any allusion to the scene he had just
beheld.

He paused, profoundly thinking to himself, and now felt certain that the
entire scene, from the first musical invocation of the guitar, must have
unpremeditatedly proceeded from a sudden impulse in the girl, inspired
by the peculiar mood into which the preceding conversation, and
especially the handling of the guitar under such circumstances, had
irresistibly thrown her.

But that certain something of the preternatural in the scene, of which
he could not rid his mind:--the, so to speak, voluntary and all but
intelligent responsiveness of the guitar--its strangely scintillating
strings--the so suddenly glorified head of Isabel; altogether, these
things seemed not at the time entirely produced by customary or natural
causes. To Pierre's dilated senses Isabel seemed to swim in an electric
fluid; the vivid buckler of her brow seemed as a magnetic plate. Now
first this night was Pierre made aware of what, in the superstitiousness
of his rapt enthusiasm, he could not help believing was an extraordinary
physical magnetism in Isabel. And--as it were derived from this
marvelous quality thus imputed to her--he now first became vaguely
sensible of a certain still more marvelous power in the girl over
himself and his most interior thoughts and motions;--a power so hovering
upon the confines of the invisible world, that it seemed more inclined
that way than this;--a power which not only seemed irresistibly to draw
him toward Isabel, but to draw him away from another quarter--wantonly
as it were, and yet quite ignorantly and unintendingly; and, besides,
without respect apparently to any thing ulterior, and yet again, only
under cover of drawing him to her. For over all these things, and
interfusing itself with the sparkling electricity in which she seemed to
swim, was an ever-creeping and condensing haze of ambiguities. Often, in
after-times with her, did he recall this first magnetic night, and would
seem to see that she then had bound him to her by an extraordinary
atmospheric spell--both physical and spiritual--which henceforth it had
become impossible for him to break, but whose full potency he never
recognized till long after he had become habituated to its sway. This
spell seemed one with that Pantheistic master-spell, which eternally
locks in mystery and in muteness the universal subject world, and the
physical electricalness of Isabel seemed reciprocal with the
heat-lightnings and the ground-lightnings nigh to which it had first
become revealed to Pierre. She seemed molded from fire and air, and
vivified at some Voltaic pile of August thunder-clouds heaped against
the sunset.

The occasional sweet simplicity, and innocence, and humbleness of her
story; her often serene and open aspect; her deep-seated, but mostly
quiet, unobtrusive sadness, and that touchingness of her less unwonted
tone and air;--these only the more signalized and contrastingly
emphasized the profounder, subtler, and more mystic part of her.
Especially did Pierre feel this, when after another silent interval, she
now proceeded with her story in a manner so gently confiding, so
entirely artless, so almost peasant-like in its simplicity, and dealing
in some details so little sublimated in themselves, that it seemed well
nigh impossible that this unassuming maid should be the same dark, regal
being who had but just now bade Pierre be silent in so imperious a tone,
and around whose wondrous temples the strange electric glory had been
playing. Yet not very long did she now thus innocently proceed, ere, at
times, some fainter flashes of her electricalness came from her, but
only to be followed by such melting, human, and most feminine traits as
brought all his soft, enthusiast tears into the sympathetic but still
unshedding eyes of Pierre.


IV.

"Thou rememberest, my brother, my telling thee last night, how
the--the--thou knowest what I mean--_that, there_"--avertedly pointing
to the guitar; "thou rememberest how it came into my possession. But
perhaps I did not tell thee, that the pedler said he had got it in
barter from the servants of a great house some distance from the place
where I was then residing."

Pierre signed his acquiescence, and Isabel proceeded:

"Now, at long though stated intervals, that man passed the farm-house in
his trading route between the small towns and villages. When I
discovered the gilding in the guitar, I kept watch for him; for though I
truly felt persuaded that Fate had the dispensing of her own secrets in
her own good time; yet I also felt persuaded that in some cases Fate
drops us one little hint, leaving our own minds to follow it up, so that
we of ourselves may come to the grand secret in reserve. So I kept
diligent watch for him; and the next time he stopped, without permitting
him at all to guess my motives, I contrived to steal out of him what
great house it was from which the guitar had come. And, my brother, it
was the mansion of Saddle Meadows."

Pierre started, and the girl went on:

"Yes, my brother, Saddle Meadows; 'old General Glendinning's place,' he
said; 'but the old hero's long dead and gone now; and--the more's the
pity--so is the young General, his son, dead and gone; but then there is
a still younger grandson General left; that family always keep the title
and the name a-going; yes, even to the surname,--Pierre. Pierre
Glendinning was the white-haired old General's name, who fought in the
old French and Indian wars; and Pierre Glendinning is his young
great-grandson's name.' Thou may'st well look at me so, my
brother;--yes, he meant thee, _thee_, my brother."

"But the guitar--the guitar!"--cried Pierre--"how came the guitar openly
at Saddle Meadows, and how came it to be bartered away by servants? Tell
me that, Isabel!"

"Do not put such impetuous questions to me, Pierre; else thou mayst
recall the old--may be, it is the evil spell upon me. I can not
precisely and knowingly answer thee. I could surmise; but what are
surmises worth? Oh, Pierre, better, a million times, and far sweeter are
mysteries than surmises: though the mystery be unfathomable, it is still
the unfathomableness of fullness; but the surmise, that is but shallow
and unmeaning emptiness."

"But this is the most inexplicable point of all. Tell me, Isabel; surely
thou must have thought something about this thing."

"Much, Pierre, very much; but only about the mystery of it--nothing
more. Could I, I would not now be fully told, how the guitar came to be
at Saddle Meadows, and came to be bartered away by the servants of
Saddle Meadows. Enough, that it found me out, and came to me, and spoke
and sung to me, and soothed me, and has been every thing to me."

She paused a moment; while vaguely to his secret self Pierre revolved
these strange revealings; but now he was all attention again as Isabel
resumed.

"I now held in my mind's hand the clew, my brother. But I did not
immediately follow it further up. Sufficient to me in my loneliness was
the knowledge, that I now knew where my father's family was to be found.
As yet not the slightest intention of ever disclosing myself to them,
had entered my mind. And assured as I was, that for obvious reasons,
none of his surviving relatives could possibly know me, even if they saw
me, for what I really was, I felt entire security in the event of
encountering any of them by chance. But my unavoidable displacements and
migrations from one house to another, at last brought me within twelve
miles of Saddle Meadows. I began to feel an increasing longing in me;
but side by side with it, a new-born and competing pride,--yes, pride,
Pierre. Do my eyes flash? They belie me, if they do not. But it is no
common pride, Pierre; for what has Isabel to be proud of in this world?
It is the pride of--of--a too, too longing, loving heart, Pierre--the
pride of lasting suffering and grief, my brother! Yes, I conquered the
great longing with the still more powerful pride, Pierre; and so I would
not now be here, in this room,--nor wouldst thou ever have received any
line from me; nor, in all worldly probability, ever so much as heard of
her who is called Isabel Banford, had it not been for my hearing that at
Walter Ulver's, only three miles from the mansion of Saddle Meadows,
poor Bell would find people kind enough to give her wages for her work.
Feel my hand, my brother."

"Dear divine girl, my own exalted Isabel!" cried Pierre, catching the
offered hand with ungovernable emotion, "how most unbeseeming, that this
strange hardness, and this still stranger littleness should be united in
any human hand. But hard and small, it by an opposite analogy hints of
the soft capacious heart that made the hand so hard with heavenly
submission to thy most undeserved and martyred lot. Would, Isabel, that
these my kisses on the hand, were on the heart itself, and dropt the
seeds of eternal joy and comfort there."

He leaped to his feet, and stood before her with such warm, god-like
majesty of love and tenderness, that the girl gazed up at him as though
he were the one benignant star in all her general night.

"Isabel," cried Pierre, "I stand the sweet penance in my father's stead,
thou, in thy mother's. By our earthly acts we shall redeemingly bless
both their eternal lots; we will love with the pure and perfect love of
angel to an angel. If ever I fall from thee, dear Isabel, may Pierre
fall from himself; fall back forever into vacant nothingness and night!"

"My brother, my brother, speak not so to me; it is too much; unused to
any love ere now, thine, so heavenly and immense, falls crushing on me!
Such love is almost hard to bear as hate. Be still; do not speak to me."

They were both silent for a time; when she went on.

"Yes, my brother, Fate had now brought me within three miles of thee;
and--but shall I go straight on, and tell thee all, Pierre? all? every
thing? art thou of such divineness, that I may speak straight on, in all
my thoughts, heedless whither they may flow, or what things they may
float to me?"

"Straight on, and fearlessly," said Pierre.

"By chance I saw thy mother, Pierre, and under such circumstances that I
_knew_ her to be thy mother; and--but shall I go on?"

"Straight on, my Isabel; thou didst see my mother--well?"

"And when I saw her, though I spake not to her, nor she to me, yet
straightway my heart knew that she would love me not."

"Thy heart spake true," muttered Pierre to himself; "go on."

"I re-swore an oath never to reveal myself to thy mother."

"Oath well sworn," again he muttered; "go on."

"But I saw _thee_, Pierre; and, more than ever filled my mother toward
thy father, Pierre, then upheaved in me. Straightway I knew that if ever
I should come to be made known to thee, then thy own generous love would
open itself to me."

"Again thy heart spake true," he murmured; "go on--and didst thou
re-swear again?"

"No, Pierre; but yes, I did. I swore that thou wert my brother; with
love and pride I swore, that young and noble Pierre Glendinning was my
brother!"

"And only that?"

"Nothing more, Pierre; not to thee even, did I ever think to reveal
myself."

"How then? thou _art_ revealed to me."

"Yes; but the great God did it, Pierre--not poor Bell. Listen.

"I felt very dreary here; poor, dear Delly--thou must have heard
something of her story--a most sorrowful house, Pierre. Hark! that is
her seldom-pausing pacing thou hearest from the floor above. So she
keeps ever pacing, pacing, pacing; in her track, all thread-bare,
Pierre, is her chamber-rug. Her father will not look upon her; her
mother, she hath cursed her to her face. Out of yon chamber, Pierre,
Delly hath not slept, for now four weeks and more; nor ever hath she
once laid upon her bed; it was last made up five weeks ago; but paces,
paces, paces, all through the night, till after twelve; and then sits
vacant in her chair. Often I would go to her to comfort her; but she
says, 'Nay, nay, nay,' to me through the door; says 'Nay, nay, nay,' and
only nay to me, through the bolted door; bolted three weeks ago--when I
by cunning arts stole her dead baby from her, and with these fingers,
alone, by night, scooped out a hollow, and, seconding heaven's own
charitable stroke, buried that sweet, wee symbol of her not unpardonable
shame far from the ruthless foot of man--yes, bolted three weeks ago,
not once unbolted since; her food I must thrust through the little
window in her closet. Pierre, hardly these two handfuls has she eaten in
a week."

"Curses, wasp-like, cohere on that villain, Ned, and sting him to his
death!" cried Pierre, smit by this most piteous tale. "What can be done
for her, sweet Isabel; can Pierre do aught?"

"If thou or I do not, then the ever-hospitable grave will prove her
quick refuge, Pierre. Father and mother both, are worse than dead and
gone to her. They would have turned her forth, I think, but for my own
poor petitionings, unceasing in her behalf!"

Pierre's deep concern now gave place to a momentary look of benevolent
intelligence.

"Isabel, a thought of benefit to Delly has just entered me; but I am
still uncertain how best it may be acted on. Resolved I am though to
succor her. Do thou still hold her here yet awhile, by thy sweet
petitionings, till my further plans are more matured. Now run on with
thy story, and so divert me from the pacing;--her every step steps in my
soul."

"Thy noble heart hath many chambers, Pierre; the records of thy wealth,
I see, are not bound up in the one poor book of Isabel, my brother. Thou
art a visible token, Pierre, of the invisible angel-hoods, which in our
darker hours we do sometimes distrust. The gospel of thy acts goes very
far, my brother. Were all men like to thee, then were there no men at
all,--mankind extinct in seraphim!"

"Praises are for the base, my sister, cunningly to entice them to fair
Virtue by our ignorings of the ill in them, and our imputings of the
good not theirs. So make not my head to hang, sweet Isabel. Praise me
not. Go on now with thy tale."

"I have said to thee, my brother, how most dreary I found it here, and
from the first. Wonted all my life to sadness--if it be such--still,
this house hath such acuteness in its general grief, such hopelessness
and despair of any slightest remedy--that even poor Bell could scarce
abide it always, without some little going forth into contrasting
scenes. So I went forth into the places of delight, only that I might
return more braced to minister in the haunts of woe. For continual
unchanging residence therein, doth but bring on woe's stupor, and make
us as dead. So I went forth betimes; visiting the neighboring cottages;
where there were chattering children, and no one place vacant at the
cheerful board. Thus at last I chanced to hear of the Sewing Circle to
be held at the Miss Pennies'; and how that they were anxious to press
into their kind charity all the maidens of the country round. In various
cottages, I was besought to join; and they at length persuaded me; not
that I was naturally loth to it, and needed such entreaties; but at
first I felt great fear, lest at such a scene I might closely encounter
some of the Glendinnings; and that thought was then namelessly repulsive
to me. But by stealthy inquiries I learned, that the lady of the
manorial-house would not be present;--it proved deceptive
information;--but I went; and all the rest thou knowest."

"I do, sweet Isabel, but thou must tell it over to me; and all thy
emotions there."


V.

"Though but one day hath passed, my brother, since we first met in life,
yet thou hast that heavenly magnet in thee, which draws all my soul's
interior to thee. I will go on.--Having to wait for a neighbor's wagon,
I arrived but late at the Sewing Circle. When I entered, the two joined
rooms were very full. With the farmer's girls, our neighbors, I passed
along to the further corner, where thou didst see me; and as I went,
some heads were turned, and some whisperings I heard, of--'She's the new
help at poor Walter Ulver's--the strange girl they've got--she thinks
herself 'mazing pretty, I'll be bound;--but nobody knows her--Oh, how
demure!--but not over-good, I guess;--I wouldn't be her, not I--mayhap
she's some other ruined Delly, run away;--minx!' It was the first time
poor Bell had ever mixed in such a general crowded company; and knowing
little or nothing of such things, I had thought, that the meeting being
for charity's sweet sake, uncharity could find no harbor there; but no
doubt it was mere thoughtlessness, not malice in them. Still, it made my
heart ache in me sadly; for then I very keenly felt the dread
suspiciousness, in which a strange and lonely grief invests itself to
common eyes; as if grief itself were not enough, nor innocence any armor
to us, but despite must also come, and icy infamy! Miserable returnings
then I had--even in the midst of bright-budding girls and full-blown
women--miserable returnings then I had of the feeling, the bewildering
feeling of the inhumanities I spoke of in my earlier story. But Pierre,
blessed Pierre, do not look so sadly and half-reproachfully upon me.
Lone and lost though I have been, I love my kind; and charitably and
intelligently pity them, who uncharitably and unintelligently do me
despite. And thou, _thou_, blessed brother, hath glorified many somber
places in my soul, and taught me once for all to know, that my kind are
capable of things which would be glorious in angels. So look away from
me, dear Pierre, till thou hast taught thine eyes more wonted glances."

"They are vile falsifying telegraphs of me, then, sweet Isabel. What my
look was I can not tell, but my heart was only dark with ill-restrained
upbraidings against heaven that could unrelentingly see such innocence
as thine so suffer. Go on with thy too-touching tale."

"Quietly I sat there sewing, not brave enough to look up at all, and
thanking my good star, that had led me to so concealed a nook behind the
rest: quietly I sat there, sewing on a flannel shirt, and with each
stitch praying God, that whatever heart it might be folded over, the
flannel might hold it truly warm; and keep out the wide-world-coldness
which I felt myself; and which no flannel, or thickest fur, or any fire
then could keep off from me; quietly I sat there sewing, when I heard
the announcing words--oh, how deep and ineffaceably engraved they
are!--'Ah, dames, dames, Madame Glendinning,--Master Pierre
Glendinning.' Instantly, my sharp needle went through my side and
stitched my heart; the flannel dropt from my hand; thou heard'st my
shriek. But the good people bore me still nearer to the casement close
at hand, and threw it open wide; and God's own breath breathed on me;
and I rallied; and said it was some merest passing fit--'twas quite over
now--I was used to it--they had my heart's best thanks--but would they
now only leave me to myself, it were best for me;--I would go on and
sew. And thus it came and passed away; and again I sat sewing on the
flannel, hoping either that the unanticipated persons would soon depart,
or else that some spirit would catch me away from there; I sat sewing
on--till, Pierre! Pierre!--without looking up--for that I dared not do
at any time that evening--only once--without looking up, or knowing
aught but the flannel on my knee, and the needle in my heart, I
felt,--Pierre, _felt_--a glance of magnetic meaning on me. Long, I,
shrinking, sideways turned to meet it, but could not; till some helping
spirit seized me, and all my soul looked up at thee in my full-fronting
face. It was enough. Fate was in that moment. All the loneliness of my
life, all the choked longings of my soul, now poured over me. I could
not away from them. Then first I felt the complete deplorableness of my
state; that while thou, my brother, had a mother, and troops of aunts
and cousins, and plentiful friends in city and in country--I, I, Isabel,
thy own father's daughter, was thrust out of all hearts' gates, and
shivered in the winter way. But this was but the least. Not poor Bell
can tell thee all the feelings of poor Bell, or what feelings she felt
first. It was all one whirl of old and new bewilderings, mixed and
slanted with a driving madness. But it was most the sweet, inquisitive,
kindly interested aspect of thy face,--so strangely like thy father's,
too--the one only being that I first did love--it was that which most
stirred the distracting storm in me; most charged me with the immense
longings for some one of my blood to know me, and to own me, though but
once, and then away. Oh, my dear brother--Pierre! Pierre!--could'st thou
take out my heart, and look at it in thy hand, then thou would'st find
it all over written, this way and that, and crossed again, and yet
again, with continual lines of longings, that found no end but in
suddenly calling thee. Call him! Call him! He will come!--so cried my
heart to me; so cried the leaves and stars to me, as I that night went
home. But pride rose up--the very pride in my own longings,--and as one
arm pulled, the other held. So I stood still, and called thee not. But
Fate will be Fate, and it was fated. Once having met thy fixed regardful
glance; once having seen the full angelicalness in thee, my whole soul
was undone by thee; my whole pride was cut off at the root, and soon
showed a blighting in the bud; which spread deep into my whole being,
till I knew, that utterly decay and die away I must, unless pride let me
go, and I, with the one little trumpet of a pen, blew my heart's
shrillest blast, and called dear Pierre to me. My soul was full; and as
my beseeching ink went tracing o'er the page, my tears contributed their
mite, and made a strange alloy. How blest I felt that my so bitterly
tear-mingled ink--that last depth of my anguish--would never be visibly
known to thee, but the tears would dry upon the page, and all be fair
again, ere the so submerged-freighted letter should meet thine eye.

"Ah, there thou wast deceived, poor Isabel," cried Pierre impulsively;
"thy tears dried not fair, but dried red, almost like blood; and nothing
so much moved my inmost soul as that tragic sight."

"How? how? Pierre, my brother? Dried they red? Oh, horrible!
enchantment! most undreamed of!"

"Nay, the ink--the ink! something chemic in it changed thy real tears to
seeming blood;--only that, my sister."

"Oh Pierre! thus wonderfully is it--seems to me--that our own hearts do
not ever know the extremity of their own sufferings; sometimes we bleed
blood, when we think it only water. Of our sufferings, as of our
talents, others sometimes are the better judges. But stop me! force me
backward to my story! Yet methinks that now thou knowest all;--no, not
entirely all. Thou dost not know what planned and winnowed motive I did
have in writing thee; nor does poor Bell know that; for poor Bell was
too delirious to have planned and winnowed motives then. The impulse in
me called thee, not poor Bell. God called thee, Pierre, not poor Bell.
Even now, when I have passed one night after seeing thee, and hearkening
to all thy full love and graciousness; even now, I stand as one amazed,
and feel not what may be coming to me, or what will now befall me, from
having so rashly claimed thee for mine. Pierre, now, _now_, this instant
a vague anguish fills me. Tell me, by loving me, by owning me, publicly
or secretly,--tell me, doth it involve any vital hurt to thee? Speak
without reserve; speak honestly; as I do to thee! Speak now, Pierre, and
tell me all!"

"Is Love a harm? Can Truth betray to pain? Sweet Isabel, how can hurt
come in the path to God? Now, when I know thee all, now did I forget
thee, fail to acknowledge thee, and love thee before the wide world's
whole brazen width--could I do that; then might'st thou ask thy question
reasonably and say--Tell me, Pierre, does not the suffocating in thee of
poor Bell's holy claims, does not that involve for thee unending misery?
And my truthful soul would echo--Unending misery! Nay, nay, nay. Thou
art my sister and I am thy brother; and that part of the world which
knows me, shall acknowledge thee; or by heaven I will crush the
disdainful world down on its knees to thee, my sweet Isabel!"

"The menacings in thy eyes are dear delights to me; I grow up with thy
own glorious stature; and in thee, my brother, I see God's indignant
embassador to me, saying--Up, up, Isabel, and take no terms from the
common world, but do thou make terms to it, and grind thy fierce rights
out of it! Thy catching nobleness unsexes me, my brother; and now I know
that in her most exalted moment, then woman no more feels the twin-born
softness of her breasts, but feels chain-armor palpitating there!"

Her changed attitude of beautiful audacity; her long scornful hair, that
trailed out a disheveled banner; her wonderful transfigured eyes, in
which some meteors seemed playing up; all this now seemed to Pierre the
work of an invisible enchanter. Transformed she stood before him; and
Pierre, bowing low over to her, owned that irrespective, darting majesty
of humanity, which can be majestical and menacing in woman as in man.

But her gentler sex returned to Isabel at last; and she sat silent in
the casement's niche, looking out upon the soft ground-lightnings of the
electric summer night.


VI.

Sadly smiling, Pierre broke the pause.

"My sister, thou art so rich, that thou must do me alms; I am very
hungry; I have forgotten to eat since breakfast;--and now thou shalt
bring me bread and a cup of water, Isabel, ere I go forth from thee.
Last night I went rummaging in a pantry, like a bake-house burglar; but
to-night thou and I must sup together, Isabel; for as we may henceforth
live together, let us begin forthwith to eat in company."

Isabel looked up at him, with sudden and deep emotion, then all
acquiescing sweetness, and silently left the room.

As she returned, Pierre, casting his eyes toward the ceiling, said--"She
is quiet now, the pacing hath entirely ceased."

"Not the beating, tho'; her foot hath paused, not her unceasing heart.
My brother, she is not quiet now; quiet for her hath gone; so that the
pivoted stillness of this night is yet a noisy madness to her."

"Give me pen or pencil, and some paper, Isabel."

She laid down her loaf, and plate, and knife, and brought him pen, and
ink, and paper.

Pierre took the pen.

"Was this the one, dear Isabel?"

"It is the one, my brother; none other is in this poor cot."

He gazed at it intensely. Then turning to the table, steadily wrote the
following note:

     "For Delly Ulver: with the deep and true regard and sympathy of
     Pierre Glendinning.

     "Thy sad story--partly known before--hath now more fully come to
     me, from one who sincerely feels for thee, and who hath imparted
     her own sincerity to me. Thou desirest to quit this neighborhood,
     and be somewhere at peace, and find some secluded employ fitted to
     thy sex and age. With this, I now willingly charge myself, and
     insure it to thee, so far as my utmost ability can go.
     Therefore--if consolation be not wholly spurned by thy great grief,
     which too often happens, though it be but grief's great folly so to
     feel--therefore, two true friends of thine do here beseech thee to
     take some little heart to thee, and bethink thee, that all thy life
     is not yet lived; that Time hath surest healing in his continuous
     balm. Be patient yet a little while, till thy future lot be
     disposed for thee, through our best help; and so, know me and
     Isabel thy earnest friends and true-hearted lovers."

He handed the note to Isabel. She read it silently, and put it down, and
spread her two hands over him, and with one motion lifted her eyes
toward Delly and toward God.

"Thou think'st it will not pain her to receive the note, Isabel? Thou
know'st best. I thought, that ere our help do really reach her, some
promise of it now might prove slight comfort. But keep it, and do as
thou think'st best."

"Then straightway will I give it her, my brother," said Isabel, quitting
him.

An infixing stillness, now thrust a long rivet through the night, and
fast nailed it to that side of the world. And alone again in such an
hour, Pierre could not but listen. He heard Isabel's step on the stair;
then it approached him from above; then he heard a gentle knock, and
thought he heard a rustling, as of paper slid over a threshold
underneath a door. Then another advancing and opposite step tremblingly
met Isabel's; and then both steps stepped from each other, and soon
Isabel came back to him.

"Thou did'st knock, and slide it underneath the door?"

"Yes, and she hath it now. Hark! a sobbing! Thank God, long arid grief
hath found a tear at last. Pity, sympathy hath done this.--Pierre, for
thy dear deed thou art already sainted, ere thou be dead."

"Do saints hunger, Isabel?" said Pierre, striving to call her away from
this. "Come, give me the loaf; but no, thou shalt help me, my
sister.--Thank thee;--this is twice over the bread of sweetness.--Is
this of thine own making, Isabel?"

"My own making, my brother."

"Give me the cup; hand it me with thine own hand. So:--Isabel, my heart
and soul are now full of deepest reverence; yet I do dare to call this
the real sacrament of the supper.--Eat with me."

They eat together without a single word; and without a single word,
Pierre rose, and kissed her pure and spotless brow, and without a single
word departed from the place.


VII.

We know not Pierre Glendinning's thoughts as he gained the village and
passed on beneath its often shrouding trees, and saw no light from man,
and heard no sound from man, but only, by intervals, saw at his feet the
soft ground-lightnings, snake-like, playing in and out among the blades
of grass; and between the trees, caught the far dim light from heaven,
and heard the far wide general hum of the sleeping but still breathing
earth.

He paused before a detached and pleasant house, with much shrubbery
about it. He mounted the portico and knocked distinctly there, just as
the village clock struck one. He knocked, but no answer came. He knocked
again, and soon he heard a sash thrown up in the second story, and an
astonished voice inquired who was there?

"It is Pierre Glendinning, and he desires an instant interview with the
Reverend Mr. Falsgrave."

"Do I hear right?--in heaven's name, what is the matter, young
gentleman?"

"Every thing is the matter; the whole world is the matter. Will you
admit me, sir?"

"Certainly--but I beseech thee--nay, stay, I will admit thee."

In quicker time than could have been anticipated, the door was opened to
Pierre by Mr. Falsgrave in person, holding a candle, and invested in his
very becoming student's wrapper of Scotch plaid.

"For heaven's sake, what is the matter, Mr. Glendinning?"

"Heaven and earth is the matter, sir! shall we go up to the study?"

"Certainly, but--but--"

"Well, let us proceed, then."

They went up-stairs, and soon found themselves in the clergyman's
retreat, and both sat down; the amazed host still holding the candle in
his hand, and intently eying Pierre, with an apprehensive aspect.

"Thou art a man of God, sir, I believe."

"I? I? I? upon my word, Mr. Glendinning!"

"Yes, sir, the world calls thee a man of God. Now, what hast thou, the
man of God, decided, with my mother, concerning Delly Ulver?"

"Delly Ulver! why, why--what can this madness mean?"

"It means, sir, what have thou and my mother decided concerning Delly
Ulver."

"She?--Delly Ulver? She is to depart the neighborhood; why, her own
parents want her not."

"_How_ is she to depart? _Who_ is to take her? Art _thou_ to take her?
_Where_ is she to go? _Who_ has food for her? _What_ is to keep her from
the pollution to which such as she are every day driven to contribute,
by the detestable uncharitableness and heartlessness of the world?"

"Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, now somewhat calmly putting down
the candle, and folding himself with dignity in his gown; "Mr.
Glendinning, I will not now make any mention of my natural astonishment
at this most unusual call, and the most extraordinary time of it. Thou
hast sought information upon a certain point, and I have given it to
thee, to the best of my knowledge. All thy after and incidental
questions, I choose to have no answer for. I will be most happy to see
thee at any other time, but for the present thou must excuse my
presence. Good-night, sir."

But Pierre sat entirely still, and the clergyman could not but remain
standing still.

"I perfectly comprehend the whole, sir. Delly Ulver, then, is to be
driven out to starve or rot; and this, too, by the acquiescence of a man
of God. Mr. Falsgrave, the subject of Delly, deeply interesting as it is
to me, is only the preface to another, still more interesting to me, and
concerning which I once cherished some slight hope that thou wouldst
have been able, in thy Christian character, to sincerely and honestly
counsel me. But a hint from heaven assures me now, that thou hast no
earnest and world-disdaining counsel for me. I must seek it direct from
God himself, whom, I now know, never delegates his holiest admonishings.
But I do not blame thee; I think I begin to see how thy profession is
unavoidably entangled by all fleshly alliances, and can not move with
godly freedom in a world of benefices. I am more sorry than indignant.
Pardon me for my most uncivil call, and know me as not thy enemy.
Good-night, sir."




BOOK IX.

MORE LIGHT, AND THE GLOOM OF THAT LIGHT. MORE GLOOM, AND THE LIGHT OF
THAT GLOOM.


I.

In those Hyperborean regions, to which enthusiastic Truth, and
Earnestness, and Independence, will invariably lead a mind fitted by
nature for profound and fearless thought, all objects are seen in a
dubious, uncertain, and refracting light. Viewed through that rarefied
atmosphere the most immemorially admitted maxims of men begin to slide
and fluctuate, and finally become wholly inverted; the very heavens
themselves being not innocent of producing this confounding effect,
since it is mostly in the heavens themselves that these wonderful
mirages are exhibited.

But the example of many minds forever lost, like undiscoverable Arctic
explorers, amid those treacherous regions, warns us entirely away from
them; and we learn that it is not for man to follow the trail of truth
too far, since by so doing he entirely loses the directing compass of
his mind; for arrived at the Pole, to whose barrenness only it points,
there, the needle indifferently respects all points of the horizon
alike.

But even the less distant regions of thought are not without their
singular introversions. Hardly any sincere man of ordinary reflective
powers, and accustomed to exercise them at all, but must have been
independently struck by the thought, that, after all, what is so
enthusiastically applauded as the march of mind,--meaning the inroads of
Truth into Error--which has ever been regarded by hopeful persons as the
one fundamental thing most earnestly to be prayed for as the greatest
possible Catholic blessing to the world;--almost every thinking man must
have been some time or other struck with the idea, that, in certain
respects, a tremendous mistake may be lurking here, since all the world
does never gregariously advance to Truth, but only here and there some
of its individuals do; and by advancing, leave the rest behind; cutting
themselves forever adrift from their sympathy, and making themselves
always liable to be regarded with distrust, dislike, and often,
downright--though, ofttimes, concealed--fear and hate. What wonder,
then, that those advanced minds, which in spite of advance, happen still
to remain, for the time, ill-regulated, should now and then be goaded
into turning round in acts of wanton aggression upon sentiments and
opinions now forever left in their rear. Certain it is, that in their
earlier stages of advance, especially in youthful minds, as yet
untranquilized by long habituation to the world as it inevitably and
eternally is; this aggressiveness is almost invariably manifested, and
as invariably afterward deplored by themselves.

That amazing shock of practical truth, which in the compass of a very
few days and hours had not so much advanced, as magically transplanted
the youthful mind of Pierre far beyond all common discernments; it had
not been entirely unattended by the lamentable rearward aggressiveness
we have endeavored to portray above. Yielding to that unwarrantable
mood, he had invaded the profound midnight slumbers of the Reverend Mr.
Falsgrave, and most discourteously made war upon that really amiable and
estimable person. But as through the strange force of circumstances his
advance in insight had been so surprisingly rapid, so also was now his
advance in some sort of wisdom, in charitableness; and his concluding
words to Mr. Falsgrave, sufficiently evinced that already, ere quitting
that gentleman's study, he had begun to repent his ever entering it on
such a mission.

And as he now walked on in the profound meditations induced by the hour;
and as all that was in him stirred to and fro, intensely agitated by the
ever-creative fire of enthusiastic earnestness, he became fully alive to
many palliating considerations, which had they previously occurred to
him would have peremptorily forbidden his impulsive intrusion upon the
respectable clergyman.

But it is through the malice of this earthly air, that only by being
guilty of Folly does mortal man in many cases arrive at the perception
of Sense. A thought which should forever free us from hasty imprecations
upon our ever-recurring intervals of Folly; since though Folly be our
teacher, Sense is the lesson she teaches; since if Folly wholly depart
from us, Further Sense will be her companion in the flight, and we will
be left standing midway in wisdom. For it is only the miraculous vanity
of man which ever persuades him, that even for the most richly gifted
mind, there ever arrives an earthly period, where it can truly say to
itself, I have come to the Ultimate of Human Speculative Knowledge;
hereafter, at this present point I will abide. Sudden onsets of new
truth will assail him, and over-turn him as the Tartars did China; for
there is no China Wall that man can build in his soul, which shall
permanently stay the irruptions of those barbarous hordes which Truth
ever nourishes in the loins of her frozen, yet teeming North; so that
the Empire of Human Knowledge can never be lasting in any one dynasty,
since Truth still gives new Emperors to the earth.

But the thoughts we here indite as Pierre's are to be very carefully
discriminated from those we indite concerning him. Ignorant at this time
of the ideas concerning the reciprocity and partnership of Folly and
Sense, in contributing to the mental and moral growth of the mind;
Pierre keenly upbraided his thoughtlessness, and began to stagger in his
soul; as distrustful of that radical change in his general sentiments,
which had thus hurried him into a glaring impropriety and folly; as
distrustful of himself, the most wretched distrust of all. But this last
distrust was not of the heart; for heaven itself, so he felt, had
sanctified that with its blessing; but it was the distrust of his
intellect, which in undisciplinedly espousing the manly enthusiast cause
of his heart, seemed to cast a reproach upon that cause itself.

But though evermore hath the earnest heart an eventual balm for the most
deplorable error of the head; yet in the interval small alleviation is
to be had, and the whole man droops into nameless melancholy. Then it
seems as though the most magnanimous and virtuous resolutions were only
intended for fine spiritual emotions, not as mere preludes to their
bodily translation into acts; since in essaying their embodiment, we
have but proved ourselves miserable bunglers, and thereupon taken
ignominious shame to ourselves. Then, too, the never-entirely repulsed
hosts of Commonness, and Conventionalness, and Worldly
Prudent-mindedness return to the charge; press hard on the faltering
soul; and with inhuman hootings deride all its nobleness as mere
eccentricity, which further wisdom and experience shall assuredly cure.
The man is as seized by arms and legs, and convulsively pulled either
way by his own indecisions and doubts. Blackness advances her banner
over this cruel altercation, and he droops and swoons beneath its folds.

It was precisely in this mood of mind that, at about two in the morning,
Pierre, with a hanging head, now crossed the private threshold of the
Mansion of Saddle Meadows.


II.

In the profoundly silent heart of a house full of sleeping serving-men
and maids, Pierre now sat in his chamber before his accustomed round
table, still tossed with the books and the papers which, three days
before, he had abruptly left, for a sudden and more absorbing object.
Uppermost and most conspicuous among the books were the Inferno of
Dante, and the Hamlet of Shakspeare.

His mind was wandering and vague; his arm wandered and was vague. Soon
he found the open Inferno in his hand, and his eye met the following
lines, allegorically overscribed within the arch of the outgoings of the
womb of human life:

    "Through me you pass into the city of Woe;
     Through me you pass into eternal pain;
     Through me, among the people lost for aye.

           *       *       *       *       *

     All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

He dropped the fatal volume from his hand; he dropped his fated head
upon his chest.

His mind was wandering and vague; his arm wandered and was vague. Some
moments passed, and he found the open Hamlet in his hand, and his eyes
met the following lines:

    "The time is out of joint;--Oh cursed spite,
     That ever I was born to set it right!"

He dropped the too true volume from his hand; his petrifying heart
dropped hollowly within him, as a pebble down Carrisbrook well.


III.

The man Dante Alighieri received unforgivable affronts and insults from
the world; and the poet Dante Alighieri bequeathed his immortal curse to
it, in the sublime malediction of the Inferno. The fiery tongue whose
political forkings lost him the solacements of this world, found its
malicious counterpart in that muse of fire, which would forever bar the
vast bulk of mankind from all solacement in the worlds to come.
Fortunately for the felicity of the Dilletante in Literature, the
horrible allegorical meanings of the Inferno, lie not on the surface;
but unfortunately for the earnest and youthful piercers into truth and
reality, those horrible meanings, when first discovered, infuse their
poison into a spot previously unprovided with that sovereign antidote of
a sense of uncapitulatable security, which is only the possession of the
furthest advanced and profoundest souls.

Judge ye, then, ye Judicious, the mood of Pierre, so far as the passage
in Dante touched him.

If among the deeper significances of its pervading indefiniteness, which
significances are wisely hidden from all but the rarest adepts, the
pregnant tragedy of Hamlet convey any one particular moral at all fitted
to the ordinary uses of man, it is this:--that all meditation is
worthless, unless it prompt to action; that it is not for man to stand
shilly-shallying amid the conflicting invasions of surrounding impulses;
that in the earliest instant of conviction, the roused man must strike,
and, if possible, with the precision and the force of the
lightning-bolt.

Pierre had always been an admiring reader of Hamlet; but neither his age
nor his mental experience thus far, had qualified him either to catch
initiating glimpses into the hopeless gloom of its interior meaning, or
to draw from the general story those superficial and purely incidental
lessons, wherein the painstaking moralist so complacently expatiates.

The intensest light of reason and revelation combined, can not shed such
blazonings upon the deeper truths in man, as will sometimes proceed from
his own profoundest gloom. Utter darkness is then his light, and
cat-like he distinctly sees all objects through a medium which is mere
blindness to common vision. Wherefore have Gloom and Grief been
celebrated of old as the selectest chamberlains to knowledge? Wherefore
is it, that not to know Gloom and Grief is not to know aught that an
heroic man should learn?

By the light of that gloom, Pierre now turned over the soul of Hamlet in
his hand. He knew not--at least, felt not--then, that Hamlet, though a
thing of life, was, after all, but a thing of breath, evoked by the
wanton magic of a creative hand, and as wantonly dismissed at last into
endless halls of hell and night.

It is the not impartially bestowed privilege of the more final insights,
that at the same moment they reveal the depths, they do, sometimes, also
reveal--though by no means so distinctly--some answering heights. But
when only midway down the gulf, its crags wholly conceal the upper
vaults, and the wanderer thinks it all one gulf of downward dark.

Judge ye, then, ye Judicious, the mood of Pierre, so far as the passage
in Hamlet touched him.


IV.

Torn into a hundred shreds the printed pages of Hell and Hamlet lay at
his feet, which trampled them, while their vacant covers mocked him with
their idle titles. Dante had made him fierce, and Hamlet had insinuated
that there was none to strike. Dante had taught him that he had bitter
cause of quarrel; Hamlet taunted him with faltering in the fight. Now he
began to curse anew his fate, for now he began to see that after all he
had been finely juggling with himself, and postponing with himself, and
in meditative sentimentalities wasting the moments consecrated to
instant action.

Eight-and-forty hours and more had passed. Was Isabel acknowledged? Had
she yet hung on his public arm? Who knew yet of Isabel but Pierre? Like
a skulking coward he had gone prowling in the woods by day, and like a
skulking coward he had stolen to her haunt by night! Like a thief he had
sat and stammered and turned pale before his mother, and in the cause of
Holy Right, permitted a woman to grow tall and hector over him! Ah! Easy
for man to think like a hero; but hard for man to act like one. All
imaginable audacities readily enter into the soul; few come boldly forth
from it.

Did he, or did he not vitally mean to do this thing? Was the immense
stuff to do it his, or was it not his? Why defer? Why put off? What was
there to be gained by deferring and putting off? His resolution had been
taken, why was it not executed? What more was there to learn? What more
which was essential to the public acknowledgment of Isabel, had remained
to be learned, after his first glance at her first letter? Had doubts of
her identity come over him to stay him?--None at all. Against the wall
of the thick darkness of the mystery of Isabel, recorded as by some
phosphoric finger was the burning fact, that Isabel was his sister. Why
then? How then? Whence then this utter nothing of his acts? Did he
stagger at the thought, that at the first announcement to his mother
concerning Isabel, and his resolution to own her boldly and lovingly,
his proud mother, spurning the reflection on his father, would likewise
spurn Pierre and Isabel, and denounce both him and her, and hate them
both alike, as unnatural accomplices against the good name of the purest
of husbands and parents? Not at all. Such a thought was not in him. For
had he not already resolved, that his mother should know nothing of the
fact of Isabel?--But how now? What then? How was Isabel to be
acknowledged to the world, if his mother was to know nothing of that
acknowledgment?--Short-sighted, miserable palterer and huckster, thou
hast been playing a most fond and foolish game with thyself! Fool and
coward! Coward and fool! Tear thyself open, and read there the
confounding story of thy blind dotishness! Thy two grand
resolutions--the public acknowledgment of Isabel, and the charitable
withholding of her existence from thy own mother,--these are impossible
adjuncts.--Likewise, thy so magnanimous purpose to screen thy father's
honorable memory from reproach, and thy other intention, the open
vindication of thy fraternalness to Isabel,--these also are impossible
adjuncts. And the having individually entertained four such resolves,
without perceiving that once brought together, they all mutually expire;
this, this ineffable folly, Pierre, brands thee in the forehead for an
unaccountable infatuate!

Well may'st thou distrust thyself, and curse thyself, and tear thy
Hamlet and thy Hell! Oh! fool, blind fool, and a million times an ass!
Go, go, thou poor and feeble one! High deeds are not for such blind
grubs as thou! Quit Isabel, and go to Lucy! Beg humble pardon of thy
mother, and hereafter be a more obedient and good boy to her,
Pierre--Pierre, Pierre,--infatuate!

Impossible would it be now to tell all the confusion and confoundings in
the soul of Pierre, so soon as the above absurdities in his mind
presented themselves first to his combining consciousness. He would fain
have disowned the very memory and the mind which produced to him such an
immense scandal upon his common sanity. Now indeed did all the fiery
floods in the Inferno, and all the rolling gloom in Hamlet suffocate him
at once in flame and smoke. The cheeks of his soul collapsed in him: he
dashed himself in blind fury and swift madness against the wall, and
fell dabbling in the vomit of his loathed identity.




BOOK X.

THE UNPRECEDENTED FINAL RESOLUTION OF PIERRE.


I.

Glorified be his gracious memory who first said, The deepest gloom
precedes the day. We care not whether the saying will prove true to the
utmost bounds of things; sufficient that it sometimes does hold true
within the bounds of earthly finitude.

Next morning Pierre rose from the floor of his chamber, haggard and
tattered in body from his past night's utter misery, but stoically
serene and symmetrical in soul, with the foretaste of what then seemed
to him a planned and perfect Future. Now he thinks he knows that the
wholly unanticipated storm which had so terribly burst upon him, had yet
burst upon him for his good; for the place, which in its undetected
incipiency, the storm had obscurely occupied in his soul, seemed now
clear sky to him; and all his horizon seemed distinctly commanded by
him.

His resolution was a strange and extraordinary one; but therefore it
only the better met a strange and extraordinary emergency. But it was
not only strange and extraordinary in its novelty of mere aspect, but it
was wonderful in its unequaled renunciation of himself.

From the first, determined at all hazards to hold his father's fair
fame inviolate from any thing he should do in reference to protecting
Isabel, and extending to her a brother's utmost devotedness and love;
and equally determined not to shake his mother's lasting peace by any
useless exposure of unwelcome facts; and yet vowed in his deepest soul
some way to embrace Isabel before the world, and yield to her his
constant consolation and companionship; and finding no possible mode of
unitedly compassing all these ends, without a most singular act of pious
imposture, which he thought all heaven would justify in him, since he
himself was to be the grand self-renouncing victim; therefore, this was
his settled and immovable purpose now; namely: to assume before the
world, that by secret rites, Pierre Glendinning was already become the
husband of Isabel Banford--an assumption which would entirely warrant
his dwelling in her continual company, and upon equal terms, taking her
wherever the world admitted him; and at the same time foreclose all
sinister inquisitions bearing upon his deceased parent's memory, or any
way affecting his mother's lasting peace, as indissolubly linked with
that. True, he in embryo, foreknew, that the extraordinary thing he had
resolved, would, in another way, indirectly though inevitably, dart a
most keen pang into his mother's heart; but this then seemed to him part
of the unavoidable vast price of his enthusiastic virtue; and, thus
minded, rather would he privately pain his living mother with a wound
that might be curable, than cast world-wide and irremediable
dishonor--so it seemed to him--upon his departed father.

Probably no other being than Isabel could have produced upon Pierre
impressions powerful enough to eventuate in a final resolution so
unparalleled as the above. But the wonderful melodiousness of her grief
had touched the secret monochord within his breast, by an apparent
magic, precisely similar to that which had moved the stringed tongue of
her guitar to respond to the heart-strings of her own melancholy
plaints. The deep voice of the being of Isabel called to him from out
the immense distances of sky and air, and there seemed no veto of the
earth that could forbid her heavenly claim.

During the three days that he had personally known her, and so been
brought into magnetic contact with her, other persuasions and potencies
than those direct ones, involved in her bewildering eyes and marvelous
story, had unconsciously left their ineffaceable impressions on him, and
perhaps without his privity, had mainly contributed to his resolve. She
had impressed him as the glorious child of Pride and Grief, in whose
countenance were traceable the divinest lineaments of both her parents.
Pride gave to her her nameless nobleness; Grief touched that nobleness
with an angelical softness; and again that softness was steeped in a
most charitable humility, which was the foundation of her loftiest
excellence of all.

Neither by word or letter had Isabel betrayed any spark of those more
common emotions and desires which might not unreasonably be ascribed to
an ordinary person placed in circumstances like hers. Though almost
penniless, she had not invoked the pecuniary bounty of Pierre; and
though she was altogether silent on that subject, yet Pierre could not
but be strangely sensible of something in her which disdained to
voluntarily hang upon the mere bounty even of a brother. Nor, though she
by various nameless ways, manifested her consciousness of being
surrounded by uncongenial and inferior beings, while yet descended from
a generous stock, and personally meriting the most refined
companionships which the wide world could yield; nevertheless, she had
not demanded of Pierre that he should array her in brocade, and lead her
forth among the rare and opulent ladies of the land. But while thus
evincing her intuitive, true lady-likeness and nobleness by this entire
freedom from all sordid motives, neither had she merged all her feelings
in any sickly sentimentalities of sisterly affection toward her so
suddenly discovered brother; which, in the case of a naturally
unattractive woman in her circumstances, would not have been altogether
alluring to Pierre. No. That intense and indescribable longing, which
her letter by its very incoherencies had best embodied, proceeded from
no base, vain, or ordinary motive whatever; but was the unsuppressible
and unmistakable cry of the godhead through her soul, commanding Pierre
to fly to her, and do his highest and most glorious duty in the world.

Nor now, as it changedly seemed to Pierre, did that duty consist in
stubbornly flying in the marble face of the Past, and striving to
reverse the decree which had pronounced that Isabel could never
perfectly inherit all the privileges of a legitimate child of her
father. And thoroughly now he felt, that even as this would in the
present case be both preposterous in itself and cruel in effect to both
the living and the dead, so was it entirely undesired by Isabel, who
though once yielding to a momentary burst of aggressive enthusiasm, yet
in her more wonted mood of mournfulness and sweetness, evinced no such
lawless wandering. Thoroughly, now he felt, that Isabel was content to
live obscure in her paternal identity, so long as she could any way
appease her deep longings for the constant love and sympathy and close
domestic contact of some one of her blood. So that Pierre had no
slightest misgiving that upon learning the character of his scheme, she
would deem it to come short of her natural expectations; while so far as
its apparent strangeness was concerned,--a strangeness, perhaps
invincible to squeamish and humdrum women--here Pierre anticipated no
obstacle in Isabel; for her whole past was strange, and strangeness
seemed best befitting to her future.

But had Pierre now reread the opening paragraph of her letter to him, he
might have very quickly derived a powerful anticipative objection from
his sister, which his own complete disinterestedness concealed from him.
Though Pierre had every reason to believe that--owing to her secluded
and humble life--Isabel was in entire ignorance of the fact of his
precise relation to Lucy Tartan:--an ignorance, whose first indirect and
unconscious manifestation in Isabel, had been unspeakably welcome to
him;--and though, of course, he had both wisely and benevolently
abstained from enlightening her on that point; still, notwithstanding
this, was it possible that any true-hearted noble girl like Isabel,
would, to benefit herself, willingly become a participator in an act,
which would prospectively and forever bar the blessed boon of
marriageable love from one so young and generous as Pierre, and
eternally entangle him in a fictitious alliance, which, though in
reality but a web of air, yet in effect would prove a wall of iron; for
the same powerful motive which induced the thought of forming such an
alliance, would always thereafter forbid that tacit exposure of its
fictitiousness, which would be consequent upon its public
discontinuance, and the real nuptials of Pierre with any other being
during the lifetime of Isabel.

But according to what view you take of it, it is either the gracious or
the malicious gift of the great gods to man, that on the threshold of
any wholly new and momentous devoted enterprise, the thousand ulterior
intricacies and emperilings to which it must conduct; these, at the
outset, are mostly withheld from sight; and so, through her
ever-primeval wilderness Fortune's Knight rides on, alike ignorant of
the palaces or the pitfalls in its heart. Surprising, and past all
ordinary belief, are those strange oversights and inconsistencies, into
which the enthusiastic meditation upon unique or extreme resolves will
sometimes beget in young and over-ardent souls. That all-comprehending
oneness, that calm representativeness, by which a steady philosophic
mind reaches forth and draws to itself, in their collective entirety,
the objects of its contemplations; that pertains not to the young
enthusiast. By his eagerness, all objects are deceptively foreshortened;
by his intensity each object is viewed as detached; so that essentially
and relatively every thing is misseen by him. Already have we exposed
that passing preposterousness in Pierre, which by reason of the
above-named cause which we have endeavored to portray, induced him to
cherish for a time four unitedly impossible designs. And now we behold
this hapless youth all eager to involve himself in such an inextricable
twist of Fate, that the three dextrous maids themselves could hardly
disentangle him, if once he tie the complicating knots about him and
Isabel.

Ah, thou rash boy! are there no couriers in the air to warn thee away
from these emperilings, and point thee to those Cretan labyrinths, to
which thy life's cord is leading thee? Where now are the high
beneficences? Whither fled the sweet angels that are alledged guardians
to man?

Not that the impulsive Pierre wholly overlooked all that was menacing to
him in his future, if now he acted out his most rare resolve; but
eagerly foreshortened by him, they assumed not their full magnitude of
menacing; nor, indeed,--so riveted now his purpose--were they pushed up
to his face, would he for that renounce his self-renunciation; while
concerning all things more immediately contingent upon his central
resolution; these were, doubtless, in a measure, foreseen and understood
by him. Perfectly, at least, he seemed to foresee and understand, that
the present hope of Lucy Tartan must be banished from his being; that
this would carry a terrible pang to her, which in the natural recoil
would but redouble his own; that to the world all his heroicness,
standing equally unexplained and unsuspected, therefore the world would
denounce him as infamously false to his betrothed; reckless of the most
binding human vows; a secret wooer and wedder of an unknown and
enigmatic girl; a spurner of all a loving mother's wisest counselings; a
bringer down of lasting reproach upon an honorable name; a besotted
self-exile from a most prosperous house and bounteous fortune; and
lastly, that now his whole life would, in the eyes of the wide humanity,
be covered with an all-pervading haze of incurable sinisterness,
possibly not to be removed even in the concluding hour of death.

Such, oh thou son of man! are the perils and the miseries thou callest
down on thee, when, even in a virtuous cause, thou steppest aside from
those arbitrary lines of conduct, by which the common world, however
base and dastardly, surrounds thee for thy worldly good.

Ofttimes it is very wonderful to trace the rarest and profoundest
things, and find their probable origin in something extremely trite or
trivial. Yet so strange and complicate is the human soul; so much is
confusedly evolved from out itself, and such vast and varied accessions
come to it from abroad, and so impossible is it always to distinguish
between these two, that the wisest man were rash, positively to assign
the precise and incipient origination of his final thoughts and acts.
Far as we blind moles can see, man's life seems but an acting upon
mysterious hints; it is somehow hinted to us, to do thus or thus. For
surely no mere mortal who has at all gone down into himself will ever
pretend that his slightest thought or act solely originates in his own
defined identity. This preamble seems not entirely unnecessary as usher
of the strange conceit, that possibly the latent germ of Pierre's
proposed extraordinary mode of executing his proposed extraordinary
resolve--namely, the nominal conversion of a sister into a wife--might
have been found in the previous conversational conversion of a mother
into a sister; for hereby he had habituated his voice and manner to a
certain fictitiousness in one of the closest domestic relations of life;
and since man's moral texture is very porous, and things assumed upon
the surface, at last strike in--hence, this outward habituation to the
above-named fictitiousness had insensibly disposed his mind to it as it
were; but only innocently and pleasantly as yet. If, by any possibility,
this general conceit be so, then to Pierre the times of sportfulness
were as pregnant with the hours of earnestness; and in sport he learnt
the terms of woe.


II.

If next to that resolve concerning his lasting fraternal succor to
Isabel, there was at this present time any determination in Pierre
absolutely inflexible, and partaking at once of the sacredness and the
indissolubleness of the most solemn oath, it was the enthusiastic, and
apparently wholly supererogatory resolution to hold his father's memory
untouched; nor to one single being in the world reveal the paternity of
Isabel. Unrecallably dead and gone from out the living world, again
returned to utter helplessness, so far as this world went; his perished
father seemed to appeal to the dutifulness and mercifulness of Pierre,
in terms far more moving than though the accents proceeded from his
mortal mouth. And what though not through the sin of Pierre, but through
his father's sin, that father's fair fame now lay at the mercy of the
son, and could only be kept inviolate by the son's free sacrifice of all
earthly felicity;--what if this were so? It but struck a still loftier
chord in the bosom of the son, and filled him with infinite
magnanimities. Never had the generous Pierre cherished the heathenish
conceit, that even in the general world, Sin is a fair object to be
stretched on the cruelest racks by self-complacent Virtue, that
self-complacent Virtue may feed her lily-liveredness on the pallor of
Sin's anguish. For perfect Virtue does not more loudly claim our
approbation, than repented Sin in its concludedness does demand our
utmost tenderness and concern. And as the more immense the Virtue, so
should be the more immense our approbation; likewise the more immense
the Sin, the more infinite our pity. In some sort, Sin hath its
sacredness, not less than holiness. And great Sin calls forth more
magnanimity than small Virtue. What man, who is a man, does not feel
livelier and more generous emotions toward the great god of
Sin--Satan,--than toward yonder haberdasher, who only is a sinner in
the small and entirely honorable way of trade?

Though Pierre profoundly shuddered at that impenetrable yet blackly
significant nebulousness, which the wild story of Isabel threw around
the early life of his father; yet as he recalled the dumb anguish of the
invocation of the empty and the ashy hand uplifted from his father's
death-bed, he most keenly felt that of whatsoever unknown shade his
father's guilt might be, yet in the final hour of death it had been most
dismally repented of; by a repentance only the more full of utter
wretchedness, that it was a consuming secret in him. Mince the matter
how his family would, had not his father died a raver? Whence that
raving, following so prosperous a life? Whence, but from the cruelest
compunctions?

Touched thus, and strung in all his sinews and his nerves to the holding
of his father's memory intact,--Pierre turned his confronting and
unfrightened face toward Lucy Tartan, and stilly vowed that not even she
should know the whole; no, not know the least.

There is an inevitable keen cruelty in the loftier heroism. It is not
heroism only to stand unflinched ourselves in the hour of suffering; but
it is heroism to stand unflinched both at our own and at some loved
one's united suffering; a united suffering, which we could put an
instant period to, if we would but renounce the glorious cause for which
ourselves do bleed, and see our most loved one bleed. If he would not
reveal his father's shame to the common world, whose favorable opinion
for himself, Pierre now despised; how then reveal it to the woman he
adored? To her, above all others, would he now uncover his father's
tomb, and bid her behold from what vile attaintings he himself had
sprung? So Pierre turned round and tied Lucy to the same stake which
must hold himself, for he too plainly saw, that it could not be, but
that both their hearts must burn.

Yes, his resolve concerning his father's memory involved the necessity
of assuming even to Lucy his marriage with Isabel. Here he could not
explain himself, even to her. This would aggravate the sharp pang of
parting, by self-suggested, though wholly groundless surmising in Lucy's
mind, in the most miserable degree contaminating to her idea of him. But
on this point, he still fondly trusted that without at all marring his
filial bond, he would be enabled by some significant intimations to
arrest in Lucy's mind those darker imaginings which might find entrance
there; and if he could not set her wholly right, yet prevent her from
going wildly wrong.

For his mother Pierre was more prepared. He considered that by an
inscrutable decree, which it was but foolishness to try to evade, or
shun, or deny existence to, since he felt it so profoundly pressing on
his inmost soul; the family of the Glendinnings was imperiously called
upon to offer up a victim to the gods of woe; one grand victim at the
least; and that grand victim must be his mother, or himself. If he
disclosed his secret to the world, then his mother was made the victim;
if at all hazards he kept it to himself, then himself would be the
victim. A victim as respecting his mother, because under the peculiar
circumstances of the case, the non-disclosure of the secret involved her
entire and infamy-engendering misconception of himself. But to this he
bowed submissive.

One other thing--and the last to be here named, because the very least
in the conscious thoughts of Pierre; one other thing remained to menace
him with assured disastrousness. This thing it was, which though but
dimly hinted of as yet, still in the apprehension must have exerted a
powerful influence upon Pierre, in preparing him for the worst.

His father's last and fatal sickness had seized him suddenly. Both the
probable concealed distraction of his mind with reference to his early
life as recalled to him in an evil hour, and his consequent mental
wanderings; these, with other reasons, had prevented him from framing a
new will to supersede one made shortly after his marriage, and ere
Pierre was born. By that will which as yet had never been dragged into
the courts of law; and which, in the fancied security of her own and her
son's congenial and loving future, Mrs. Glendinning had never but once,
and then inconclusively, offered to discuss, with a view to a better and
more appropriate ordering of things to meet circumstances non-existent
at the period the testament was framed; by that will, all the
Glendinning property was declared his mother's.

Acutely sensible to those prophetic intimations in him, which painted in
advance the haughty temper of his offended mother, as all bitterness and
scorn toward a son, once the object of her proudest joy, but now become
a deep reproach, as not only rebellious to her, but glaringly
dishonorable before the world; Pierre distinctly foresaw, that as she
never would have permitted Isabel Banford in her true character to cross
her threshold; neither would she now permit Isabel Banford to cross her
threshold in any other, and disguised character; least of all, as that
unknown and insidious girl, who by some pernicious arts had lured her
only son from honor into infamy. But not to admit Isabel, was now to
exclude Pierre, if indeed on independent grounds of exasperation against
himself, his mother would not cast him out.

Nor did the same interior intimations in him which fore-painted the
above bearing of his mother, abstain to trace her whole haughty heart as
so unrelentingly set against him, that while she would close her doors
against both him and his fictitious wife, so also she would not
willingly contribute one copper to support them in a supposed union so
entirely abhorrent to her. And though Pierre was not so familiar with
the science of the law, as to be quite certain what the law, if appealed
to concerning the provisions of his father's will, would decree
concerning any possible claims of the son to share with the mother in
the property of the sire; yet he prospectively felt an invincible
repugnance to dragging his dead father's hand and seal into open Court,
and fighting over them with a base mercenary motive, and with his own
mother for the antagonist. For so thoroughly did his infallible
presentiments paint his mother's character to him, as operated upon and
disclosed in all those fiercer traits,--hitherto held in abeyance by the
mere chance and felicity of circumstances,--that he felt assured that
her exasperation against him would even meet the test of a public legal
contention concerning the Glendinning property. For indeed there was a
reserved strength and masculineness in the character of his mother, from
which on all these points Pierre had every thing to dread. Besides, will
the matter how he would, Pierre for nearly two whole years to come,
would still remain a minor, an infant in the eye of the law, incapable
of personally asserting any legal claim; and though he might sue by his
next friend, yet who would be his voluntary next friend, when the
execution of his great resolve would, for him, depopulate all the world
of friends?

Now to all these things, and many more, seemed the soul of this
infatuated young enthusiast braced.


III.

There is a dark, mad mystery in some human hearts, which, sometimes,
during the tyranny of a usurper mood, leads them to be all eagerness to
cast off the most intense beloved bond, as a hindrance to the attainment
of whatever transcendental object that usurper mood so tyrannically
suggests. Then the beloved bond seems to hold us to no essential good;
lifted to exalted mounts, we can dispense with all the vale; endearments
we spurn; kisses are blisters to us; and forsaking the palpitating forms
of mortal love, we emptily embrace the boundless and the unbodied air.
We think we are not human; we become as immortal bachelors and gods; but
again, like the Greek gods themselves, prone we descend to earth; glad
to be uxorious once more; glad to hide these god-like heads within the
bosoms made of too-seducing clay.

Weary with the invariable earth, the restless sailor breaks from every
enfolding arm, and puts to sea in height of tempest that blows off
shore. But in long night-watches at the antipodes, how heavily that
ocean gloom lies in vast bales upon the deck; thinking that that very
moment in his deserted hamlet-home the household sun is high, and many a
sun-eyed maiden meridian as the sun. He curses Fate; himself he curses;
his senseless madness, which is himself. For whoso once has known this
sweet knowledge, and then fled it; in absence, to him the avenging dream
will come.

Pierre was now this vulnerable god; this self-upbraiding sailor; this
dreamer of the avenging dream. Though in some things he had unjuggled
himself, and forced himself to eye the prospect as it was; yet, so far
as Lucy was concerned, he was at bottom still a juggler. True, in his
extraordinary scheme, Lucy was so intimately interwoven, that it seemed
impossible for him at all to cast his future without some way having
that heart's love in view. But ignorant of its quantity as yet, or
fearful of ascertaining it; like an algebraist, for the real Lucy he, in
his scheming thoughts, had substituted but a sign--some empty _x_--and
in the ultimate solution of the problem, that empty _x_ still figured;
not the real Lucy.

But now, when risen from the abasement of his chamber-floor, and risen
from the still profounder prostration of his soul, Pierre had thought
that all the horizon of his dark fate was commanded by him; all his
resolutions clearly defined, and immovably decreed; now finally, to top
all, there suddenly slid into his inmost heart the living and breathing
form of Lucy. His lungs collapsed; his eyeballs glared; for the sweet
imagined form, so long buried alive in him, seemed now as gliding on
him from the grave; and her light hair swept far adown her shroud.

Then, for the time, all minor things were whelmed in him; his mother,
Isabel, the whole wide world; and one only thing remained to him;--this
all-including query--Lucy or God?

But here we draw a vail. Some nameless struggles of the soul can not be
painted, and some woes will not be told. Let the ambiguous procession of
events reveal their own ambiguousness.




BOOK XI.

HE CROSSES THE RUBICON


I.

Sucked within the Maelstrom, man must go round. Strike at one end the
longest conceivable row of billiard balls in close contact, and the
furthermost ball will start forth, while all the rest stand still; and
yet that last ball was not struck at all. So, through long previous
generations, whether of births or thoughts, Fate strikes the present
man. Idly he disowns the blow's effect, because he felt no blow, and
indeed, received no blow. But Pierre was not arguing Fixed Fate and Free
Will, now; Fixed Fate and Free Will were arguing him, and Fixed Fate got
the better in the debate.

The peculiarities of those influences which on the night and early
morning following the last interview with Isabel, persuaded Pierre to
the adoption of his final resolve, did now irresistibly impel him to a
remarkable instantaneousness in his actions, even as before he had
proved a lagger.

Without being consciously that way pointed, through the desire of
anticipating any objections on the part of Isabel to the assumption of a
marriage between himself and her; Pierre was now impetuously hurried
into an act, which should have the effective virtue of such an executed
intention, without its corresponding motive. Because, as the primitive
resolve so deplorably involved Lucy, her image was then prominent in his
mind; and hence, because he felt all eagerness to hold her no longer in
suspense, but by a certain sort of charity of cruelty, at once to
pronounce to her her fate; therefore, it was among his first final
thoughts that morning to go to Lucy. And to this, undoubtedly, so
trifling a circumstance as her being nearer to him, geographically, than
Isabel, must have contributed some added, though unconscious influence,
in his present fateful frame of mind.

On the previous undetermined days, Pierre had solicitously sought to
disguise his emotions from his mother, by a certain carefulness and
choiceness in his dress. But now, since his very soul was forced to wear
a mask, he would wear no paltry palliatives and disguisements on his
body. He went to the cottage of Lucy as disordered in his person, as
haggard in his face.


II.

She was not risen yet. So, the strange imperious instantaneousness in
him, impelled him to go straight to her chamber-door, and in a voice of
mild invincibleness, demand immediate audience, for the matter pressed.

Already namelessly concerned and alarmed for her lover, now
eight-and-forty hours absent on some mysterious and undisclosable
affair; Lucy, at this surprising summons was overwhelmed with sudden
terror; and in oblivion of all ordinary proprieties, responded to
Pierre's call, by an immediate assent.

Opening the door, he advanced slowly and deliberately toward her; and as
Lucy caught his pale determined figure, she gave a cry of groping
misery, which knew not the pang that caused it, and lifted herself
trembling in her bed; but without uttering one word.

Pierre sat down on the bedside; and his set eyes met her terrified and
virgin aspect.

"Decked in snow-white, and pale of cheek, thou indeed art fitted for the
altar; but not that one of which thy fond heart did'st dream:--so fair a
victim!"

"Pierre!"

"'Tis the last cruelty of tyrants to make their enemies slay each
other."

"My heart! my heart!"

"Nay;---- Lucy, I am married."

The girl was no more pale, but white as any leper; the bed-clothes
trembled to the concealed shudderings of all her limbs; one moment she
sat looking vacantly into the blank eyes of Pierre, and then fell over
toward him in a swoon.

Swift madness mounted into the brain of Pierre; all the past seemed as a
dream, and all the present an unintelligible horror. He lifted her, and
extended her motionless form upon the bed, and stamped for succor. The
maid Martha came running into the room, and beholding those two
inexplicable figures, shrieked, and turned in terror. But Pierre's
repeated cry rallied Martha from this, and darting out of the chamber,
she returned with a sharp restorative, which at length brought Lucy back
to life.

"Martha! Martha!" now murmured Lucy, in a scarce audible whispering, and
shuddering in the maid's own shuddering arms, "quick, quick; come to
me--drive it away! wake me! wake me!"

"Nay, pray God to sleep again," cried Martha, bending over her and
embracing her, and half-turning upon Pierre with a glance of loathing
indignation. "In God's holy name, sir, what may this be? How came you
here; accursed!"

"Accursed?--it is well. Is she herself again, Martha?"

"Thou hast somehow murdered her; how then be herself again? My sweet
mistress! oh, my young mistress! Tell me! tell me!" and she bent low
over her.

Pierre now advanced toward the bed, making a gesture for the maid to
leave them; but soon as Lucy re-caught his haggard form, she
whisperingly wailed again, "Martha! Martha! drive it
away!--there--there! him--him!" and shut her eyes convulsively, with
arms abhorrently outstretched.

"Monster! incomprehensible fiend!" cried the anew terror-smitten
maid--"depart! See! she dies away at the sight of thee--begone! Wouldst
thou murder her afresh? Begone!"

Starched and frozen by his own emotion, Pierre silently turned and
quitted the chamber; and heavily descending the stairs, tramped
heavily--as a man slowly bearing a great burden--through a long narrow
passage leading to a wing in the rear of the cottage, and knocking at
Miss Lanyllyn's door, summoned her to Lucy, who, he briefly said, had
fainted. Then, without waiting for any response, left the house, and
went directly to the mansion.


III.

"Is my mother up yet?" said he to Dates, whom he met in the hall.

"Not yet, sir;--heavens, sir! are you sick?"

"To death! Let me pass."

Ascending toward his mother's chamber, he heard a coming step, and met
her on the great middle landing of the stairs, where in an ample niche,
a marble group of the temple-polluting Laocoon and his two innocent
children, caught in inextricable snarls of snakes, writhed in eternal
torments.

"Mother, go back with me to thy chamber."

She eyed his sudden presence with a dark but repressed foreboding; drew
herself up haughtily and repellingly, and with a quivering lip, said,
"Pierre, thou thyself hast denied me thy confidence, and thou shall not
force me back to it so easily. Speak! what is that now between thee and
me?"

"I am married, mother."

"Great God! To whom?"

"Not to Lucy Tartan, mother."

"That thou merely sayest 'tis not Lucy, without saying who indeed it is,
this is good proof she is something vile. Does Lucy know thy marriage?"

"I am but just from Lucy's."

Thus far Mrs. Glendinning's rigidity had been slowly relaxing. Now she
clutched the balluster, bent over, and trembled, for a moment. Then
erected all her haughtiness again, and stood before Pierre in incurious,
unappeasable grief and scorn for him.

"My dark soul prophesied something dark. If already thou hast not found
other lodgment, and other table than this house supplies, then seek it
straight. Beneath my roof, and at my table, he who was once Pierre
Glendinning no more puts himself."

She turned from him, and with a tottering step climbed the winding
stairs, and disappeared from him; while in the balluster he held, Pierre
seemed to feel the sudden thrill running down to him from his mother's
convulsive grasp.

He stared about him with an idiot eye; staggered to the floor below, to
dumbly quit the house; but as he crossed its threshold, his foot tripped
upon its raised ledge; he pitched forward upon the stone portico, and
fell. He seemed as jeeringly hurled from beneath his own ancestral
roof.


IV.

Passing through the broad court-yard's postern, Pierre closed it after
him, and then turned and leaned upon it, his eyes fixed upon the great
central chimney of the mansion, from which a light blue smoke was
wreathing gently into the morning air.

"The hearth-stone from which thou risest, never more, I inly feel, will
these feet press. Oh God, what callest thou that which has thus made
Pierre a vagabond?"

He walked slowly away, and passing the windows of Lucy, looked up, and
saw the white curtains closely drawn, the white-cottage profoundly
still, and a white saddle-horse tied before the gate.

"I would enter, but again would her abhorrent wails repel; what more can
I now say or do to her? I can not explain. She knows all I purposed to
disclose. Ay, but thou didst cruelly burst upon her with it; thy
impetuousness, thy instantaneousness hath killed her, Pierre!--Nay, nay,
nay!--Cruel tidings who can gently break? If to stab be inevitable; then
instant be the dagger! Those curtains are close drawn upon her; so let
me upon her sweet image draw the curtains of my soul. Sleep, sleep,
sleep, sleep, thou angel!--wake no more to Pierre, nor to thyself, my
Lucy!"

Passing on now hurriedly and blindly, he jostled against some
oppositely-going wayfarer. The man paused amazed; and looking up, Pierre
recognized a domestic of the Mansion. That instantaneousness which now
impelled him in all his actions, again seized the ascendency in him.
Ignoring the dismayed expression of the man at thus encountering his
young master, Pierre commanded him to follow him. Going straight to the
"Black Swan," the little village Inn, he entered the first vacant room,
and bidding the man be seated, sought the keeper of the house, and
ordered pen and paper.

If fit opportunity offer in the hour of unusual affliction, minds of a
certain temperament find a strange, hysterical relief, in a wild,
perverse humorousness, the more alluring from its entire unsuitableness
to the occasion; although they seldom manifest this trait toward those
individuals more immediately involved in the cause or the effect of
their suffering. The cool censoriousness of the mere philosopher would
denominate such conduct as nothing short of temporary madness; and
perhaps it is, since, in the inexorable and inhuman eye of mere
undiluted reason, all grief, whether on our own account, or that of
others, is the sheerest unreason and insanity.

The note now written was the following:


                  "_For that Fine Old Fellow, Dates._

     "Dates, my old boy, bestir thyself now. Go to my room, Dates, and
     bring me down my mahogany strong-box and lock-up, the thing covered
     with blue chintz; strap it very carefully, my sweet Dates, it is
     rather heavy, and set it just without the postern. Then back and
     bring me down my writing-desk, and set that, too, just without the
     postern. Then back yet again, and bring me down the old camp-bed
     (see that all the parts be there), and bind the case well with a
     cord. Then go to the left corner little drawer in my wardrobe, and
     thou wilt find my visiting-cards. Tack one on the chest, and the
     desk, and the camp-bed case. Then get all my clothes together, and
     pack them in trunks (not forgetting the two old military cloaks, my
     boy), and tack cards on them also, my good Dates. Then fly round
     three times indefinitely, my good Dates, and wipe a little of the
     perspiration off. And then--let me see--then, my good Dates--why
     what then? Why, this much. Pick up all papers of all sorts that may
     be lying round my chamber, and see them burned. And then--have old
     White Hoof put to the lightest farm-wagon, and send the chest, and
     the desk, and the camp-bed, and the trunks to the 'Black Swan,'
     where I shall call for them, when I am ready, and not before, sweet
     Dates. So God bless thee, my fine, old, imperturbable Dates, and
     adieu!

    "Thy old young master,
     PIERRE.

     "_Nota bene_--Mark well, though, Dates. Should my mother possibly
     interrupt thee, say that it is my orders, and mention what it is I
     send for; but on no account show this to thy mistress--D'ye hear?

     PIERRE again."

Folding this scrawl into a grotesque shape, Pierre ordered the man to
take it forthwith to Dates. But the man, all perplexed, hesitated,
turning the billet over in his hand; till Pierre loudly and violently
bade him begone; but as the man was then rapidly departing in a panic,
Pierre called him back and retracted his rude words; but as the servant
now lingered again, perhaps thinking to avail himself of this repentant
mood in Pierre, to say something in sympathy or remonstrance to him,
Pierre ordered him off with augmented violence, and stamped for him to
begone.

Apprising the equally perplexed old landlord that certain things would
in the course of that forenoon be left for him, (Pierre,) at the Inn;
and also desiring him to prepare a chamber for himself and wife that
night; some chamber with a commodious connecting room, which might
answer for a dressing-room; and likewise still another chamber for a
servant; Pierre departed the place, leaving the old landlord staring
vacantly at him, and dumbly marveling what horrible thing had happened
to turn the brain of his fine young favorite and old shooting comrade,
Master Pierre.

Soon the short old man went out bare-headed upon the low porch of the
Inn, descended its one step, and crossed over to the middle of the road,
gazing after Pierre. And only as Pierre turned up a distant lane, did
his amazement and his solicitude find utterance.

"I taught him--yes, old Casks;--the best shot in all the country round
is Master Pierre;--pray God he hits not now the bull's eye in
himself.--Married? married? and coming here?--This is pesky strange!"




BOOK XII.

ISABEL: MRS. GLENDINNING: THE PORTRAIT: AND LUCY.


I.

When on the previous night Pierre had left the farm-house where Isabel
harbored, it will be remembered that no hour, either of night or day, no
special time at all had been assigned for a succeeding interview. It was
Isabel, who for some doubtlessly sufficient reason of her own, had, for
the first meeting, assigned the early hour of darkness.

As now, when the full sun was well up the heavens, Pierre drew near the
farm-house of the Ulvers, he descried Isabel, standing without the
little dairy-wing, occupied in vertically arranging numerous glittering
shield-like milk-pans on a long shelf, where they might purifyingly meet
the sun. Her back was toward him. As Pierre passed through the open
wicket and crossed the short soft green sward, he unconsciously muffled
his footsteps, and now standing close behind his sister, touched her
shoulder and stood still.

She started, trembled, turned upon him swiftly, made a low, strange cry,
and then gazed rivetedly and imploringly upon him.

"I look rather queerish, sweet Isabel, do I not?" said Pierre at last
with a writhed and painful smile.

"My brother, my blessed brother!--speak--tell me--what has
happened--what hast thou done? Oh! Oh! I should have warned thee before,
Pierre, Pierre; it is my fault--mine, mine!"

"_What_ is thy fault, sweet Isabel?"

"Thou hast revealed Isabel to thy mother, Pierre."

"I have not, Isabel. Mrs. Glendinning knows not thy secret at all."

"Mrs. Glendinning?--that's,--that's thine own mother, Pierre! In
heaven's name, my brother, explain thyself. Knows not my secret, and yet
thou here so suddenly, and with such a fatal aspect? Come, come with me
into the house. Quick, Pierre, why dost thou not stir? Oh, my God! if
mad myself sometimes, I am to make mad him who loves me best, and who, I
fear, has in some way ruined himself for me;--then, let me no more stand
upright on this sod, but fall prone beneath it, that I may be hidden!
Tell me!" catching Pierre's arms in both her frantic hands--"tell me, do
I blast where I look? is my face Gorgon's?"

"Nay, sweet Isabel; but it hath a more sovereign power; that turned to
stone; thine might turn white marble into mother's milk."

"Come with me--come quickly."

They passed into the dairy, and sat down on a bench by the honey-suckled
casement.

"Pierre, forever fatal and accursed be the day my longing heart called
thee to me, if now, in the very spring-time of our related love, thou
art minded to play deceivingly with me, even though thou should'st fancy
it for my good. Speak to me; oh speak to me, my brother!"

"Thou hintest of deceiving one for one's good. Now supposing, sweet
Isabel, that in no case would I affirmatively deceive thee;--in no case
whatever;--would'st thou then be willing for thee and me to piously
deceive others, for both their and our united good?--Thou sayest
nothing. Now, then, is it _my_ turn, sweet Isabel, to bid thee speak to
me, oh speak to me!"

"That unknown, approaching thing, seemeth ever ill, my brother, which
must have unfrank heralds to go before. Oh, Pierre, dear, dear Pierre;
be very careful with me! This strange, mysterious, unexampled love
between us, makes me all plastic in thy hand. Be very careful with me. I
know little out of me. The world seems all one unknown India to me. Look
up, look on me, Pierre; say now, thou wilt be very careful; say so, say
so, Pierre!"

"If the most exquisite, and fragile filagree of Genoa be carefully
handled by its artisan; if sacred nature carefully folds, and warms, and
by inconceivable attentivenesses eggs round and round her minute and
marvelous embryoes; then, Isabel, do I most carefully and most tenderly
egg thee, gentlest one, and the fate of thee! Short of the great God,
Isabel, there lives none who will be more careful with thee, more
infinitely considerate and delicate with thee."

"From my deepest heart, do I believe thee, Pierre. Yet thou mayest be
very delicate in some point, where delicateness is not all essential,
and in some quick impulsive hour, omit thy fullest heedfulness somewhere
where heedlessness were most fatal. Nay, nay, my brother; bleach these
locks snow-white, thou sun! if I have any thought to reproach thee,
Pierre, or betray distrust of thee. But earnestness must sometimes seem
suspicious, else it is none. Pierre, Pierre, all thy aspect speaks
eloquently of some already executed resolution, born in suddenness.
Since I last saw thee, Pierre, some deed irrevocable has been done by
thee. My soul is stiff and starched to it; now tell me what it is?"

"Thou, and I, and Delly Ulver, to-morrow morning depart this whole
neighborhood, and go to the distant city.--That is it."

"No more?"

"Is it not enough?"

"There is something more, Pierre."

"Thou hast not yet answered a question I put to thee but just now.
Bethink thee, Isabel. The deceiving of others by thee and me, in a thing
wholly pertaining to ourselves, for their and our united good. Wouldst
thou?"

"I would do any thing that does not tend to the marring of thy best
lasting fortunes, Pierre. What is it thou wouldst have thee and me to do
together? I wait; I wait!"

"Let us go into the room of the double casement, my sister," said
Pierre, rising.

"Nay, then; if it can not be said here, then can I not do it anywhere,
my brother; for it would harm thee."

"Girl!" cried Pierre, sternly, "if for thee I have lost"--but he checked
himself.

"Lost? for me? Now does the very worst blacken on me. Pierre! Pierre!"

"I was foolish, and sought but to frighten thee, my sister. It was very
foolish. Do thou now go on with thine innocent work here, and I will
come again a few hours hence. Let me go now."

He was turning from her, when Isabel sprang forward to him, caught him
with both her arms round him, and held him so convulsively, that her
hair sideways swept over him, and half concealed him.

"Pierre, if indeed my soul hath cast on thee the same black shadow that
my hair now flings on thee; if thou hast lost aught for me; then
eternally is Isabel lost to Isabel, and Isabel will not outlive this
night. If I am indeed an accursing thing, I will not act the given part,
but cheat the air, and die from it. See; I let thee go, lest some poison
I know not of distill upon thee from me."

She slowly drooped, and trembled from him. But Pierre caught her, and
supported her.

"Foolish, foolish one! Behold, in the very bodily act of loosing hold of
me, thou dost reel and fall;--unanswerable emblem of the indispensable
heart-stay, I am to thee, my sweet, sweet Isabel! Prate not then of
parting."

"What hast thou lost for me? Tell me!"

"A gainful loss, my sister!"

"'Tis mere rhetoric! What hast thou lost?"

"Nothing that my inmost heart would now recall. I have bought inner love
and glory by a price, which, large or small, I would not now have paid
me back, so I must return the thing I bought."

"Is love then cold, and glory white? Thy cheek is snowy, Pierre."

"It should be, for I believe to God that I am pure, let the world think
how it may."

"What hast thou lost?"

"Not thee, nor the pride and glory of ever loving thee, and being a
continual brother to thee, my best sister. Nay, why dost thou now turn
thy face from me?"

"With fine words he wheedles me, and coaxes me, not to know some secret
thing. Go, go, Pierre, come to me when thou wilt. I am steeled now to
the worst, and to the last. Again I tell thee, I will do any thing--yes,
any thing that Pierre commands--for, though outer ill do lower upon us,
still, deep within, thou wilt be careful, very careful with me, Pierre?"

"Thou art made of that fine, unshared stuff of which God makes his
seraphim. But thy divine devotedness to me, is met by mine to thee. Well
mayest thou trust me, Isabel; and whatever strangest thing I may yet
propose to thee, thy confidence,--will it not bear me out? Surely thou
will not hesitate to plunge, when I plunge first;--already have I
plunged! now thou canst not stay upon the bank. Hearken, hearken to
me.--I seek not now to gain thy prior assent to a thing as yet undone;
but I call to thee now, Isabel, from the depth of a foregone act, to
ratify it, backward, by thy consent. Look not so hard upon me. Listen. I
will tell all. Isabel, though thou art all fearfulness to injure any
living thing, least of all, thy brother; still thy true heart
foreknoweth not the myriad alliances and criss-crossings among mankind,
the infinite entanglements of all social things, which forbids that one
thread should fly the general fabric, on some new line of duty, without
tearing itself and tearing others. Listen. All that has happened up to
this moment, and all that may be yet to happen, some sudden inspiration
now assures me, inevitably proceeded from the first hour I saw thee. Not
possibly could it, or can it, be otherwise. Therefore feel I, that I
have some patience. Listen. Whatever outer things might possibly be
mine; whatever seeming brightest blessings; yet now to live uncomforting
and unloving to thee, Isabel; now to dwell domestically away from thee;
so that only by stealth, and base connivances of the night, I could come
to thee as thy related brother; this would be, and is, unutterably
impossible. In my bosom a secret adder of self-reproach and self-infamy
would never leave off its sting. Listen. But without gratuitous dishonor
to a memory which--for right cause or wrong--is ever sacred and
inviolate to me, I can not be an open brother to thee, Isabel. But thou
wantest not the openness; for thou dost not pine for empty nominalness,
but for vital realness; what thou wantest, is not the occasional
openness of my brotherly love; but its continual domestic confidence. Do
I not speak thine own hidden heart to thee? say, Isabel? Well, then,
still listen to me. One only way presents to this; a most strange way,
Isabel; to the world, that never throbbed for thee in love, a most
deceitful way; but to all a harmless way; so harmless in its essence,
Isabel, that, seems to me, Pierre hath consulted heaven itself upon it,
and heaven itself did not say Nay. Still, listen to me; mark me. As thou
knowest that thou wouldst now droop and die without me; so would I
without thee. We are equal there; mark _that_, too, Isabel. I do not
stoop to thee, nor thou to me; but we both reach up alike to a glorious
ideal! Now the continualness, the secretness, yet the always present
domesticness of our love; how may we best compass that, without
jeopardizing the ever-sacred memory I hinted of? One way--one way--only
one! A strange way, but most pure. Listen. Brace thyself: here, let me
hold thee now; and then whisper it to thee, Isabel. Come, I holding
thee, thou canst not fall."

He held her tremblingly; she bent over toward him; his mouth wet her
ear; he whispered it.

The girl moved not; was done with all her tremblings; leaned closer to
him, with an inexpressible strangeness of an intense love, new and
inexplicable. Over the face of Pierre there shot a terrible
self-revelation; he imprinted repeated burning kisses upon her; pressed
hard her hand; would not let go her sweet and awful passiveness.

Then they changed; they coiled together, and entangledly stood mute.


II.

Mrs. Glendinning walked her chamber; her dress loosened.

"That such accursed vileness should proceed from me! Now will the
tongued world say--See the vile boy of Mary Glendinning!--Deceitful!
thick with guilt, where I thought it was all guilelessness and gentlest
docility to me. It has not happened! It is not day! Were this thing so,
I should go mad, and be shut up, and not walk here where every door is
open to me.--My own only son married to an unknown--thing! My own only
son, false to his holiest plighted public vow--and the wide world
knowing to it! He bears my name--Glendinning. I will disown it; were it
like this dress, I would tear my name off from me, and burn it till it
shriveled to a crisp!--Pierre! Pierre! come back, come back, and swear
it is not so! It can not be! Wait: I will ring the bell, and see if it
be so."

She rung the bell with violence, and soon heard a responsive knock.

"Come in!--Nay, falter not;" (throwing a shawl over her) "come in. Stand
there and tell me if thou darest, that my son was in this house this
morning and met me on the stairs. Darest thou say that?"

Dates looked confounded at her most unwonted aspect.

"Say it! find thy tongue! Or I will root mine out and fling it at thee!
Say it!"

"My dear mistress!"

"I am not thy mistress! but thou my master; for, if thou sayest it, thou
commandest me to madness.--Oh, vile boy!--Begone from me!"

She locked the door upon him, and swiftly and distractedly walked her
chamber. She paused, and tossing down the curtains, shut out the sun
from the two windows.

Another, but an unsummoned knock, was at the door. She opened it.

"My mistress, his Reverence is below. I would not call you, but he
insisted."

"Let him come up."

"Here? Immediately?"

"Didst thou hear me? Let Mr. Falsgrave come up."

As if suddenly and admonishingly made aware, by Dates, of the
ungovernable mood of Mrs. Glendinning, the clergyman entered the open
door of her chamber with a most deprecating but honest reluctance, and
apprehensiveness of he knew not what.

"Be seated, sir; stay, shut the door and lock it."

"Madam!"

"_I_ will do it. Be seated. Hast thou seen him?"

"Whom, Madam?--Master Pierre?"

"Him!--quick!"

"It was to speak of him I came, Madam. He made a most extraordinary call
upon me last night--midnight."

"And thou marriedst him?--Damn thee!"

"Nay, nay, nay, Madam; there is something here I know not of--I came to
tell thee news, but thou hast some o'erwhelming tidings to reveal to
me."

"I beg no pardons; but I may be sorry. Mr. Falsgrave, my son, standing
publicly plighted to Lucy Tartan, has privately wedded some other
girl--some slut!"

"Impossible!"

"True as thou art there. Thou knowest nothing of it then?"

"Nothing, nothing--not one grain till now. Who is it he has wedded?"

"Some _slut_, I tell thee!--I am no lady now, but something deeper,--a
woman!--an outraged and pride-poisoned woman!"

She turned from him swiftly, and again paced the room, as frantic and
entirely regardless of any presence. Waiting for her to pause, but in
vain, Mr. Falsgrave advanced toward her cautiously, and with the
profoundest deference, which was almost a cringing, spoke:--

"It is the hour of woe to thee; and I confess my cloth hath no
consolation for thee yet awhile. Permit me to withdraw from thee,
leaving my best prayers for thee, that thou mayst know some peace, ere
this now shut-out sun goes down. Send for me whenever thou desirest
me.--May I go now?"

"Begone! and let me not hear thy soft, mincing voice, which is an infamy
to a man! Begone, thou helpless, and unhelping one!"

She swiftly paced the room again, swiftly muttering to herself. "Now,
now, now, now I see it clearer, clearer--clear now as day! My first dim
suspicions pointed right!--too right! Ay--the sewing! it was the
sewing!--The shriek!--I saw him gazing rooted at her. He would not speak
going home with me. I charged him with his silence; he put me off with
lies, lies, lies! Ay, ay, he is married to her, to her;--to
her!--perhaps was then. And yet,--and yet,--how can it be?--Lucy,
Lucy--I saw him, after that, look on her as if he would be glad to die
for her, and go to hell for her, whither he deserves to go!--Oh! oh! oh!
Thus ruthlessly to cut off, at one gross sensual dash, the fair
succession of an honorable race! Mixing the choicest wine with filthy
water from the plebeian pool, and so turning all to undistinguishable
rankness!--Oh viper! had I thee now in me, I would be a suicide and a
murderer with one blow!"

A third knock was at the door. She opened it.

"My mistress, I thought it would disturb you,--it is so just
overhead,--so I have not removed them yet."

"Unravel thy gibberish!--what is it?"

"Pardon, my mistress, I somehow thought you knew it, but you can not."

"What is that writing crumpling in thy hand? Give it me."

"I have promised my young master not to, my mistress."

"I will snatch it, then, and so leave thee blameless.--What? what?
what?--He's mad sure!--'Fine old fellow Dates'--what? what?--mad and
merry!--chest?--clothes?--trunks?--he wants them?--Tumble them out of
his window!--and if he stand right beneath, tumble them out! Dismantle
that whole room. Tear up the carpet. I swear, he shall leave no smallest
vestige in this house.--Here! this very spot--here, here, where I stand,
he may have stood upon;--yes, he tied my shoe-string here; it's
slippery! Dates!"

"My mistress."

"Do his bidding. By reflection he has made me infamous to the world; and
I will make him infamous to it. Listen, and do not delude thyself that
I am crazy. Go up to yonder room" (pointing upward), "and remove every
article in it, and where he bid thee set down the chest and trunks,
there set down all the contents of that room."

"'Twas before the house--this house!"

"And if it had not been there, I would not order thee to put them there.
Dunce! I would have the world know that I disown and scorn him! Do my
bidding!--Stay. Let the room stand; but take him what he asks for."

"I will, my mistress."

As Dates left the chamber, Mrs. Glendinning again paced it swiftly, and
again swiftly muttered: "Now, if I were less a strong and haughty woman,
the fit would have gone by ere now. But deep volcanoes long burn, ere
they burn out.--Oh, that the world were made of such malleable stuff,
that we could recklessly do our fieriest heart's-wish before it, and not
falter. Accursed be those four syllables of sound which make up that
vile word Propriety. It is a chain and bell to drag;--drag? what sound
is that? there's dragging--his trunks--the traveler's--dragging out. Oh
would I could so drag my heart, as fishers for the drowned do, as that I
might drag up my sunken happiness! Boy! boy! worse than brought in
dripping drowned to me,--drowned in icy infamy! Oh! oh! oh!"

She threw herself upon the bed, covered her face, and lay motionless.
But suddenly rose again, and hurriedly rang the bell.

"Open that desk, and draw the stand to me. Now wait and take this to
Miss Lucy."

With a pencil she rapidly traced these lines:--

"My heart bleeds for thee, sweet Lucy. I can not speak--I know it all.
Look for me the first hour I regain myself."

Again she threw herself upon the bed, and lay motionless.


III.

Toward sundown that evening, Pierre stood in one of the three bespoken
chambers in the Black Swan Inn; the blue chintz-covered chest and the
writing-desk before him. His hands were eagerly searching through his
pockets.

"The key! the key! Nay, then, I must force it open. It bodes ill, too.
Yet lucky is it, some bankers can break into their own vaults, when
other means do fail. Not so, ever. Let me see:--yes, the tongs there.
Now then for the sweet sight of gold and silver. I never loved it till
this day. How long it has been hoarded;--little token pieces, of years
ago, from aunts, uncles, cousins innumerable, and from--but I won't
mention _them_; dead henceforth to me! Sure there'll be a premium on
such ancient gold. There's some broad bits, token pieces to my--I name
him not--more than half a century ago. Well, well, I never thought to
cast them back into the sordid circulations whence they came. But if
they must be spent, now is the time, in this last necessity, and in this
sacred cause. 'Tis a most stupid, dunderheaded crowbar. Hoy! so! ah, now
for it:--snake's nest!"

Forced suddenly back, the chest-lid had as suddenly revealed to him the
chair-portrait lying on top of all the rest, where he had secreted it
some days before. Face up, it met him with its noiseless, ever-nameless,
and ambiguous, unchanging smile. Now his first repugnance was augmented
by an emotion altogether new. That certain lurking lineament in the
portrait, whose strange transfer blended with far other, and sweeter,
and nobler characteristics, was visible in the countenance of Isabel;
that lineament in the portrait was somehow now detestable; nay,
altogether loathsome, ineffably so, to Pierre. He argued not with
himself why this was so; he only felt it, and most keenly.

Omitting more subtile inquisition into this deftly-winding theme, it
will be enough to hint, perhaps, that possibly one source of this new
hatefulness had its primary and unconscious rise in one of those
profound ideas, which at times atmospherically, as it were, do insinuate
themselves even into very ordinary minds. In the strange relativeness,
reciprocalness, and transmittedness, between the long-dead father's
portrait, and the living daughter's face, Pierre might have seemed to
see reflected to him, by visible and uncontradictable symbols, the
tyranny of Time and Fate. Painted before the daughter was conceived or
born, like a dumb seer, the portrait still seemed leveling its prophetic
finger at that empty air, from which Isabel did finally emerge. There
seemed to lurk some mystical intelligence and vitality in the picture;
because, since in his own memory of his father, Pierre could not recall
any distinct lineament transmitted to Isabel, but vaguely saw such in
the portrait; therefore, not Pierre's parent, as any way rememberable by
him, but the portrait's painted _self_ seemed the real father of Isabel;
for, so far as all sense went, Isabel had inherited one peculiar trait
no-whither traceable but to it.

And as his father was now sought to be banished from his mind, as a most
bitter presence there, but Isabel was become a thing of intense and
fearful love for him; therefore, it was loathsome to him, that in the
smiling and ambiguous portrait, her sweet mournful image should be so
sinisterly becrooked, bemixed, and mutilated to him.

When, the first shock, and then the pause were over, he lifted the
portrait in his two hands, and held it averted from him.

"It shall not live. Hitherto I have hoarded up mementoes and monuments
of the past; been a worshiper of all heirlooms; a fond filer away of
letters, locks of hair, bits of ribbon, flowers, and the
thousand-and-one minutenesses which love and memory think they
sanctify:--but it is forever over now! If to me any memory shall
henceforth be dear, I will not mummy it in a visible memorial for every
passing beggar's dust to gather on. Love's museum is vain and foolish as
the Catacombs, where grinning apes and abject lizards are embalmed, as,
forsooth, significant of some imagined charm. It speaks merely of decay
and death, and nothing more; decay and death of endless innumerable
generations; it makes of earth one mold. How can lifelessness be fit
memorial of life?--So far, for mementoes of the sweetest. As for the
rest--now I know this, that in commonest memorials, the twilight fact of
death first discloses in some secret way, all the ambiguities of that
departed thing or person; obliquely it casts hints, and insinuates
surmises base, and eternally incapable of being cleared. Decreed by God
Omnipotent it is, that Death should be the last scene of the last act of
man's play;--a play, which begin how it may, in farce or comedy, ever
hath its tragic end; the curtain inevitably falls upon a corpse.
Therefore, never more will I play the vile pigmy, and by small memorials
after death, attempt to reverse the decree of death, by essaying the
poor perpetuating of the image of the original. Let all die, and mix
again! As for this--this!--why longer should I preserve it? Why preserve
that on which one can not patient look? If I am resolved to hold his
public memory inviolate,--destroy this thing; for here is the one great,
condemning, and unsuborned proof, whose mysticalness drives me half
mad.--Of old Greek times, before man's brain went into doting bondage,
and bleached and beaten in Baconian fulling-mills, his four limbs lost
their barbaric tan and beauty; when the round world was fresh, and rosy,
and spicy, as a new-plucked apple;--all's wilted now!--in those bold
times, the great dead were not, turkey-like, dished in trenchers, and
set down all garnished in the ground, to glut the damned Cyclop like a
cannibal; but nobly envious Life cheated the glutton worm, and
gloriously burned the corpse; so that the spirit up-pointed, and visibly
forked to heaven!

"So now will I serve thee. Though that solidity of which thou art the
unsolid duplicate, hath long gone to its hideous church-yard
account;--and though, God knows! but for one part of thee it may have
been fit auditing;--yet will I now a second time see thy obsequies
performed, and by now burning thee, urn thee in the great vase of air!
Come now!"

A small wood-fire had been kindled on the hearth to purify the
long-closed room; it was now diminished to a small pointed heap of
glowing embers. Detaching and dismembering the gilded but tarnished
frame, Pierre laid the four pieces on the coals; as their dryness soon
caught the sparks, he rolled the reversed canvas into a scroll, and tied
it, and committed it to the now crackling, clamorous flames. Steadfastly
Pierre watched the first crispings and blackenings of the painted
scroll, but started as suddenly unwinding from the burnt string that had
tied it, for one swift instant, seen through the flame and smoke, the
upwrithing portrait tormentedly stared at him in beseeching horror, and
then, wrapped in one broad sheet of oily fire, disappeared forever.

Yielding to a sudden ungovernable impulse, Pierre darted his hand among
the flames, to rescue the imploring face; but as swiftly drew back his
scorched and bootless grasp. His hand was burnt and blackened, but he
did not heed it.

He ran back to the chest, and seizing repeated packages of family
letters, and all sorts of miscellaneous memorials in paper, he threw
them one after the other upon the fire.

"Thus, and thus, and thus! on thy manes I fling fresh spoils; pour out
all my memory in one libation!--so, so, so--lower, lower, lower; now all
is done, and all is ashes! Henceforth, cast-out Pierre hath no
paternity, and no past; and since the Future is one blank to all;
therefore, twice-disinherited Pierre stands untrammeledly his
ever-present self!--free to do his own self-will and present fancy to
whatever end!"


IV.

That same sunset Lucy lay in her chamber. A knock was heard at its door,
and the responding Martha was met by the now self-controlled and
resolute face of Mrs. Glendinning.

"How is your young mistress, Martha? May I come in?"

But waiting for no answer, with the same breath she passed the maid, and
determinately entered the room.

She sat down by the bed, and met the open eye, but closed and pallid
mouth of Lucy. She gazed rivetedly and inquisitively a moment; then
turned a quick aghast look toward Martha, as if seeking warrant for some
shuddering thought.

"Miss Lucy"--said Martha--"it is your--it is Mrs. Glendinning. Speak to
her, Miss Lucy."

As if left in the last helpless attitude of some spent contortion of her
grief, Lucy was not lying in the ordinary posture of one in bed, but lay
half crosswise upon it, with the pale pillows propping her hueless form,
and but a single sheet thrown over her, as though she were so heart
overladen, that her white body could not bear one added feather. And as
in any snowy marble statue, the drapery clings to the limbs; so as one
found drowned, the thin, defining sheet invested Lucy.

"It is Mrs. Glendinning. Will you speak to her, Miss Lucy?"

The thin lips moved and trembled for a moment, and then were still
again, and augmented pallor shrouded her.

Martha brought restoratives; and when all was as before, she made a
gesture for the lady to depart, and in a whisper, said, "She will not
speak to any; she does not speak to me. The doctor has just left--he has
been here five times since morning--and says she must be kept entirely
quiet." Then pointing to the stand, added, "You see what he has
left--mere restoratives. Quiet is her best medicine now, he says. Quiet,
quiet, quiet! Oh, sweet quiet, wilt thou now ever come?"

"Has Mrs. Tartan been written to?" whispered the lady. Martha nodded.

So the lady moved to quit the room, saying that once every two hours she
would send to know how Lucy fared.

"But where, where is her aunt, Martha?" she exclaimed, lowly, pausing at
the door, and glancing in sudden astonishment about the room; "surely,
surely, Mrs. Lanyllyn--"

"Poor, poor old lady," weepingly whispered Martha, "she hath caught
infection from sweet Lucy's woe; she hurried hither, caught one glimpse
of that bed, and fell like dead upon the floor. The Doctor hath two
patients now, lady"--glancing at the bed, and tenderly feeling Lucy's
bosom, to mark if yet it heaved; "Alack! Alack! oh, reptile! reptile!
that could sting so sweet a breast! fire would be too cold for
him--accursed!"

"Thy own tongue blister the roof of thy mouth!" cried Mrs. Glendinning,
in a half-stifled, whispering scream. "'Tis not for thee, hired one, to
rail at my son, though he were Lucifer, simmering in Hell! Mend thy
manners, minx!"

And she left the chamber, dilated with her unconquerable pride, leaving
Martha aghast at such venom in such beauty.




BOOK XIII.

THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS.


I.

It was just dusk when Pierre approached the Ulver farm-house, in a wagon
belonging to the Black Swan Inn. He met his sister shawled and bonneted
in the porch.

"Now then, Isabel, is all ready? Where is Delly? I see two most small
and inconsiderable portmanteaux. Wee is the chest that holds the goods
of the disowned! The wagon waits, Isabel. Now is all ready? and nothing
left?"

"Nothing, Pierre; unless in going hence--but I'll not think of that;
all's fated."

"Delly! where is she? Let us go in for her," said Pierre, catching the
hand of Isabel, and turning rapidly. As he thus half dragged her into
the little lighted entry, and then dropping her hand, placed his touch
on the catch of the inner door, Isabel stayed his arm, as if to keep him
back, till she should forewarn him against something concerning Delly;
but suddenly she started herself; and for one instant, eagerly pointing
at his right hand, seemed almost to half shrink from Pierre.

"'Tis nothing. I am not hurt; a slight burn--the merest accidental
scorch this morning. But what's this?" he added, lifting his hand
higher; "smoke! soot! this comes of going in the dark; sunlight, and I
had seen it. But I have not touched thee, Isabel?"

Isabel lifted her hand and showed the marks.--"But it came from thee, my
brother; and I would catch the plague from thee, so that it should make
me share thee. Do thou clean thy hand; let mine alone."

"Delly! Delly!"--cried Pierre--"why may I not go to her, to bring her
forth?"

Placing her finger upon her lip, Isabel softly opened the door, and
showed the object of his inquiry avertedly seated, muffled, on a chair.

"Do not speak to her, my brother," whispered Isabel, "and do not seek to
behold her face, as yet. It will pass over now, ere long, I trust. Come,
shall we go now? Take Delly forth, but do not speak to her. I have
bidden all good-by; the old people are in yonder room in the rear; I am
glad that they chose not to come out, to attend our going forth. Come
now, be very quick, Pierre; this is an hour I like not; be it swiftly
past."

Soon all three alighted at the inn. Ordering lights, Pierre led the way
above-stairs, and ushered his two companions into one of the two
outermost rooms of the three adjoining chambers prepared for all.

"See," said he, to the mute and still self-averting figure of
Delly;--"see, this is thy room, Miss Ulver; Isabel has told thee all;
thou know'st our till now secret marriage; she will stay with thee now,
till I return from a little business down the street. To-morrow, thou
know'st, very early, we take the stage. I may not see thee again till
then, so, be steadfast, and cheer up a very little, Miss Ulver, and
good-night. All will be well."


II.

Next morning, by break of day, at four o'clock, the four swift hours
were personified in four impatient horses, which shook their trappings
beneath the windows of the inn. Three figures emerged into the cool dim
air and took their places in the coach.

The old landlord had silently and despondently shaken Pierre by the
hand; the vainglorious driver was on his box, threadingly adjusting the
four reins among the fingers of his buck-skin gloves; the usual thin
company of admiring ostlers and other early on-lookers were gathered
about the porch; when--on his companions' account--all eager to cut
short any vain delay, at such a painful crisis, Pierre impetuously
shouted for the coach to move. In a moment, the four meadow-fed young
horses leaped forward their own generous lengths, and the four
responsive wheels rolled their complete circles; while making vast
rearward flourishes with his whip, the elated driver seemed as a
bravado-hero signing his ostentatious farewell signature in the empty
air. And so, in the dim of the dawn--and to the defiant crackings of
that long and sharp-resounding whip, the three forever fled the sweet
fields of Saddle Meadows.

The short old landlord gazed after the coach awhile, and then
re-entering the inn, stroked his gray beard and muttered to himself:--"I
have kept this house, now, three-and-thirty years, and have had plenty
of bridal-parties come and go; in their long train of wagons,
break-downs, buggies, gigs--a gay and giggling train--Ha!--there's a
pun! popt out like a cork--ay, and once in ox-carts, all garlanded; ay,
and once, the merry bride was bedded on a load of sweet-scented new-cut
clover. But such a bridal-party as this morning's--why, it's as sad as
funerals. And brave Master Pierre Glendinning is the groom! Well, well,
wonders is all the go. I thought I had done with wondering when I passed
fifty; but I keep wondering still. Ah, somehow, now, I feel as though I
had just come from lowering some old friend beneath the sod, and yet
felt the grating cord-marks in my palms.--'Tis early, but I'll drink.
Let's see; cider,--a mug of cider;--'tis sharp, and pricks like a
game-cock's spur,--cider's the drink for grief. Oh, Lord! that fat men
should be so thin-skinned, and suffer in pure sympathy on others'
account. A thin-skinned, thin man, he don't suffer so, because there
ain't so much stuff in him for his thin skin to cover. Well, well, well,
well, well; of all colics, save me from the melloncholics; green melons
is the greenest thing!"




BOOK XIV.

THE JOURNEY AND THE PAMPHLET.


I.

All profound things, and emotions of things are preceded and attended by
Silence. What a silence is that with which the pale bride precedes the
responsive _I will_, to the priest's solemn question, _Wilt thou have
this man for thy husband?_ In silence, too, the wedded hands are
clasped. Yea, in silence the child Christ was born into the world.
Silence is the general consecration of the universe. Silence is the
invisible laying on of the Divine Pontiff's hands upon the world.
Silence is at once the most harmless and the most awful thing in all
nature. It speaks of the Reserved Forces of Fate. Silence is the only
Voice of our God.

Nor is this so august Silence confined to things simply touching or
grand. Like the air, Silence permeates all things, and produces its
magical power, as well during that peculiar mood which prevails at a
solitary traveler's first setting forth on a journey, as at the
unimaginable time when before the world was, Silence brooded on the face
of the waters.

No word was spoken by its inmates, as the coach bearing our young
Enthusiast, Pierre, and his mournful party, sped forth through the dim
dawn into the deep midnight, which still occupied, unrepulsed, the
hearts of the old woods through which the road wound, very shortly after
quitting the village.

When first entering the coach, Pierre had pressed his hand upon the
cushioned seat to steady his way, some crumpled leaves of paper had met
his fingers. He had instinctively clutched them; and the same strange
clutching mood of his soul which had prompted that instinctive act, did
also prevail in causing him now to retain the crumpled paper in his hand
for an hour or more of that wonderful intense silence, which the rapid
coach bore through the heart of the general stirless morning silence of
the fields and the woods.

His thoughts were very dark and wild; for a space there was rebellion
and horrid anarchy and infidelity in his soul. This temporary mood may
best be likened to that, which--according to a singular story once told
in the pulpit by a reverend man of God--invaded the heart of an
excellent priest. In the midst of a solemn cathedral, upon a cloudy
Sunday afternoon, this priest was in the act of publicly administering
the bread at the Holy Sacrament of the Supper, when the Evil One
suddenly propounded to him the possibility of the mere moonshine of the
Christian Religion. Just such now was the mood of Pierre; to him the
Evil One propounded the possibility of the mere moonshine of all his
self-renouncing Enthusiasm. The Evil One hooted at him, and called him a
fool. But by instant and earnest prayer--closing his two eyes, with his
two hands still holding the sacramental bread--the devout priest had
vanquished the impious Devil. Not so with Pierre. The imperishable
monument of his holy Catholic Church; the imperishable record of his
Holy Bible; the imperishable intuition of the innate truth of
Christianity;--these were the indestructible anchors which still held
the priest to his firm Faith's rock, when the sudden storm raised by the
Evil One assailed him. But Pierre--where could _he_ find the Church, the
monument, the Bible, which unequivocally said to him--"Go on; thou art
in the Right; I endorse thee all over; go on."--So the difference
between the Priest and Pierre was herein:--with the priest it was a
matter, whether certain bodiless thoughts of his were true or not true;
but with Pierre it was a question whether certain vital acts of his were
right or wrong. In this little nut lie germ-like the possible solution
of some puzzling problems; and also the discovery of additional, and
still more profound problems ensuing upon the solution of the former.
For so true is this last, that some men refuse to solve any present
problem, for fear of making still more work for themselves in that way.

Now, Pierre thought of the magical, mournful letter of Isabel, he
recalled the divine inspiration of that hour when the heroic words burst
from his heart--"Comfort thee, and stand by thee, and fight for thee,
will thy leapingly-acknowledging brother!" These remembrances unfurled
themselves in proud exultations in his soul; and from before such
glorious banners of Virtue, the club-footed Evil One limped away in
dismay. But now the dread, fateful parting look of his mother came over
him; anew he heard the heart-proscribing words--"Beneath my roof and at
my table, he who was once Pierre Glendinning no more puts
himself;"--swooning in her snow-white bed, the lifeless Lucy lay before
him, wrapt as in the reverberating echoings of her own agonizing shriek:
"My heart! my heart!" Then how swift the recurrence to Isabel, and the
nameless awfulness of his still imperfectly conscious, incipient,
new-mingled emotion toward this mysterious being. "Lo! I leave corpses
wherever I go!" groaned Pierre to himself--"Can then my conduct be
right? Lo! by my conduct I seem threatened by the possibility of a sin
anomalous and accursed, so anomalous, it may well be the one for which
Scripture says, there is never forgiveness. Corpses behind me, and the
last sin before, how then can my conduct be right?"

In this mood, the silence accompanied him, and the first visible rays of
the morning sun in this same mood found him and saluted him. The
excitement and the sleepless night just passed, and the strange
narcotic of a quiet, steady anguish, and the sweet quiescence of the
air, and the monotonous cradle-like motion of the coach over a road made
firm and smooth by a refreshing shower over night; these had wrought
their wonted effect upon Isabel and Delly; with hidden faces they leaned
fast asleep in Pierre's sight. Fast asleep--thus unconscious, oh sweet
Isabel, oh forlorn Delly, your swift destinies I bear in my own!

Suddenly, as his sad eye fell lower and lower from scanning their
magically quiescent persons, his glance lit upon his own clutched hand,
which rested on his knee. Some paper protruded from that clutch. He knew
not how it had got there, or whence it had come, though himself had
closed his own gripe upon it. He lifted his hand and slowly unfingered
and unbolted the paper, and unrolled it, and carefully smoothed it, to
see what it might be.

It was a thin, tattered, dried-fish-like thing; printed with blurred ink
upon mean, sleazy paper. It seemed the opening pages of some ruinous old
pamphlet--a pamphlet containing a chapter or so of some very voluminous
disquisition. The conclusion was gone. It must have been accidentally
left there by some previous traveler, who perhaps in drawing out his
handkerchief, had ignorantly extracted his waste paper.

There is a singular infatuation in most men, which leads them in odd
moments, intermitting between their regular occupations, and when they
find themselves all alone in some quiet corner or nook, to fasten with
unaccountable fondness upon the merest rag of old printed paper--some
shred of a long-exploded advertisement perhaps--and read it, and study
it, and reread it, and pore over it, and fairly agonize themselves over
this miserable, sleazy paper-rag, which at any other time, or in any
other place, they would hardly touch with St. Dunstan's long tongs. So
now, in a degree, with Pierre. But notwithstanding that he, with most
other human beings, shared in the strange hallucination above
mentioned, yet the first glimpse of the title of the dried-fish-like,
pamphlet-shaped rag, did almost tempt him to pitch it out of the window.
For, be a man's mood what it may, what sensible and ordinary mortal
could have patience for any considerable period, to knowingly hold in
his conscious hand a printed document (and that too a very blurred one
as to ink, and a very sleazy one as to paper), so metaphysically and
insufferably entitled as this:--"Chronometricals & Horologicals?"

Doubtless, it was something vastly profound; but it is to be observed,
that when a man is in a really profound mood, then all merely verbal or
written profundities are unspeakably repulsive, and seem downright
childish to him. Nevertheless, the silence still continued; the road ran
through an almost unplowed and uninhabited region; the slumberers still
slumbered before him; the evil mood was becoming well nigh insupportable
to him; so, more to force his mind away from the dark realities of
things than from any other motive, Pierre finally tried his best to
plunge himself into the pamphlet.


II.

Sooner or later in this life, the earnest, or enthusiastic youth comes
to know, and more or less appreciate this startling solecism:--That
while, as the grand condition of acceptance to God, Christianity calls
upon all men to renounce this world; yet by all odds the most Mammonish
part of this world--Europe and America--are owned by none but professed
Christian nations, who glory in the owning, and seem to have some reason
therefor.

This solecism once vividly and practically apparent; then comes the
earnest reperusal of the Gospels: the intense self-absorption into that
greatest real miracle of all religions, the Sermon on the Mount. From
that divine mount, to all earnest loving youths, flows an inexhaustible
soul-melting stream of tenderness and loving-kindness; and they leap
exulting to their feet, to think that the founder of their holy religion
gave utterance to sentences so infinitely sweet and soothing as these
sentences which embody all the love of the Past, and all the love which
can be imagined in any conceivable Future. Such emotions as that Sermon
raises in the enthusiastic heart; such emotions all youthful hearts
refuse to ascribe to humanity as their origin. This is of God! cries the
heart, and in that cry ceases all inquisition. Now, with this fresh-read
sermon in his soul, the youth again gazes abroad upon the world.
Instantly, in aggravation of the former solecism, an overpowering sense
of the world's downright positive falsity comes over him; the world
seems to lie saturated and soaking with lies. The sense of this thing is
so overpowering, that at first the youth is apt to refuse the evidence
of his own senses; even as he does that same evidence in the matter of
the movement of the visible sun in the heavens, which with his own eyes
he plainly sees to go round the world, but nevertheless on the authority
of other persons,--the Copernican astronomers, whom he never saw--he
believes it _not_ to go round the world, but the world round it. Just
so, too, he hears good and wise people sincerely say: This world only
_seems_ to be saturated and soaking with lies; but in reality it does
not so lie soaking and saturate; along with some lies, there is much
truth in this world. But again he refers to his Bible, and there he
reads most explicitly, that this world is unconditionally depraved and
accursed; and that at all hazards men must come out of it. But why come
out of it, if it be a True World and not a Lying World? Assuredly, then,
this world is a lie.

Hereupon then in the soul of the enthusiast youth two armies come to the
shock; and unless he prove recreant, or unless he prove gullible, or
unless he can find the talismanic secret, to reconcile this world with
his own soul, then there is no peace for him, no slightest truce for him
in this life. Now without doubt this Talismanic Secret has never yet
been found; and in the nature of human things it seems as though it
never can be. Certain philosophers have time and again pretended to have
found it; but if they do not in the end discover their own delusion,
other people soon discover it for themselves, and so those philosophers
and their vain philosophy are let glide away into practical oblivion.
Plato, and Spinoza, and Goethe, and many more belong to this guild of
self-impostors, with a preposterous rabble of Muggletonian Scots and
Yankees, whose vile brogue still the more bestreaks the stripedness of
their Greek or German Neoplatonical originals. That profound Silence,
that only Voice of our God, which I before spoke of; from that divine
thing without a name, those impostor philosophers pretend somehow to
have got an answer; which is as absurd, as though they should say they
had got water out of stone; for how can a man get a Voice out of
Silence?

Certainly, all must admit, that if for any one this problem of the
possible reconcilement of this world with our own souls possessed a
peculiar and potential interest, that one was Pierre Glendinning at the
period we now write of. For in obedience to the loftiest behest of his
soul, he had done certain vital acts, which had already lost him his
worldly felicity, and which he felt must in the end indirectly work him
some still additional and not-to-be-thought-of woe.

Soon then, as after his first distaste at the mystical title, and after
his then reading on, merely to drown himself, Pierre at last began to
obtain a glimmering into the profound intent of the writer of the sleazy
rag pamphlet, he felt a great interest awakened in him. The more he read
and re-read, the more this interest deepened, but still the more
likewise did his failure to comprehend the writer increase. He seemed
somehow to derive some general vague inkling concerning it, but the
central conceit refused to become clear to him. The reason whereof is
not so easy to be laid down; seeing that the reason-originating heart
and mind of man, these organic things themselves are not so easily to be
expounded. Something, however, more or less to the point, may be
adventured here.

If a man be in any vague latent doubt about the intrinsic correctness
and excellence of his general life-theory and practical course of life;
then, if that man chance to light on any other man, or any little
treatise, or sermon, which unintendingly, as it were, yet very palpably
illustrates to him the intrinsic incorrectness and non-excellence of
both the theory and the practice of his life; then that man will--more
or less unconsciously--try hard to hold himself back from the
self-admitted comprehension of a matter which thus condemns him. For in
this case, to comprehend, is himself to condemn himself, which is always
highly inconvenient and uncomfortable to a man. Again. If a man be told
a thing wholly new, then--during the time of its first announcement to
him--it is entirely impossible for him to comprehend it. For--absurd as
it may seem--men are only made to comprehend things which they
comprehended before (though but in the embryo, as it were). Things new
it is impossible to make them comprehend, by merely talking to them
about it. True, sometimes they pretend to comprehend; in their own
hearts they really believe they do comprehend; outwardly look as though
they _did_ comprehend; wag their bushy tails comprehendingly; but for
all that, they do not comprehend. Possibly, they may afterward come, of
themselves, to inhale this new idea from the circumambient air, and so
come to comprehend it; but not otherwise at all. It will be observed,
that, neither points of the above speculations do we, in set terms,
attribute to Pierre in connection with the rag pamphlet. Possibly both
might be applicable; possibly neither. Certain it is, however, that at
the time, in his own heart, he seemed to think that he did not fully
comprehend the strange writer's conceit in all its bearings. Yet was
this conceit apparently one of the plainest in the world; so natural, a
child might almost have originated it. Nevertheless, again so profound,
that scarce Juggularius himself could be the author; and still again so
exceedingly trivial, that Juggularius' smallest child might well have
been ashamed of it.

Seeing then that this curious paper rag so puzzled Pierre; foreseeing,
too, that Pierre may not in the end be entirely uninfluenced in his
conduct by the torn pamphlet, when afterwards perhaps by other means he
shall come to understand it; or, peradventure, come to know that he, in
the first place, did--seeing too that the author thereof came to be made
known to him by reputation, and though Pierre never spoke to him, yet
exerted a surprising sorcery upon his spirit by the mere distant glimpse
of his countenance;--all these reasons I account sufficient apology for
inserting in the following chapters the initial part of what seems to me
a very fanciful and mystical, rather than philosophical Lecture, from
which, I confess, that I myself can derive no conclusion which
permanently satisfies those peculiar motions in my soul, to which that
Lecture seems more particularly addressed. For to me it seems more the
excellently illustrated re-statement of a problem, than the solution of
the problem itself. But as such mere illustrations are almost
universally taken for solutions (and perhaps they are the only possible
human solutions), therefore it may help to the temporary quiet of some
inquiring mind; and so not be wholly without use. At the worst, each
person can now skip, or read and rail for himself.


III.

"_EI_,"

BY PLOTINUS PLINLIMMON,

(_In Three Hundred and Thirty-three Lectures._)


LECTURE FIRST.

CHRONOMETRICALS AND HOROLOGICALS,

(_Being not to much the Portal, as part of the temporary Scaffold to the
Portal of this new Philosophy._)


"Few of us doubt, gentlemen, that human life on this earth is but a
state of probation; which among other things implies, that here below,
we mortals have only to do with things provisional. Accordingly, I hold
that all our so-called wisdom is likewise but provisional.

"This preamble laid down, I begin.

"It seems to me, in my visions, that there is a certain most rare order
of human souls, which if carefully carried in the body will almost
always and everywhere give Heaven's own Truth, with some small grains of
variance. For peculiarly coming from God, the sole source of that
heavenly truth, and the great Greenwich hill and tower from which the
universal meridians are far out into infinity reckoned; such souls seem
as London sea-chronometers (_Greek_, time-namers) which as the London
ship floats past Greenwich down the Thames, are accurately adjusted by
Greenwich time, and if heedfully kept, will still give that same time,
even though carried to the Azores. True, in nearly all cases of long,
remote voyages--to China, say--chronometers of the best make, and the
most carefully treated, will gradually more or less vary from Greenwich
time, without the possibility of the error being corrected by direct
comparison with their great standard; but skillful and devout
observations of the stars by the sextant will serve materially to lessen
such errors. And besides, there is such a thing as _rating_ a
chronometer; that is, having ascertained its degree of organic
inaccuracy, however small, then in all subsequent chronometrical
calculations, that ascertained loss or gain can be readily added or
deducted, as the case may be. Then again, on these long voyages, the
chronometer may be corrected by comparing it with the chronometer of
some other ship at sea, more recently from home.

"Now in an artificial world like ours, the soul of man is further
removed from its God and the Heavenly Truth, than the chronometer
carried to China, is from Greenwich. And, as that chronometer, if at all
accurate, will pronounce it to be 12 o'clock high-noon, when the China
local watches say, perhaps, it is 12 o'clock midnight; so the
chronometric soul, if in this world true to its great Greenwich in the
other, will always, in its so-called intuitions of right and wrong, be
contradicting the mere local standards and watch-maker's brains of this
earth.

"Bacon's brains were mere watch-maker's brains; but Christ was a
chronometer; and the most exquisitely adjusted and exact one, and the
least affected by all terrestrial jarrings, of any that have ever come
to us. And the reason why his teachings seemed folly to the Jews, was
because he carried that Heaven's time in Jerusalem, while the Jews
carried Jerusalem time there. Did he not expressly say--My wisdom (time)
is not of this world? But whatever is really peculiar in the wisdom of
Christ seems precisely the same folly to-day as it did 1850 years ago.
Because, in all that interval his bequeathed chronometer has still
preserved its original Heaven's time, and the general Jerusalem of this
world has likewise carefully preserved its own.

"But though the chronometer carried from Greenwich to China, should
truly exhibit in China what the time may be at Greenwich at any moment;
yet, though thereby it must necessarily contradict China time, it does
by no means thence follow, that with respect to China, the China watches
are at all out of the way. Precisely the reverse. For the fact of that
variance is a presumption that, with respect to China, the Chinese
watches must be all right; and consequently as the China watches are
right as to China, so the Greenwich chronometers must be wrong as to
China. Besides, of what use to the Chinaman would a Greenwich
chronometer, keeping Greenwich time, be? Were he thereby to regulate his
daily actions, he would be guilty of all manner of absurdities:--going
to bed at noon, say, when his neighbors would be sitting down to dinner.
And thus, though the earthly wisdom of man be heavenly folly to God; so
also, conversely, is the heavenly wisdom of God an earthly folly to man.
Literally speaking, this is so. Nor does the God at the heavenly
Greenwich expect common men to keep Greenwich wisdom in this remote
Chinese world of ours; because such a thing were unprofitable for them
here, and, indeed, a falsification of Himself, inasmuch as in that case,
China time would be identical with Greenwich time, which would make
Greenwich time wrong.

"But why then does God now and then send a heavenly chronometer (as a
meteoric stone) into the world, uselessly as it would seem, to give the
lie to all the world's time-keepers? Because he is unwilling to leave
man without some occasional testimony to this:--that though man's
Chinese notions of things may answer well enough here, they are by no
means universally applicable, and that the central Greenwich in which He
dwells goes by a somewhat different method from this world. And yet it
follows not from this, that God's truth is one thing and man's truth
another; but--as above hinted, and as will be further elucidated in
subsequent lectures--by their very contradictions they are made to
correspond.

"By inference it follows, also, that he who finding in himself a
chronometrical soul, seeks practically to force that heavenly time upon
the earth; in such an attempt he can never succeed, with an absolute and
essential success. And as for himself, if he seek to regulate his own
daily conduct by it, he will but array all men's earthly time-keepers
against him, and thereby work himself woe and death. Both these things
are plainly evinced in the character and fate of Christ, and the past
and present condition of the religion he taught. But here one thing is
to be especially observed. Though Christ encountered woe in both the
precept and the practice of his chronometricals, yet did he remain
throughout entirely without folly or sin. Whereas, almost invariably,
with inferior beings, the absolute effort to live in this world
according to the strict letter of the chronometricals is, somehow, apt
to involve those inferior beings eventually in strange, _unique_ follies
and sins, unimagined before. It is the story of the Ephesian matron,
allegorized.

"To any earnest man of insight, a faithful contemplation of these ideas
concerning Chronometricals and Horologicals, will serve to render
provisionally far less dark some few of the otherwise obscurest things
which have hitherto tormented the honest-thinking men of all ages. What
man who carries a heavenly soul in him, has not groaned to perceive,
that unless he committed a sort of suicide as to the practical things of
this world, he never can hope to regulate his earthly conduct by that
same heavenly soul? And yet by an infallible instinct he knows, that
that monitor can not be wrong in itself.

"And where is the earnest and righteous philosopher, gentlemen, who
looking right and left, and up and down, through all the ages of the
world, the present included; where is there such an one who has not a
thousand times been struck with a sort of infidel idea, that whatever
other worlds God may be Lord of, he is not the Lord of this; for else
this world would seem to give the lie to Him; so utterly repugnant seem
its ways to the instinctively known ways of Heaven. But it is not, and
can not be so; nor will he who regards this chronometrical conceit
aright, ever more be conscious of that horrible idea. For he will then
see, or seem to see, that this world's seeming incompatibility with God,
absolutely results from its meridianal correspondence with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"This chronometrical conceit does by no means involve the justification
of all the acts which wicked men may perform. For in their wickedness
downright wicked men sin as much against their own horologes, as against
the heavenly chronometer. That this is so, their spontaneous liability
to remorse does plainly evince. No, this conceit merely goes to show,
that for the mass of men, the highest abstract heavenly righteousness is
not only impossible, but would be entirely out of place, and positively
wrong in a world like this. To turn the left cheek if the right be
smitten, is chronometrical; hence, no average son of man ever did such a
thing. To give _all_ that thou hast to the poor, this too is
chronometrical; hence no average son of man ever did such a thing.
Nevertheless, if a man gives with a certain self-considerate generosity
to the poor; abstains from doing downright ill to any man; does his
convenient best in a general way to do good to his whole race; takes
watchful loving care of his wife and children, relatives, and friends;
is perfectly tolerant to all other men's opinions, whatever they may be;
is an honest dealer, an honest citizen, and all that; and more
especially if he believe that there is a God for infidels, as well as
for believers, and acts upon that belief; then, though such a man falls
infinitely short of the chronometrical standard, though all his actions
are entirely horologic;--yet such a man need never lastingly despond,
because he is sometimes guilty of some minor offense:--hasty words,
impulsively returning a blow, fits of domestic petulance, selfish
enjoyment of a glass of wine while he knows there are those around him
who lack a loaf of bread. I say he need never lastingly despond on
account of his perpetual liability to these things; because _not_ to do
them, and their like, would be to be an angel, a chronometer; whereas,
he is a man and a horologe.

"Yet does the horologe itself teach, that all liabilities to these
things should be checked as much as possible, though it is certain they
can never be utterly eradicated. They are only to be checked, then,
because, if entirely unrestrained, they would finally run into utter
selfishness and human demonism, which, as before hinted, are not by any
means justified by the horologe.

"In short, this Chronometrical and Horological conceit, in sum, seems to
teach this:--That in things terrestrial (horological) a man must not be
governed by ideas celestial (chronometrical); that certain minor
self-renunciations in this life his own mere instinct for his own
every-day general well-being will teach him to make, but he must by no
means make a complete unconditional sacrifice of himself in behalf of
any other being, or any cause, or any conceit. (For, does aught else
completely and unconditionally sacrifice itself for him? God's own sun
does not abate one tittle of its heat in July, however you swoon with
that heat in the sun. And if it _did_ abate its heat on your behalf,
then the wheat and the rye would not ripen; and so, for the incidental
benefit of one, a whole population would suffer.)

"A virtuous expediency, then, seems the highest desirable or attainable
earthly excellence for the mass of men, and is the only earthly
excellence that their Creator intended for them. When they go to heaven,
it will be quite another thing. There, they can freely turn the left
cheek, because there the right cheek will never be smitten. There they
can freely give all to the poor, for _there_ there will be no poor to
give to. A due appreciation of this matter will do good to man. For,
hitherto, being authoritatively taught by his dogmatical teachers that
he must, while on earth, aim at heaven, and attain it, too, in all his
earthly acts, on pain of eternal wrath; and finding by experience that
this is utterly impossible; in his despair, he is too apt to run clean
away into all manner of moral abandonment, self-deceit, and hypocrisy
(cloaked, however, mostly under an aspect of the most respectable
devotion); or else he openly runs, like a mad dog, into atheism.
Whereas, let men be taught those Chronometricals and Horologicals, and
while still retaining every common-sense incentive to whatever of virtue
be practicable and desirable, and having these incentives strengthened,
too, by the consciousness of powers to attain their mark; then there
would be an end to that fatal despair of becoming at all good, which has
too often proved the vice-producing result in many minds of the
undiluted chronometrical doctrines hitherto taught to mankind. But if
any man say, that such a doctrine as this I lay down is false, is
impious; I would charitably refer that man to the history of Christendom
for the last 1800 years; and ask him, whether, in spite of all the
maxims of Christ, that history is not just as full of blood, violence,
wrong, and iniquity of every kind, as any previous portion of the
world's story? Therefore, it follows, that so far as practical results
are concerned--regarded in a purely earthly light--the only great
original moral doctrine of Christianity (_i. e._ the chronometrical
gratuitous return of good for evil, as distinguished from the
horological forgiveness of injuries taught by some of the Pagan
philosophers), has been found (horologically) a false one; because after
1800 years' inculcation from tens of thousands of pulpits, it has proved
entirely impracticable.

"I but lay down, then, what the best mortal men do daily practice; and
what all really wicked men are very far removed from. I present
consolation to the earnest man, who, among all his human frailties, is
still agonizingly conscious of the beauty of chronometrical excellence.
I hold up a practicable virtue to the vicious; and interfere not with
the eternal truth, that, sooner or later, in all cases, downright vice
is downright woe.

"Moreover: if----"

But here the pamphlet was torn, and came to a most untidy termination.




BOOK XV.

THE COUSINS.


I.

Though resolved to face all out to the last, at whatever desperate
hazard, Pierre had not started for the city without some reasonable
plans, both with reference to his more immediate circumstances, and his
ulterior condition.

There resided in the city a cousin of his, Glendinning Stanly, better
known in the general family as Glen Stanly, and by Pierre, as Cousin
Glen. Like Pierre, he was an only son; his parents had died in his early
childhood; and within the present year he had returned from a protracted
sojourn in Europe, to enter, at the age of twenty-one, into the
untrammeled possession of a noble property, which in the hands of
faithful guardians, had largely accumulated.

In their boyhood and earlier adolescence, Pierre and Glen had cherished
a much more than cousinly attachment. At the age of ten, they had
furnished an example of the truth, that the friendship of fine-hearted,
generous boys, nurtured amid the romance-engendering comforts and
elegancies of life, sometimes transcends the bounds of mere boyishness,
and revels for a while in the empyrean of a love which only comes short,
by one degree, of the sweetest sentiment entertained between the sexes.
Nor is this boy-love without the occasional fillips and spicinesses,
which at times, by an apparent abatement, enhance the permanent delights
of those more advanced lovers who love beneath the cestus of Venus.
Jealousies are felt. The sight of another lad too much consorting with
the boy's beloved object, shall fill him with emotions akin to those of
Othello's; a fancied slight, or lessening of the every-day indications
of warm feelings, shall prompt him to bitter upbraidings and reproaches;
or shall plunge him into evil moods, for which grim solitude only is
congenial.

Nor are the letters of Aphroditean devotees more charged with headlong
vows and protestations, more cross-written and crammed with discursive
sentimentalities, more undeviating in their semi-weekliness, or
dayliness, as the case may be, than are the love-friendship missives of
boys. Among those bundles of papers which Pierre, in an ill hour, so
frantically destroyed in the chamber of the inn, were two large packages
of letters, densely written, and in many cases inscribed crosswise
throughout with red ink upon black; so that the love in those letters
was two layers deep, and one pen and one pigment were insufficient to
paint it. The first package contained the letters of Glen to Pierre, the
other those of Pierre to Glen, which, just prior to Glen's departure for
Europe, Pierre had obtained from him, in order to re-read them in his
absence, and so fortify himself the more in his affection, by reviving
reference to the young, ardent hours of its earliest manifestations.

But as the advancing fruit itself extrudes the beautiful blossom, so in
many cases, does the eventual love for the other sex forever dismiss the
preliminary love-friendship of boys. The mere outer friendship may in
some degree--greater or less--survive; but the singular love in it has
perishingly dropped away.

If in the eye of unyielding reality and truth, the earthly heart of man
do indeed ever fix upon some one woman, to whom alone, thenceforth
eternally to be a devotee, without a single shadow of the misgiving of
its faith; and who, to him, does perfectly embody his finest, loftiest
dream of feminine loveliness, if this indeed be so--and may Heaven grant
that it be--nevertheless, in metropolitan cases, the love of the most
single-eyed lover, almost invariably, is nothing more than the ultimate
settling of innumerable wandering glances upon some one specific object;
as admonished, that the wonderful scope and variety of female
loveliness, if too long suffered to sway us without decision, shall
finally confound all power of selection. The confirmed bachelor is, in
America, at least, quite as often the victim of a too profound
appreciation of the infinite charmingness of woman, as made solitary for
life by the legitimate empire of a cold and tasteless temperament.

Though the peculiar heart-longings pertaining to his age, had at last
found their glowing response in the bosom of Lucy; yet for some period
prior to that, Pierre had not been insensible to the miscellaneous
promptings of the passion. So that even before he became a declarative
lover, Love had yet made him her general votary; and so already there
had gradually come a cooling over that ardent sentiment which in earlier
years he had cherished for Glen.

All round and round does the world lie as in a sharp-shooter's ambush,
to pick off the beautiful illusions of youth, by the pitiless cracking
rifles of the realities of the age. If the general love for women, had
in Pierre sensibly modified his particular sentiment toward Glen;
neither had the thousand nameless fascinations of the then brilliant
paradises of France and Italy, failed to exert their seductive influence
on many of the previous feelings of Glen. For as the very best
advantages of life are not without some envious drawback, so it is among
the evils of enlarged foreign travel, that in young and unsolid minds,
it dislodges some of the finest feelings of the home-born nature;
replacing them with a fastidious superciliousness, which like the
alledged bigoted Federalism of old times would not--according to a
political legend--grind its daily coffee in any mill save of European
manufacture, and was satirically said to have thought of importing
European air for domestic consumption. The mutually curtailed,
lessening, long-postponed, and at last altogether ceasing letters of
Pierre and Glen were the melancholy attestations of a fact, which
perhaps neither of them took very severely to heart, as certainly,
concerning it, neither took the other to task.

In the earlier periods of that strange transition from the generous
impulsiveness of youth to the provident circumspectness of age, there
generally intervenes a brief pause of unpleasant reconsidering; when
finding itself all wide of its former spontaneous self, the soul
hesitates to commit itself wholly to selfishness; more than repents its
wanderings;--yet all this is but transient; and again hurried on by the
swift current of life, the prompt-hearted boy scarce longer is to be
recognized in matured man,--very slow to feel, deliberate even in love,
and statistical even in piety. During the sway of this peculiar period,
the boy shall still make some strenuous efforts to retrieve his
departing spontaneities; but so alloyed are all such endeavors with the
incipiencies of selfishness, that they were best not made at all; since
too often they seem but empty and self-deceptive sallies, or still
worse, the merest hypocritical assumptions.

Upon the return of Glen from abroad, the commonest courtesy, not to say
the blood-relation between them, prompted Pierre to welcome him home,
with a letter, which though not over-long, and little enthusiastic,
still breathed a spirit of cousinly consideration and kindness,
pervadingly touched by the then naturally frank and all-attractive
spirit of Pierre. To this, the less earnest and now Europeanized Glen
had replied in a letter all sudden suavity; and in a strain of artistic
artlessness, mourned the apparent decline of their friendship; yet
fondly trusted that now, notwithstanding their long separation, it
would revive with added sincerity. Yet upon accidentally fixing his
glance upon the opening salutation of this delicate missive, Pierre
thought he perceived certain, not wholly disguisable chirographic
tokens, that the "My very dear Pierre," with which the letter seemed to
have been begun, had originally been written "Dear Pierre;" but that
when all was concluded, and Glen's signature put to it, then the ardent
words "My very" had been prefixed to the reconsidered "Dear Pierre;" a
casual supposition, which possibly, however unfounded, materially
retarded any answering warmth in Pierre, lest his generous flame should
only embrace a flaunted feather. Nor was this idea altogether
unreinforced, when on the reception of a second, and now half-business
letter (of which mixed sort nearly all the subsequent ones were), from
Glen, he found that the "My very dear Pierre" had already retreated into
"My dear Pierre;" and on a third occasion, into "Dear Pierre;" and on a
fourth, had made a forced and very spirited advanced march up to "My
dearest Pierre." All of which fluctuations augured ill for the
determinateness of that love, which, however immensely devoted to one
cause, could yet hoist and sail under the flags of all nations. Nor
could he but now applaud a still subsequent letter from Glen, which
abruptly, and almost with apparent indecorousness, under the
circumstances, commenced the strain of friendship without any overture
of salutation whatever; as if at last, owing to its infinite
delicateness, entirely hopeless of precisely defining the nature of
their mystical love, Glen chose rather to leave that precise definition
to the sympathetical heart and imagination of Pierre; while he himself
would go on to celebrate the general relation, by many a sugared
sentence of miscellaneous devotion. It was a little curious and rather
sardonically diverting, to compare these masterly, yet not wholly
successful, and indeterminate tactics of the accomplished Glen, with the
unfaltering stream of _Beloved Pierres_, which not only flowed along
the top margin of all his earlier letters, but here and there, from
their subterranean channel, flashed out in bright intervals, through all
the succeeding lines. Nor had the chance recollection of these things at
all restrained the reckless hand of Pierre, when he threw the whole
package of letters, both new and old, into that most honest and summary
of all elements, which is neither a respecter of persons, nor a finical
critic of what manner of writings it burns; but like ultimate Truth
itself, of which it is the eloquent symbol, consumes all, and only
consumes.

When the betrothment of Pierre to Lucy had become an acknowledged thing,
the courtly Glen, besides the customary felicitations upon that event,
had not omitted so fit an opportunity to re-tender to his cousin all his
previous jars of honey and treacle, accompanied by additional boxes of
candied citron and plums. Pierre thanked him kindly; but in certain
little roguish ambiguities begged leave, on the ground of cloying, to
return him inclosed by far the greater portion of his present; whose
non-substantialness was allegorically typified in the containing letter
itself, prepaid with only the usual postage.

True love, as every one knows, will still withstand many repulses, even
though rude. But whether it was the love or the politeness of Glen,
which on this occasion proved invincible, is a matter we will not
discuss. Certain it was, that quite undaunted, Glen nobly returned to
the charge, and in a very prompt and unexpected answer, extended to
Pierre all the courtesies of the general city, and all the hospitalities
of five sumptuous chambers, which he and his luxurious environments
contrived nominally to occupy in the most fashionable private hotel of a
very opulent town. Nor did Glen rest here; but like Napoleon, now seemed
bent upon gaining the battle by throwing all his regiments upon one
point of attack, and gaining that point at all hazards. Hearing of some
rumor at the tables of his relatives that the day was being fixed for
the positive nuptials of Pierre; Glen called all his Parisian
portfolios for his rosiest sheet, and with scented ink, and a pen of
gold, indited a most burnished and redolent letter, which, after
invoking all the blessings of Apollo and Venus, and the Nine Muses, and
the Cardinal Virtues upon the coming event; concluded at last with a
really magnificent testimonial to his love.

According to this letter, among his other real estate in the city, Glen
had inherited a very charming, little, old house, completely furnished
in the style of the last century, in a quarter of the city which, though
now not so garishly fashionable as of yore, still in its quiet
secludedness, possessed great attractions for the retired billings and
cooings of a honeymoon. Indeed he begged leave now to christen it the
Cooery, and if after his wedding jaunt, Pierre would deign to visit the
city with his bride for a month or two's sojourn, then the Cooery would
be but too happy in affording him a harbor. His sweet cousin need be
under no apprehension. Owing to the absence of any fit applicant for it,
the house had now long been without a tenant, save an old, confidential,
bachelor clerk of his father's, who on a nominal rent, and more by way
of safe-keeping to the house than any thing else, was now hanging up his
well-furbished hat in its hall. This accommodating old clerk would
quickly unpeg his beaver at the first hint of new occupants. Glen would
charge himself with supplying the house in advance with a proper retinue
of servants; fires would be made in the long-unoccupied chambers; the
venerable, grotesque, old mahoganies, and marbles, and mirror-frames,
and moldings could be very soon dusted and burnished; the kitchen was
amply provided with the necessary utensils for cooking; the strong box
of old silver immemorially pertaining to the mansion, could be readily
carted round from the vaults of the neighboring Bank; while the hampers
of old china, still retained in the house, needed but little trouble to
unpack; so that silver and china would soon stand assorted in their
appropriate closets; at the turning of a faucet in the cellar, the best
of the city's water would not fail to contribute its ingredient to the
concocting of a welcoming glass of negus before retiring on the first
night of their arrival.

The over-fastidiousness of some unhealthily critical minds, as well as
the moral pusillanimity of others, equally bars the acceptance of
effectually substantial favors from persons whose motive in proffering
them, is not altogether clear and unimpeachable; and toward whom,
perhaps, some prior coolness or indifference has been shown. But when
the acceptance of such a favor would be really convenient and desirable
to the one party, and completely unattended with any serious distress to
the other; there would seem to be no sensible objection to an immediate
embrace of the offer. And when the acceptor is in rank and fortune the
general equal of the profferer, and perhaps his superior, so that any
courtesy he receives, can be amply returned in the natural course of
future events, then all motives to decline are very materially lessened.
And as for the thousand inconceivable finicalnesses of small pros and
cons about imaginary fitnesses, and proprieties, and self-consistencies;
thank heaven, in the hour of heart-health, none such shilly-shallying
sail-trimmers ever balk the onward course of a bluff-minded man. He
takes the world as it is; and carelessly accommodates himself to its
whimsical humors; nor ever feels any compunction at receiving the
greatest possible favors from those who are as able to grant, as free to
bestow. He himself bestows upon occasion; so that, at bottom, common
charity steps in to dictate a favorable consideration for all possible
profferings; seeing that the acceptance shall only the more enrich him,
indirectly, for new and larger beneficences of his own.

And as for those who noways pretend with themselves to regulate their
deportment by considerations of genuine benevolence, and to whom such
courteous profferings hypocritically come from persons whom they suspect
for secret enemies; then to such minds not only will their own worldly
tactics at once forbid the uncivil blank repulse of such offers; but if
they are secretly malicious as well as frigid, or if they are at all
capable of being fully gratified by the sense of concealed superiority
and mastership (which precious few men are) then how delightful for such
persons under the guise of mere acquiescence in his own voluntary
civilities, to make genteel use of their foe. For one would like to
know, what were foes made for except to be used? In the rude ages men
hunted and javelined the tiger, because they hated him for a
mischief-minded wild-beast; but in these enlightened times, though we
love the tiger as little as ever, still we mostly hunt him for the sake
of his skin. A wise man then will wear his tiger; every morning put on
his tiger for a robe to keep him warm and adorn him. In this view, foes
are far more desirable than friends; for who would hunt and kill his own
faithful affectionate dog for the sake of his skin? and is a dog's skin
as valuable as a tiger's? Cases there are where it becomes soberly
advisable, by direct arts to convert some well-wishers into foes. It is
false that in point of policy a man should never make enemies. As
well-wishers some men may not only be nugatory but positive obstacles in
your peculiar plans; but as foes you may subordinately cement them into
your general design.

But into these ulterior refinements of cool Tuscan policy, Pierre as yet
had never become initiated; his experiences hitherto not having been
varied and ripe enough for that; besides, he had altogether too much
generous blood in his heart. Nevertheless, thereafter, in a less
immature hour, though still he shall not have the heart to practice upon
such maxims as the above, yet shall he have the brain thoroughly to
comprehend their practicability; which is not always the case. And
generally, in worldly wisdom, men will deny to one the possession of all
insight, which one does not by his every-day outward life practically
reveal. It is a very common error of some unscrupulously
infidel-minded, selfish, unprincipled, or downright knavish men, to
suppose that believing men, or benevolent-hearted men, or good men, do
not know enough to be unscrupulously selfish, do not know enough to be
unscrupulous knaves. And thus--thanks to the world!--are there many
spies in the world's camp, who are mistaken for strolling simpletons.
And these strolling simpletons seem to act upon the principle, that in
certain things, we do not so much learn, by showing that already we know
a vast deal, as by negatively seeming rather ignorant. But here we press
upon the frontiers of that sort of wisdom, which it is very well to
possess, but not sagacious to show that you possess. Still, men there
are, who having quite done with the world, all its mere worldly contents
are become so far indifferent, that they care little of what mere
worldly imprudence they may be guilty.

Now, if it were not conscious considerations like the really benevolent
or neutral ones first mentioned above, it was certainly something akin
to them, which had induced Pierre to return a straightforward, manly,
and entire acceptance to his cousin of the offer of the house; thanking
him, over and over, for his most supererogatory kindness concerning the
pre-engagement of servants and so forth, and the setting in order of the
silver and china; but reminding him, nevertheless, that he had
overlooked all special mention of wines, and begged him to store the
bins with a few of the very best brands. He would likewise be obliged,
if he would personally purchase at a certain celebrated grocer's, a
small bag of undoubted Mocha coffee; but Glen need not order it to be
roasted or ground, because Pierre preferred that both those highly
important and flavor-deciding operations should be performed
instantaneously previous to the final boiling and serving. Nor did he
say that he would pay for the wines and the Mocha; he contented himself
with merely stating the remissness on the part of his cousin, and
pointing out the best way of remedying it.

He concluded his letter by intimating that though the rumor of a set
day, and a near one, for his nuptials, was unhappily but ill-founded,
yet he would not hold Glen's generous offer as merely based upon that
presumption, and consequently falling with it; but on the contrary,
would consider it entirely good for whatever time it might prove
available to Pierre. He was betrothed beyond a peradventure; and hoped
to be married ere death. Meanwhile, Glen would further oblige him by
giving the confidential clerk a standing notice to quit.

Though at first quite amazed at this letter,--for indeed, his offer
might possibly have proceeded as much from ostentation as any thing
else, nor had he dreamed of so unhesitating an acceptance,--Pierre's
cousin was too much of a precocious young man of the world, disclosedly
to take it in any other than a very friendly, and cousinly, and
humorous, and yet practical way; which he plainly evinced by a reply far
more sincere and every way creditable, apparently, both to his heart and
head, than any letter he had written to Pierre since the days of their
boyhood. And thus, by the bluffness and, in some sort,
uncompunctuousness of Pierre, this very artificial youth was well
betrayed into an act of effective kindness; being forced now to drop the
empty mask of ostentation, and put on the solid hearty features of a
genuine face. And just so, are some people in the world to be joked into
occasional effective goodness, when all coyness, and coolness, all
resentments, and all solemn preaching, would fail.


II.

But little would we comprehend the peculiar relation between Pierre and
Glen--a relation involving in the end the most serious results--were
there not here thrown over the whole equivocal, preceding account of it,
another and more comprehensive equivocalness, which shall absorb all
minor ones in itself; and so make one pervading ambiguity the only
possible explanation for all the ambiguous details.

It had long been imagined by Pierre, that prior to his own special
devotion to Lucy, the splendid Glen had not been entirely insensible to
her surprising charms. Yet this conceit in its incipiency, he knew not
how to account for. Assuredly his cousin had never in the slightest
conceivable hint betrayed it; and as for Lucy, the same intuitive
delicacy which forever forbade Pierre to question her on the subject,
did equally close her own voluntary lips. Between Pierre and Lucy,
delicateness put her sacred signet on this chest of secrecy; which like
the wax of an executor upon a desk, though capable of being melted into
nothing by the smallest candle, for all this, still possesses to the
reverent the prohibitive virtue of inexorable bars and bolts.

If Pierre superficially considered the deportment of Glen toward him,
therein he could find no possible warrant for indulging the suspicious
idea. Doth jealousy smile so benignantly and offer its house to the
bride? Still, on the other hand, to quit the mere surface of the
deportment of Glen, and penetrate beneath its brocaded vesture; there
Pierre sometimes seemed to see the long-lurking and yet unhealed wound
of all a rejected lover's most rankling detestation of a supplanting
rival, only intensified by their former friendship, and the unimpairable
blood-relation between them. Now, viewed by the light of this
master-solution, all the singular enigmas in Glen; his capriciousness in
the matter of the epistolary--"Dear Pierres" and "Dearest Pierres;" the
mercurial fall from the fever-heat of cordiality, to below the Zero of
indifference; then the contrary rise to fever-heat; and, above all, his
emphatic redundancy of devotion so soon as the positive espousals of
Pierre seemed on the point of consummation; thus read, all these riddles
apparently found their cunning solution. For the deeper that some men
feel a secret and poignant feeling, the higher they pile the belying
surfaces. The friendly deportment of Glen then was to be considered as
in direct proportion to his hoarded hate; and the climax of that hate
was evinced in throwing open his house to the bride. Yet if hate was the
abstract cause, hate could not be the immediate motive of the conduct of
Glen. Is hate so hospitable? The immediate motive of Glen then must be
the intense desire to disguise from the wide world, a fact unspeakably
humiliating to his gold-laced and haughty soul: the fact that in the
profoundest desire of his heart, Pierre had so victoriously supplanted
him. Yet was it that very artful deportment in Glen, which Glen
profoundly assumed to this grand end; that consummately artful
deportment it was, which first obtruded upon Pierre the surmise, which
by that identical method his cousin was so absorbedly intent upon
rendering impossible to him. Hence we here see that as in the negative
way the secrecy of any strong emotion is exceedingly difficult to be
kept lastingly private to one's own bosom by any human being; so it is
one of the most fruitless undertakings in the world, to attempt by
affirmative assumptions to tender to men, the precisely opposite emotion
as yours. Therefore the final wisdom decrees, that if you have aught
which you desire to keep a secret to yourself, be a Quietist there, and
do and say nothing at all about it. For among all the poor chances, this
is the least poor. Pretensions and substitutions are only the recourse
of under-graduates in the science of the world; in which science, on his
own ground, my Lord Chesterfield, is the poorest possible preceptor. The
earliest instinct of the child, and the ripest experience of age, unite
in affirming simplicity to be the truest and profoundest part for man.
Likewise this simplicity is so universal and all-containing as a rule
for human life, that the subtlest bad man, and the purest good man, as
well as the profoundest wise man, do all alike present it on that side
which they socially turn to the inquisitive and unscrupulous world.


III.

Now the matter of the house had remained in precisely the above-stated
awaiting predicament, down to the time of Pierre's great
life-revolution, the receipt of Isabel's letter. And though, indeed,
Pierre could not but naturally hesitate at still accepting the use of
the dwelling, under the widely different circumstances in which he now
found himself; and though at first the strongest possible spontaneous
objections on the ground of personal independence, pride, and general
scorn, all clamorously declared in his breast against such a course;
yet, finally, the same uncompunctuous, ever-adaptive sort of motive
which had induced his original acceptation, prompted him, in the end,
still to maintain it unrevoked. It would at once set him at rest from
all immediate tribulations of mere bed and board; and by affording him a
shelter, for an indefinite term, enable him the better to look about
him, and consider what could best be done to further the permanent
comfort of those whom Fate had intrusted to his charge.

Irrespective, it would seem, of that wide general awaking of his
profounder being, consequent upon the extraordinary trials he had so
aggregatively encountered of late; the thought was indignantly suggested
to him, that the world must indeed be organically despicable, if it held
that an offer, superfluously accepted in the hour of his abundance,
should now, be rejected in that of his utmost need. And without at all
imputing any singularity of benevolent-mindedness to his cousin, he did
not for a moment question, that under the changed aspect of affairs,
Glen would at least pretend the more eagerly to welcome him to the
house, now that the mere thing of apparent courtesy had become
transformed into something like a thing of positive and urgent
necessity. When Pierre also considered that not himself only was
concerned, but likewise two peculiarly helpless fellow-beings, one of
them bound to him from the first by the most sacred ties, and lately
inspiring an emotion which passed all human precedent in its mixed and
mystical import; these added considerations completely overthrew in
Pierre all remaining dictates of his vague pride and false independence,
if such indeed had ever been his.

Though the interval elapsing between his decision to depart with his
companions for the city, and his actual start in the coach, had not
enabled him to receive any replying word from his cousin; and though
Pierre knew better than to expect it; yet a preparative letter to him he
had sent; and did not doubt that this proceeding would prove
well-advised in the end.

In naturally strong-minded men, however young and inexperienced in some
things, those great and sudden emergencies, which but confound the timid
and the weak, only serve to call forth all their generous latentness,
and teach them, as by inspiration, extraordinary maxims of conduct,
whose counterpart, in other men, is only the result of a long,
variously-tried and pains-taking life. One of those maxims is, that
when, through whatever cause, we are suddenly translated from opulence
to need, or from a fair fame to a foul; and straightway it becomes
necessary not to contradict the thing--so far at least as the mere
imputation goes,--to some one previously entertaining high conventional
regard for us, and from whom we would now solicit some genuine helping
offices; then, all explanation or palation should be scorned;
promptness, boldness, utter gladiatorianism, and a defiant non-humility
should mark every syllable we breathe, and every line we trace.

The preparative letter of Pierre to Glen, plunged at once into the very
heart of the matter, and was perhaps the briefest letter he had ever
written him. Though by no means are such characteristics invariable
exponents of the predominant mood or general disposition of a man (since
so accidental a thing as a numb finger, or a bad quill, or poor ink, or
squalid paper, or a rickety desk may produce all sorts of
modifications), yet in the present instance, the handwriting of Pierre
happened plainly to attest and corroborate the spirit of his
communication. The sheet was large; but the words were placarded upon it
in heavy though rapid lines, only six or eight to the page. And as the
footman of a haughty visitor--some Count or Duke--announces the chariot
of his lord by a thunderous knock on the portal; so to Glen did Pierre,
in the broad, sweeping, and prodigious superscription of his letter,
forewarn him what manner of man was on the road.

In the moment of strong feeling a wonderful condensativeness points the
tongue and pen; so that ideas, then enunciated sharp and quick as
minute-guns, in some other hour of unruffledness or unstimulatedness,
require considerable time and trouble to verbally recall.

Not here and now can we set down the precise contents of Pierre's
letter, without a tautology illy doing justice to the ideas themselves.
And though indeed the dread of tautology be the continual torment of
some earnest minds, and, as such, is surely a weakness in them; and
though no wise man will wonder at conscientious Virgil all eager at
death to burn his Æniad for a monstrous heap of inefficient superfluity;
yet not to dread tautology at times only belongs to those enviable
dunces, whom the partial God hath blessed, over all the earth, with the
inexhaustible self-riches of vanity, and folly, and a blind
self-complacency.

Some rumor of the discontinuance of his betrothment to Lucy Tartan; of
his already consummated marriage with a poor and friendless orphan; of
his mother's disowning him consequent upon these events; such rumors,
Pierre now wrote to his cousin, would very probably, in the parlors of
his city-relatives and acquaintances, precede his arrival in town. But
he hinted no word of any possible commentary on these things. He simply
went on to say, that now, through the fortune of life--which was but
the proverbially unreliable fortune of war--he was, for the present,
thrown entirely upon his own resources, both for his own support and
that of his wife, as well as for the temporary maintenance of a girl,
whom he had lately had excellent reason for taking under his especial
protection. He proposed a permanent residence in the city; not without
some nearly quite settled plans as to the procuring of a competent
income, without any ulterior reference to any member of their wealthy
and widely ramified family. The house, whose temporary occupancy Glen
had before so handsomely proffered him, would now be doubly and trebly
desirable to him. But the pre-engaged servants, and the old china, and
the old silver, and the old wines, and the Mocha, were now become
altogether unnecessary. Pierre would merely take the place--for a short
interval--of the worthy old clerk; and, so far as Glen was concerned,
simply stand guardian of the dwelling, till his plans were matured. His
cousin had originally made his most bounteous overture, to welcome the
coming of the presumed bride of Pierre; and though another lady had now
taken her place at the altar, yet Pierre would still regard the offer of
Glen as impersonal in that respect, and bearing equal reference to any
young lady, who should prove her claim to the possessed hand of Pierre.

Since there was no universal law of opinion in such matters, Glen, on
general worldly grounds, might not consider the real Mrs. Glendinning
altogether so suitable a match for Pierre, as he possibly might have
held numerous other young ladies in his eye: nevertheless, Glen would
find her ready to return with sincerity all his cousinly regard and
attention. In conclusion, Pierre said, that he and his party meditated
an immediate departure, and would very probably arrive in town in
eight-and-forty hours after the mailing of the present letter. He
therefore begged Glen to see the more indispensable domestic appliances
of the house set in some little order against their arrival; to have
the rooms aired and lighted; and also forewarn the confidential clerk of
what he might soon expect. Then, without any tapering sequel
of--"_Yours, very truly and faithfully, my dear Cousin Glen_," he
finished the letter with the abrupt and isolated signature
of--"PIERRE."




BOOK XVI.

FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY.


I.

The stage was belated.

The country road they traveled entered the city by a remarkably wide and
winding street, a great thoroughfare for its less opulent inhabitants.
There was no moon and few stars. It was that preluding hour of the night
when the shops are just closing, and the aspect of almost every
wayfarer, as he passes through the unequal light reflected from the
windows, speaks of one hurrying not abroad, but homeward. Though the
thoroughfare was winding, yet no sweep that it made greatly obstructed
its long and imposing vista; so that when the coach gained the top of
the long and very gradual slope running toward the obscure heart of the
town, and the twinkling perspective of two long and parallel rows of
lamps was revealed--lamps which seemed not so much intended to dispel
the general gloom, as to show some dim path leading through it, into
some gloom still deeper beyond--when the coach gained this critical
point, the whole vast triangular town, for a moment, seemed dimly and
despondently to capitulate to the eye.

And now, ere descending the gradually-sloping declivity, and just on its
summit as it were, the inmates of the coach, by numerous hard, painful
joltings, and ponderous, dragging trundlings, are suddenly made sensible
of some great change in the character of the road. The coach seems
rolling over cannon-balls of all calibers. Grasping Pierre's arm, Isabel
eagerly and forebodingly demands what is the cause of this most strange
and unpleasant transition.

"The pavements, Isabel; this is the town."

Isabel was silent.

But, the first time for many weeks, Delly voluntarily spoke:

"It feels not so soft as the green sward, Master Pierre."

"No, Miss Ulver," said Pierre, very bitterly, "the buried hearts of some
dead citizens have perhaps come to the surface."

"Sir?" said Delly.

"And are they so hard-hearted here?" asked Isabel.

"Ask yonder pavements, Isabel. Milk dropt from the milkman's can in
December, freezes not more quickly on those stones, than does snow-white
innocence, if in poverty, it chance to fall in these streets."

"Then God help my hard fate, Master Pierre," sobbed Delly. "Why didst
thou drag hither a poor outcast like me?"

"Forgive me, Miss Ulver," exclaimed Pierre, with sudden warmth, and yet
most marked respect; "forgive me; never yet have I entered the city by
night, but, somehow, it made me feel both bitter and sad. Come, be
cheerful, we shall soon be comfortably housed, and have our comfort all
to ourselves; the old clerk I spoke to you about, is now doubtless
ruefully eying his hat on the peg. Come, cheer up, Isabel;--'tis a long
ride, but here we are, at last. Come! 'Tis not very far now to our
welcome."

"I hear a strange shuffling and clattering," said Delly, with a shudder.

"It does not seem so light as just now," said Isabel.

"Yes," returned Pierre, "it is the shop-shutters being put on; it is the
locking, and bolting, and barring of windows and doors; the
town's-people are going to their rest."

"Please God they may find it!" sighed Delly.

"They lock and bar out, then, when they rest, do they, Pierre?" said
Isabel.

"Yes, and you were thinking that does not bode well for the welcome I
spoke of."

"Thou read'st all my soul; yes, I was thinking of that. But whither lead
these long, narrow, dismal side-glooms we pass every now and then? What
are they? They seem terribly still. I see scarce any body in
them;--there's another, now. See how haggardly look its criss-cross,
far-separate lamps.--What are these side-glooms, dear Pierre; whither
lead they?"

"They are the thin tributaries, sweet Isabel, to the great Oronoco
thoroughfare we are in; and like true tributaries, they come from the
far-hidden places; from under dark beetling secrecies of mortar and
stone; through the long marsh-grasses of villainy, and by many a
transplanted bough-beam, where the wretched have hung."

"I know nothing of these things, Pierre. But I like not the town.
Think'st thou, Pierre, the time will ever come when all the earth shall
be paved?"

"Thank God, that never can be!"

"These silent side-glooms are horrible;--look! Methinks, not for the
world would I turn into one."

That moment the nigh fore-wheel sharply grated under the body of the
coach.

"Courage!" cried Pierre, "we are in it!--Not so very solitary either;
here comes a traveler."

"Hark, what is that?" said Delly, "that keen iron-ringing sound? It
passed us just now."

"The keen traveler," said Pierre, "he has steel plates to his
boot-heels;--some tender-souled elder son, I suppose."

"Pierre," said Isabel, "this silence is unnatural, is fearful. The
forests are never so still."

"Because brick and mortar have deeper secrets than wood or fell, sweet
Isabel. But here we turn again; now if I guess right, two more turns
will bring us to the door. Courage, all will be well; doubtless he has
prepared a famous supper. Courage, Isabel. Come, shall it be tea or
coffee? Some bread, or crisp toast? We'll have eggs, too; and some cold
chicken, perhaps."--Then muttering to himself--"I hope not that, either;
no cold collations! there's too much of that in these paving-stones
here, set out for the famishing beggars to eat. No. I won't have the
cold chicken." Then aloud--"But here we turn again; yes, just as I
thought. Ho, driver!" (thrusting his head out of the window) "to the
right! to the right! it should be on the right! the first house with a
light on the right!"

"No lights yet but the street's," answered the surly voice of the
driver.

"Stupid! he has passed it--yes, yes--he has! Ho! ho! stop; turn back.
Have you not passed lighted windows?"

"No lights but the street's," was the rough reply. "What's the number?
the number? Don't keep me beating about here all night! The number, I
say!"

"I do not know it," returned Pierre; "but I well know the house; you
must have passed it, I repeat. You must turn back. Surely you have
passed lighted windows?"

"Then them lights must burn black; there's no lighted windows in the
street; I knows the city; old maids lives here, and they are all to bed;
rest is warehouses."

"Will you stop the coach, or not?" cried Pierre, now incensed at his
surliness in continuing to drive on.

"I obeys orders: the first house with a light; and 'cording to my
reck'ning--though to be sure, I don't know nothing of the city where I
was born and bred all my life--no, I knows nothing at all about
it--'cording to my reck'ning, the first light in this here street will
be the watch-house of the ward--yes, there it is--all right! cheap
lodgings ye've engaged--nothing to pay, and wictuals in."

To certain temperaments, especially when previously agitated by any deep
feeling, there is perhaps nothing more exasperating, and which sooner
explodes all self-command, than the coarse, jeering insolence of a
porter, cabman, or hack-driver. Fetchers and carriers of the worst city
infamy as many of them are; professionally familiar with the most
abandoned haunts; in the heart of misery, they drive one of the most
mercenary of all the trades of guilt. Day-dozers and sluggards on their
lazy boxes in the sunlight, and felinely wakeful and cat-eyed in the
dark; most habituated to midnight streets, only trod by sneaking
burglars, wantons, and debauchees; often in actual pandering league with
the most abhorrent sinks; so that they are equally solicitous and
suspectful that every customer they encounter in the dark, will prove a
profligate or a knave; this hideous tribe of ogres, and Charon ferry-men
to corruption and death, naturally slide into the most practically
Calvinistical view of humanity, and hold every man at bottom a fit
subject for the coarsest ribaldry and jest; only fine coats and full
pockets can whip such mangy hounds into decency. The least impatience,
any quickness of temper, a sharp remonstrating word from a customer in a
seedy coat, or betraying any other evidence of poverty, however minute
and indirect (for in that pecuniary respect they are the most piercing
and infallible of all the judgers of men), will be almost sure to
provoke, in such cases, their least endurable disdain.

Perhaps it was the unconscious transfer to the stage-driver of some such
ideas as these, which now prompted the highly irritated Pierre to an
act, which, in a more benignant hour, his better reason would have
restrained him from.

He did not see the light to which the driver had referred; and was
heedless, in his sudden wrath, that the coach was now going slower in
approaching it. Ere Isabel could prevent him, he burst open the door,
and leaping to the pavement, sprang ahead of the horses, and violently
reined back the leaders by their heads. The driver seized his
four-in-hand whip, and with a volley of oaths was about striking out its
long, coiling lash at Pierre, when his arm was arrested by a policeman,
who suddenly leaping on the stayed coach, commanded him to keep the
peace.

"Speak! what is the difficulty here? Be quiet, ladies, nothing serious
has happened. Speak you!"

"Pierre! Pierre!" cried the alarmed Isabel. In an instant Pierre was at
her side by the window; and now turning to the officer, explained to him
that the driver had persisted in passing the house at which he was
ordered to stop.

"Then he shall turn to the right about with you, sir;--in double quick
time too; do ye hear? I know you rascals well enough. Turn about, you
sir, and take the gentleman where he directed."

The cowed driver was beginning a long string of criminating
explanations, when turning to Pierre, the policeman calmly desired him
to re-enter the coach; he would see him safely at his destination; and
then seating himself beside the driver on the box, commanded him to tell
the number given him by the gentleman.

"He don't know no numbers--didn't I say he didn't--that's what I got mad
about."

"Be still"--said the officer. "Sir"--turning round and addressing Pierre
within; "where do you wish to go?"

"I do not know the number, but it is a house in this street; we have
passed it; it is, I think, the fourth or fifth house this side of the
last corner we turned. It must be lighted up too. It is the small
old-fashioned dwelling with stone lion-heads above the windows. But make
him turn round, and drive slowly, and I will soon point it out."

"Can't see lions in the dark"--growled the driver--"lions; ha! ha!
jackasses more likely!"

"Look you," said the officer, "I shall see you tightly housed this
night, my fine fellow, if you don't cease your jabber. Sir," he added,
resuming with Pierre, "I am sure there is some mistake here. I perfectly
well know now the house you mean. I passed it within the last half-hour;
all as quiet there as ever. No one lives there, I think; I never saw a
light in it. Are you not mistaken in something, then?"

Pierre paused in perplexity and foreboding. Was it possible that Glen
had willfully and utterly neglected his letter? Not possible. But it
might not have come to his hand; the mails sometimes delayed. Then
again, it was not wholly out of the question, that the house was
prepared for them after all, even though it showed no outward sign. But
that was not probable. At any rate, as the driver protested, that his
four horses and lumbering vehicle could not turn short round in that
street; and that if he must go back, it could only be done by driving
on, and going round the block, and so retracing his road; and as after
such a procedure, on his part, then in case of a confirmed
disappointment respecting the house, the driver would seem warranted, at
least in some of his unmannerliness; and as Pierre loathed the villain
altogether, therefore, in order to run no such risks, he came to a
sudden determination on the spot.

"I owe you very much, my good friend," said he to the officer, "for your
timely assistance. To be frank, what you have just told me has indeed
perplexed me not a little concerning the place where I proposed to stop.
Is there no hotel in this neighborhood, where I could leave these ladies
while I seek my friend?"

Wonted to all manner of deceitfulness, and engaged in a calling which
unavoidably makes one distrustful of mere appearances, however specious,
however honest; the really good-hearted officer, now eyed Pierre in the
dubious light with a most unpleasant scrutiny; and he abandoned the
"Sir," and the tone of his voice sensibly changed, as he
replied:--"There is no hotel in this neighborhood; it is too off the
thoroughfares."

"Come! come!"--cried the driver, now growing bold again--"though you're
an officer, I'm a citizen for all that. You haven't any further right to
keep me out of my bed now. He don't know where he wants to go to, cause
he haint got no place at all to go to; so I'll just dump him here, and
you dar'n't stay me."

"Don't be impertinent now," said the officer, but not so sternly as
before.

"I'll have my rights though, I tell you that! Leave go of my arm; damn
ye, get off the box; I've the law now. I say mister, come tramp, here
goes your luggage," and so saying he dragged toward him a light trunk on
the top of the stage.

"Keep a clean tongue in ye now"--said the officer--"and don't be in
quite so great a hurry," then addressing Pierre, who had now re-alighted
from the coach--"Well, this can't continue; what do you intend to do?"

"Not to ride further with that man, at any rate," said Pierre; "I will
stop right here for the present."

"He! he!" laughed the driver; "he! he! 'mazing 'commodating now--we
hitches now, we do--stops right afore the watch-house--he! he!--that's
funny!"

"Off with the luggage then, driver," said the policeman--"here hand the
small trunk, and now away and unlash there behind."

During all this scene, Delly had remained perfectly silent in her
trembling and rustic alarm; while Isabel, by occasional cries to Pierre,
had vainly besought some explanation. But though their complete
ignorance of city life had caused Pierre's two companions to regard the
scene thus far with too much trepidation; yet now, when in the
obscurity of night, and in the heart of a strange town, Pierre handed
them out of the coach into the naked street, and they saw their luggage
piled so near the white light of a watch-house, the same ignorance, in
some sort, reversed its effects on them; for they little fancied in what
really untoward and wretched circumstances they first touched the
flagging of the city.

As the coach lumbered off, and went rolling into the wide murkiness
beyond, Pierre spoke to the officer.

"It is a rather strange accident, I confess, my friend, but strange
accidents will sometimes happen."

"In the best of families," rejoined the other, a little ironically.

Now, I must not quarrel with this man, thought Pierre to himself, stung
at the officer's tone. Then said:--"Is there any one in your--office?"

"No one as yet--not late enough."

"Will you have the kindness then to house these ladies there for the
present, while I make haste to provide them with better lodgment? Lead
on, if you please."

The man seemed to hesitate a moment, but finally acquiesced; and soon
they passed under the white light, and entered a large, plain, and most
forbidding-looking room, with hacked wooden benches and bunks ranged
along the sides, and a railing before a desk in one corner. The
permanent keeper of the place was quietly reading a paper by the long
central double bat's-wing gas-light; and three officers off duty were
nodding on a bench.

"Not very liberal accommodations"--said the officer, quietly; "nor
always the best of company, but we try to be civil. Be seated, ladies,"
politely drawing a small bench toward them.

"Hallo, my friends," said Pierre, approaching the nodding three beyond,
and tapping them on the shoulder--"Hallo, I say! Will you do me a little
favor? Will you help bring some trunks in from the street? I will
satisfy you for your trouble, and be much obliged into the bargain."

Instantly the three noddies, used to sudden awakenings, opened their
eyes, and stared hard; and being further enlightened by the bat's-wings
and first officer, promptly brought in the luggage as desired.

Pierre hurriedly sat down by Isabel, and in a few words gave her to
understand, that she was now in a perfectly secure place, however
unwelcoming; that the officers would take every care of her, while he
made all possible speed in running to the house, and indubitably
ascertaining how matters stood there. He hoped to be back in less than
ten minutes with good tidings. Explaining his intention to the first
officer, and begging him not to leave the girls till he should return,
he forthwith sallied into the street. He quickly came to the house, and
immediately identified it. But all was profoundly silent and dark. He
rang the bell, but no answer; and waiting long enough to be certain,
that either the house was indeed deserted, or else the old clerk was
unawakeable or absent; and at all events, certain that no slightest
preparation had been made for their arrival; Pierre, bitterly
disappointed, returned to Isabel with this most unpleasant information.

Nevertheless something must be done, and quickly. Turning to one of the
officers, he begged him to go and seek a hack, that the whole party
might be taken to some respectable lodging. But the man, as well as his
comrades, declined the errand on the score, that there was no stand on
their beat, and they could not, on any account, leave their beat. So
Pierre himself must go. He by no means liked to leave Isabel and Delly
again, on an expedition which might occupy some time. But there seemed
no resource, and time now imperiously pressed. Communicating his
intention therefore to Isabel, and again entreating the officer's
particular services as before, and promising not to leave him
unrequited; Pierre again sallied out. He looked up and down the street,
and listened; but no sound of any approaching vehicle was audible. He
ran on, and turning the first corner, bent his rapid steps toward the
greatest and most central avenue of the city, assured that there, if
anywhere, he would find what he wanted. It was some distance off; and he
was not without hope that an empty hack would meet him ere he arrived
there. But the few stray ones he encountered had all muffled fares. He
continued on, and at last gained the great avenue. Not habitually used
to such scenes, Pierre for a moment was surprised, that the instant he
turned out of the narrow, and dark, and death-like bye-street, he should
find himself suddenly precipitated into the not-yet-repressed noise and
contention, and all the garish night-life of a vast thoroughfare,
crowded and wedged by day, and even now, at this late hour, brilliant
with occasional illuminations, and echoing to very many swift wheels and
footfalls.


II.

"I say, my pretty one! Dear! Dear! young man! Oh, love, you are in a
vast hurry, aint you? Can't you stop a bit, now, my dear: do--there's a
sweet fellow."

Pierre turned; and in the flashing, sinister, evil cross-lights of a
druggist's window, his eye caught the person of a wonderfully
beautifully-featured girl; scarlet-cheeked, glaringly-arrayed, and of a
figure all natural grace but unnatural vivacity. Her whole form,
however, was horribly lit by the green and yellow rays from the
druggist's.

"My God!" shuddered Pierre, hurrying forward, "the town's first welcome
to youth!"

He was just crossing over to where a line of hacks were drawn up
against the opposite curb, when his eye was arrested by a short, gilded
name, rather reservedly and aristocratically denominating a large and
very handsome house, the second story of which was profusely lighted. He
looked up, and was very certain that in this house were the apartments
of Glen. Yielding to a sudden impulse, he mounted the single step toward
the door, and rang the bell, which was quickly responded to by a very
civil black.

As the door opened, he heard the distant interior sound of dancing-music
and merriment.

"Is Mr. Stanly in?"

"Mr. Stanly? Yes, but he's engaged."

"How?"

"He is somewhere in the drawing rooms. My mistress is giving a party to
the lodgers."

"Ay? Tell Mr. Stanly I wish to see him for one moment if you please;
only one moment."

"I dare not call him, sir. He said that possibly some one might call for
him to-night--they are calling every night for Mr. Stanly--but I must
admit no one, on the plea of the party."

A dark and bitter suspicion now darted through the mind of Pierre; and
ungovernably yielding to it, and resolved to prove or falsify it without
delay, he said to the black:

"My business is pressing. I must see Mr. Stanly."

"I am sorry, sir, but orders are orders: I am his particular servant
here--the one that sees his silver every holyday. I can't disobey him.
May I shut the door, sir? for as it is, I can not admit you."

"The drawing-rooms are on the second floor, are they not?" said Pierre
quietly.

"Yes," said the black pausing in surprise, and holding the door.

"Yonder are the stairs, I think?"

"That way, sir; but this is yours;" and the now suspicious black was
just on the point of closing the portal violently upon him, when Pierre
thrust him suddenly aside, and springing up the long stairs, found
himself facing an open door, from whence proceeded a burst of combined
brilliancy and melody, doubly confusing to one just emerged from the
street. But bewildered and all demented as he momentarily felt, he
instantly stalked in, and confounded the amazed company with his
unremoved slouched hat, pale cheek, and whole dusty, travel-stained, and
ferocious aspect.

"Mr. Stanly! where is Mr. Stanly?" he cried, advancing straight through
a startled quadrille, while all the music suddenly hushed, and every eye
was fixed in vague affright upon him.

"Mr. Stanly! Mr. Stanly!" cried several bladish voices, toward the
further end of the further drawing-room, into which the first one widely
opened, "Here is a most peculiar fellow after you; who the devil is he?"

"I think I see him," replied a singularly cool, deliberate, and rather
drawling voice, yet a very silvery one, and at bottom perhaps a very
resolute one; "I think I see him; stand aside, my good fellow, will you;
ladies, remove, remove from between me and yonder hat."

The polite compliance of the company thus addressed, now revealed to the
advancing Pierre, the tall, robust figure of a remarkably
splendid-looking, and brown-bearded young man, dressed with surprising
plainness, almost demureness, for such an occasion; but this plainness
of his dress was not so obvious at first, the material was so fine, and
admirably fitted. He was carelessly lounging in a half side-long
attitude upon a large sofa, and appeared as if but just interrupted in
some very agreeable chat with a diminutive but vivacious brunette,
occupying the other end. The dandy and the man; strength and effeminacy;
courage and indolence, were so strangely blended in this superb-eyed
youth, that at first sight, it seemed impossible to decide whether there
was any genuine mettle in him, or not.

Some years had gone by since the cousins had met; years peculiarly
productive of the greatest conceivable changes in the general personal
aspect of human beings. Nevertheless, the eye seldom alters. The instant
their eyes met, they mutually recognized each other. But both did not
betray the recognition.

"Glen!" cried Pierre, and paused a few steps from him.

But the superb-eyed only settled himself lower down in his lounging
attitude, and slowly withdrawing a small, unpretending, and unribboned
glass from his vest pocket, steadily, yet not entirely insultingly,
notwithstanding the circumstances, scrutinized Pierre. Then, dropping
his glass, turned slowly round upon the gentlemen near him, saying in
the same peculiar, mixed, and musical voice as before:

"I do not know him; it is an entire mistake; why don't the servants take
him out, and the music go on?---- As I was saying, Miss Clara, the
statues you saw in the Louvre are not to be mentioned with those in
Florence and Rome. Why, there now is that vaunted _chef d'oeuvre_, the
Fighting Gladiator of the Louvre----"

"Fighting Gladiator it is!" yelled Pierre, leaping toward him like
Spartacus. But the savage impulse in him was restrained by the alarmed
female shrieks and wild gestures around him. As he paused, several
gentlemen made motions to pinion him; but shaking them off fiercely, he
stood erect, and isolated for an instant, and fastening his glance upon
his still reclining, and apparently unmoved cousin, thus spoke:--

"Glendinning Stanly, thou disown'st Pierre not so abhorrently as Pierre
does thee. By Heaven, had I a knife, Glen, I could prick thee on the
spot; let out all thy Glendinning blood, and then sew up the vile
remainder. Hound, and base blot upon the general humanity!"

"This is very extraordinary:--remarkable case of combined imposture and
insanity; but where are the servants? why don't that black advance? Lead
him out, my good Doc, lead him out. Carefully, carefully! stay"--putting
his hand in his pocket--"there, take that, and have the poor fellow
driven off somewhere."

Bolting his rage in him, as impossible to be sated by any conduct, in
such a place, Pierre now turned, sprang down the stairs, and fled the
house.


III.

"Hack, sir? Hack, sir? Hack, sir?"

"Cab, sir? Cab, sir? Cab, sir?"

"This way, sir! This way, sir! This way, sir!"

"He's a rogue! Not him! he's a rogue!"

Pierre was surrounded by a crowd of contending hackmen, all holding long
whips in their hands; while others eagerly beckoned to him from their
boxes, where they sat elevated between their two coach-lamps like
shabby, discarded saints. The whip-stalks thickened around him, and
several reports of the cracking lashes sharply sounded in his ears. Just
bursting from a scene so goading as his interview with the scornful Glen
in the dazzling drawing-room, to Pierre, this sudden tumultuous
surrounding of him by whip-stalks and lashes, seemed like the onset of
the chastising fiends upon Orestes. But, breaking away from them, he
seized the first plated door-handle near him, and, leaping into the
hack, shouted for whoever was the keeper of it, to mount his box
forthwith and drive off in a given direction.

The vehicle had proceeded some way down the great avenue when it
paused, and the driver demanded whither now; what place?

"The Watch-house of the---- Ward," cried Pierre.

"Hi! hi! Goin' to deliver himself up, hey!" grinned the fellow to
himself--"Well, that's a sort of honest, any way:--g'lang, you
dogs!--whist! whee! wha!--g'lang!"

The sights and sounds which met the eye of Pierre on re-entering the
watch-house, filled him with inexpressible horror and fury. The before
decent, drowsy place, now fairly reeked with all things unseemly. Hardly
possible was it to tell what conceivable cause or occasion had, in the
comparatively short absence of Pierre, collected such a base
congregation. In indescribable disorder, frantic, diseased-looking men
and women of all colors, and in all imaginable flaunting, immodest,
grotesque, and shattered dresses, were leaping, yelling, and cursing
around him. The torn Madras handkerchiefs of negresses, and the red
gowns of yellow girls, hanging in tatters from their naked bosoms, mixed
with the rent dresses of deep-rouged white women, and the split coats,
checkered vests, and protruding shirts of pale, or whiskered, or
haggard, or mustached fellows of all nations, some of whom seemed scared
from their beds, and others seemingly arrested in the midst of some
crazy and wanton dance. On all sides, were heard drunken male and female
voices, in English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese, interlarded now and
then, with the foulest of all human lingoes, that dialect of sin and
death, known as the Cant language, or the Flash.

Running among this combined babel of persons and voices, several of the
police were vainly striving to still the tumult; while others were busy
handcuffing the more desperate; and here and there the distracted
wretches, both men and women, gave downright battle to the officers; and
still others already handcuffed struck out at them with their joined
ironed arms. Meanwhile, words and phrases unrepeatable in God's
sunlight, and whose very existence was utterly unknown, and undreamed
of by tens of thousands of the decent people of the city; syllables
obscene and accursed were shouted forth in tones plainly evincing that
they were the common household breath of their utterers. The
thieves'-quarters, and all the brothels, Lock-and-Sin hospitals for
incurables, and infirmaries and infernoes of hell seemed to have made
one combined sortie, and poured out upon earth through the vile vomitory
of some unmentionable cellar.

Though the hitherto imperfect and casual city experiences of Pierre illy
fitted him entirely to comprehend the specific purport of this terrific
spectacle; still he knew enough by hearsay of the more infamous life of
the town, to imagine from whence, and who, were the objects before him.
But all his consciousness at the time was absorbed by the one horrified
thought of Isabel and Delly, forced to witness a sight hardly endurable
for Pierre himself; or, possibly, sucked into the tumult, and in close
personal contact with its loathsomeness. Rushing into the crowd,
regardless of the random blows and curses he encountered, he wildly
sought for Isabel, and soon descried her struggling from the delirious
reaching arms of a half-clad reeling whiskerando. With an immense blow
of his mailed fist, he sent the wretch humming, and seizing Isabel,
cried out to two officers near, to clear a path for him to the door.
They did so. And in a few minutes the panting Isabel was safe in the
open air. He would have stayed by her, but she conjured him to return
for Delly, exposed to worse insults than herself. An additional posse of
officers now approaching, Pierre committing her to the care of one of
them, and summoning two others to join himself, now re-entered the room.
In another quarter of it, he saw Delly seized on each hand by two
bleared and half-bloody women, who with fiendish grimaces were
ironically twitting her upon her close-necked dress, and had already
stript her handkerchief from her. She uttered a cry of mixed anguish
and joy at the sight of him; and Pierre soon succeeded in returning with
her to Isabel.

During the absence of Pierre in quest of the hack, and while Isabel and
Delly were quietly awaiting his return, the door had suddenly burst
open, and a detachment of the police drove in, and caged, the entire
miscellaneous night-occupants of a notorious stew, which they had
stormed and carried during the height of some outrageous orgie. The
first sight of the interior of the watch-house, and their being so
quickly huddled together within its four blank walls, had suddenly
lashed the mob into frenzy; so that for the time, oblivious of all other
considerations, the entire force of the police was directed to the
quelling of the in-door riot; and consequently, abandoned to their own
protection, Isabel and Delly had been temporarily left to its mercy.

It was no time for Pierre to manifest his indignation at the
officer--even if he could now find him--who had thus falsified his
individual pledge concerning the precious charge committed to him. Nor
was it any time to distress himself about his luggage, still somewhere
within. Quitting all, he thrust the bewildered and half-lifeless girls
into the waiting hack, which, by his orders, drove back in the direction
of the stand, where Pierre had first taken it up.

When the coach had rolled them well away from the tumult, Pierre stopped
it, and said to the man, that he desired to be taken to the nearest
respectable hotel or boarding-house of any kind, that he knew of. The
fellow--maliciously diverted by what had happened thus far--made some
ambiguous and rudely merry rejoinder. But warned by his previous rash
quarrel with the stage-driver, Pierre passed this unnoticed, and in a
controlled, calm, decided manner repeated his directions.

The issue was, that after a rather roundabout drive they drew up in a
very respectable side-street, before a large respectable-looking house,
illuminated by two tall white lights flanking its portico. Pierre was
glad to notice some little remaining stir within, spite of the
comparative lateness of the hour. A bare-headed, tidily-dressed, and
very intelligent-looking man, with a broom clothes-brush in his hand,
appearing, scrutinized him rather sharply at first; but as Pierre
advanced further into the light, and his countenance became visible, the
man, assuming a respectful but still slightly perplexed air, invited the
whole party into a closely adjoining parlor, whose disordered chairs and
general dustiness, evinced that after a day's activity it now awaited
the morning offices of the housemaids.

"Baggage, sir?"

"I have left my baggage at another place," said Pierre, "I shall send
for it to-morrow."

"Ah!" exclaimed the very intelligent-looking man, rather dubiously,
"shall I discharge the hack, then?"

"Stay," said Pierre, bethinking him, that it would be well not to let
the man know from whence they had last come, "I will discharge it
myself, thank you."

So returning to the sidewalk, without debate, he paid the hackman an
exorbitant fare, who, anxious to secure such illegal gains beyond all
hope of recovery, quickly mounted his box and drove off at a gallop.

"Will you step into the office, sir, now?" said the man, slightly
flourishing with his brush--"this way, sir, if you please."

Pierre followed him, into an almost deserted, dimly lit room with a
stand in it. Going behind the stand, the man turned round to him a large
ledger-like book, thickly inscribed with names, like any directory, and
offered him a pen ready dipped in ink.

Understanding the general hint, though secretly irritated at something
in the manner of the man, Pierre drew the book to him, and wrote in a
firm hand, at the bottom of the last-named column,--

"Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, and Miss Ulver."

The man glanced at the writing inquiringly, and then said--"The other
column, sir--where from."

"True," said Pierre, and wrote "Saddle Meadows."

The very intelligent-looking man re-examined the page, and then slowly
stroking his shaven chin, with a fork, made of his thumb for one tine,
and his united four fingers for the other, said softly and
whisperingly--"Anywheres in this country, sir?"

"Yes, in the country," said Pierre, evasively, and bridling his ire.
"But now show me to two chambers, will you; the one for myself and wife,
I desire to have opening into another, a third one, never mind how
small; but I must have a dressing-room."

"Dressing-room," repeated the man, in an ironically deliberative
voice--"Dressing-room;--Hem!--You will have your luggage taken into the
dressing-room, then, I suppose.--Oh, I forgot--your luggage aint come
yet--ah, yes, yes, yes--luggage is coming to-morrow--Oh, yes,
yes,--certainly--to-morrow--of course. By the way, sir; I dislike to
seem at all uncivil, and I am sure you will not deem me so; but--"

"Well," said Pierre, mustering all his self-command for the coming
impertinence.

"When stranger gentlemen come to this house without luggage, we think
ourselves bound to ask them to pay their bills in advance, sir; that is
all, sir."

"I shall stay here to-night and the whole of to-morrow, at any rate,"
rejoined Pierre, thankful that this was all; "how much will it be?" and
he drew out his purse.

The man's eyes fastened with eagerness on the purse; he looked from it
to the face of him who held it; then seemed half hesitating an instant;
then brightening up, said, with sudden suavity--"Never mind, sir, never
mind, sir; though rogues sometimes be gentlemanly; gentlemen that are
gentlemen never go abroad without their diplomas. Their diplomas are
their friends; and their only friends are their dollars; you have a
purse-full of friends.--We have chambers, sir, that will exactly suit
you, I think. Bring your ladies and I will show you up to them
immediately." So saying, dropping his brush, the very
intelligent-looking man lighted one lamp, and taking two unlighted ones
in his other hand, led the way down the dusky lead-sheeted hall, Pierre
following him with Isabel and Delly.




BOOK XVII.

YOUNG AMERICA IN LITERATURE.


I.

Among the various conflicting modes of writing history, there would seem
to be two grand practical distinctions, under which all the rest must
subordinately range. By the one mode, all contemporaneous circumstances,
facts, and events must be set down contemporaneously; by the other, they
are only to be set down as the general stream of the narrative shall
dictate; for matters which are kindred in time, may be very irrelative
in themselves. I elect neither of these; I am careless of either; both
are well enough in their way; I write precisely as I please.

In the earlier chapters of this volume, it has somewhere been passingly
intimated, that Pierre was not only a reader of the poets and other fine
writers, but likewise--and what is a very different thing from the
other--a thorough allegorical understander of them, a profound emotional
sympathizer with them; in other words, Pierre himself possessed the
poetic nature; in himself absolutely, though but latently and
floatingly, possessed every whit of the imaginative wealth which he so
admired, when by vast pains-takings, and all manner of unrecompensed
agonies, systematized on the printed page. Not that as yet his young and
immature soul had been accosted by the Wonderful Mutes, and through the
vast halls of Silent Truth, had been ushered into the full, secret,
eternally inviolable Sanhedrim, where the Poetic Magi discuss, in
glorious gibberish, the Alpha and Omega of the Universe. But among the
beautiful imaginings of the second and third degree of poets, he freely
and comprehendingly ranged.

But it still remains to be said, that Pierre himself had written many a
fugitive thing, which had brought him, not only vast credit and
compliments from his more immediate acquaintances, but the less partial
applauses of the always intelligent, and extremely discriminating
public. In short, Pierre had frequently done that, which many other boys
have done--published. Not in the imposing form of a book, but in the
more modest and becoming way of occasional contributions to magazines
and other polite periodicals. His magnificent and victorious _debut_ had
been made in that delightful love-sonnet, entitled "The Tropical
Summer." Not only the public had applauded his gemmed little sketches of
thought and fancy, whether in poetry or prose; but the high and mighty
Campbell clan of editors of all sorts had bestowed upon him those
generous commendations, which, with one instantaneous glance, they had
immediately perceived was his due. They spoke in high terms of his
surprising command of language; they begged to express their wonder at
his euphonious construction of sentences; they regarded with reverence
the pervading symmetry of his general style. But transcending even this
profound insight into the deep merits of Pierre, they looked infinitely
beyond, and confessed their complete inability to restrain their
unqualified admiration for the highly judicious smoothness and
genteelness of the sentiments and fancies expressed. "This writer," said
one,--in an ungovernable burst of admiring fury--"is characterized
throughout by Perfect Taste." Another, after endorsingly quoting that
sapient, suppressed maxim of Dr. Goldsmith's, which asserts that
whatever is new is false, went on to apply it to the excellent
productions before him; concluding with this: "He has translated the
unruffled gentleman from the drawing-room into the general levee of
letters; he never permits himself to astonish; is never betrayed into
any thing coarse or new; as assured that whatever astonishes is vulgar,
and whatever is new must be crude. Yes, it is the glory of this
admirable young author, that vulgarity and vigor--two inseparable
adjuncts--are equally removed from him."

A third, perorated a long and beautifully written review, by the bold
and startling announcement--"This writer is unquestionably a highly
respectable youth."

Nor had the editors of various moral and religious periodicals failed to
render the tribute of their severer appreciation, and more enviable,
because more chary applause. A renowned clerical and philological
conductor of a weekly publication of this kind, whose surprising
proficiency in the Greek, Hebrew, and Chaldaic, to which he had devoted
by far the greater part of his life, peculiarly fitted him to pronounce
unerring judgment upon works of taste in the English, had unhesitatingly
delivered himself thus:--"He is blameless in morals, and harmless
throughout." Another, had unhesitatingly recommended his effusions to
the family-circle. A third, had no reserve in saying, that the
predominant end and aim of this author was evangelical piety.

A mind less naturally strong than Pierre's might well have been hurried
into vast self-complacency, by such eulogy as this, especially as there
could be no possible doubt, that the primitive verdict pronounced by the
editors was irreversible, except in the highly improbable event of the
near approach of the Millennium, which might establish a different
dynasty of taste, and possibly eject the editors. It is true, that in
view of the general practical vagueness of these panegyrics, and the
circumstance that, in essence, they were all somehow of the prudently
indecisive sort; and, considering that they were panegyrics, and nothing
but panegyrics, without any thing analytical about them; an elderly
friend of a literary turn, had made bold to say to our hero--"Pierre,
this is very high praise, I grant, and you are a surprisingly young
author to receive it; but I do not see any criticisms as yet."

"Criticisms?" cried Pierre, in amazement; "why, sir, they are all
criticisms! I am the idol of the critics!"

"Ah!" sighed the elderly friend, as if suddenly reminded that that was
true after all--"Ah!" and went on with his inoffensive, non-committal
cigar.

Nevertheless, thanks to the editors, such at last became the popular
literary enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre, that two young men, recently
abandoning the ignoble pursuit of tailoring for the more honorable trade
of the publisher (probably with an economical view of working up in
books, the linen and cotton shreds of the cutter's counter, after having
been subjected to the action of the paper-mill), had on the daintiest
scolloped-edged paper, and in the neatest possible, and fine-needle-work
hand, addressed him a letter, couched in the following terms; the
general style of which letter will sufficiently evince that,
though--thanks to the manufacturer--their linen and cotton shreds may
have been very completely transmuted into paper, yet the cutters
themselves were not yet entirely out of the metamorphosing mill.


     "Hon. Pierre Glendinning,
     "Revered Sir,

     "The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions fill us with
     amazement. The fabric is excellent--the finest broadcloth of
     genius. We have just started in business. Your
     pantaloons--productions, we mean--have never yet been collected.
     They should be published in the Library form. The tailors--we mean
     the librarians, demand it. Your fame is now in its finest nap.
     Now--before the gloss is off--now is the time for the library form.
     We have recently received an invoice of Chamois---- Russia
     leather. The library form should be a durable form. We respectfully
     offer to dress your amazing productions in the library form. If you
     please, we will transmit you a sample of the cloth---- we mean a
     sample-page, with a pattern of the leather. We are ready to give
     you one tenth of the profits (less discount) for the privilege of
     arraying your wonderful productions in the library form:--you
     cashing the seamstresses'---- printer's and binder's bills on the
     day of publication. An answer at your earliest convenience will
     greatly oblige,--

     "Sir, your most obsequious servants,

     "WONDER & WEN."

"P. S.--We respectfully submit the enclosed block---- sheet, as some
earnest of our intentions to do every thing in your behalf possible to
any firm in the trade.

"N. B.--If the list does not comprise all your illustrious wardrobe----
works, we mean----, we shall exceedingly regret it. We have hunted
through all the drawers---- magazines.

"Sample of a coat---- title for the works of Glendinning:

                                     THE
                               COMPLETE WORKS
                                      OF
                                 GLENDINNING,

                                   AUTHOR OF
   _That world-famed production_, "_The Tropical Summer: a Sonnet._"
     "_The Weather: a Thought._" "_Life: an Impromptu._" "_The
           late Reverend Mark Graceman: an Obituary._" "_Honor:
            a Stanza._" "_Beauty: an Acrostic._" "_Edgar:
              an Anagram._" "_The Pippin: a Paragraph._"
                             _&c. &c. &c. &c.
                                  &c. &c. &c.
                                    &c. &c.
                                    &c._"

                                 P

From a designer, Pierre had received the following:

     "Sir: I approach you with unfeigned trepidation. For though you are
     young in age, you are old in fame and ability. I can not express to
     you my ardent admiration of your works; nor can I but deeply regret
     that the productions of such graphic descriptive power, should be
     unaccompanied by the humbler illustrative labors of the designer.
     My services in this line are entirely at your command. I need not
     say how proud I should be, if this hint, on my part, however
     presuming, should induce you to reply in terms upon which I could
     found the hope of honoring myself and my profession by a few
     designs for the works of the illustrious Glendinning. But the
     cursory mention of your name here fills me with such swelling
     emotions, that I can say nothing more. I would only add, however,
     that not being at all connected with the Trade, my business
     situation unpleasantly forces me to make cash down on delivery of
     each design, the basis of all my professional arrangements. Your
     noble soul, however, would disdain to suppose, that this sordid
     necessity, in my merely business concerns, could ever impair----

    "That profound private veneration and admiration
        With which I unmercenarily am,
             Great and good Glendinning,
                  Yours most humbly,
                         PETER PENCE."


II.

These were stirring letters. The Library Form! an Illustrated Edition!
His whole heart swelled.

But unfortunately it occurred to Pierre, that as all his writings were
not only fugitive, but if put together could not possibly fill more than
a very small duodecimo; therefore the Library Edition seemed a little
premature, perhaps; possibly, in a slight degree, preposterous. Then, as
they were chiefly made up of little sonnets, brief meditative poems, and
moral essays, the matter for the designer ran some small risk of being
but meager. In his inexperience, he did not know that such was the great
height of invention to which the designer's art had been carried, that
certain gentlemen of that profession had gone to an eminent
publishing-house with overtures for an illustrated edition of "Coke upon
Lyttleton." Even the City Directory was beautifully illustrated with
exquisite engravings of bricks, tongs, and flat-irons.

Concerning the draught for the title-page, it must be confessed, that on
seeing the imposing enumeration of his titles--long and magnificent as
those preceding the proclamations of some German Prince ("_Hereditary
Lord of the back-yard of Crantz Jacobi; Undoubted Proprietor by Seizure
of the bedstead of the late Widow Van Lorn; Heir Apparent to the
Bankrupt Bakery of Fletz and Flitz; Residuary Legatee of the Confiscated
Pin-Money of the Late Dowager Dunker; &c. &c. &c._") Pierre could not
entirely repress a momentary feeling of elation. Yet did he also bow low
under the weight of his own ponderosity, as the author of such a vast
load of literature. It occasioned him some slight misgivings, however,
when he considered, that already in his eighteenth year, his title-page
should so immensely surpass in voluminous statisticals the simple page,
which in his father's edition prefixed the vast speculations of Plato.
Still, he comforted himself with the thought, that as he could not
presume to interfere with the bill-stickers of the Gazelle Magazine, who
every month covered the walls of the city with gigantic announcements of
his name among the other contributors; so neither could he now--in the
highly improbable event of closing with the offer of Messrs. Wonder and
Wen--presume to interfere with the bill-sticking department of their
business concern; for it was plain that they esteemed one's title-page
but another unwindowed wall, infinitely more available than most walls,
since here was at least one spot in the city where no rival
bill-stickers dared to encroach. Nevertheless, resolved as he was to let
all such bill-sticking matters take care of themselves, he was sensible
of some coy inclination toward that modest method of certain kid-gloved
and dainty authors, who scorning the vulgarity of a sounding parade,
contented themselves with simply subscribing their name to the
title-page; as confident, that that was sufficient guarantee to the
notice of all true gentlemen of taste. It was for petty German princes
to sound their prolonged titular flourishes. The Czar of Russia
contented himself with putting the simple word "NICHOLAS" to his
loftiest decrees.

This train of thought terminated at last in various considerations upon
the subject of anonymousness in authorship. He regretted that he had not
started his literary career under that mask. At present, it might be too
late; already the whole universe knew him, and it was in vain at this
late day to attempt to hood himself. But when he considered the
essential dignity and propriety at all points, of the inviolably
anonymous method, he could not but feel the sincerest sympathy for those
unfortunate fellows, who, not only naturally averse to any sort of
publicity, but progressively ashamed of their own successive
productions--written chiefly for the merest cash--were yet cruelly
coerced into sounding title-pages by sundry baker's and butcher's bills,
and other financial considerations; inasmuch as the placard of the
title-page indubitably must assist the publisher in his sales.

But perhaps the ruling, though not altogether conscious motive of Pierre
in finally declining--as he did--the services of Messrs. Wonder and Wen,
those eager applicants for the privilege of extending and solidifying
his fame, arose from the idea that being at this time not very far
advanced in years, the probability was, that his future productions
might at least equal, if not surpass, in some small degree, those
already given to the world. He resolved to wait for his literary
canonization until he should at least have outgrown the sophomorean
insinuation of the Law; which, with a singular affectation of benignity,
pronounced him an "infant." His modesty obscured from him the
circumstance, that the greatest lettered celebrities of the time, had,
by the divine power of genius, become full graduates in the University
of Fame, while yet as legal minors forced to go to their mammas for
pennies wherewith to keep them in peanuts.

Not seldom Pierre's social placidity was ruffled by polite entreaties
from the young ladies that he would be pleased to grace their Albums
with some nice little song. We say that here his social placidity was
ruffled; for the true charm of agreeable parlor society is, that there
you lose your own sharp individuality and become delightfully merged in
that soft social Pantheism, as it were, that rosy melting of all into
one, ever prevailing in those drawing-rooms, which pacifically and
deliciously belie their own name; inasmuch as there no one draws the
sword of his own individuality, but all such ugly weapons are left--as
of old--with your hat and cane in the hall. It was very awkward to
decline the albums; but somehow it was still worse, and peculiarly
distasteful for Pierre to comply. With equal justice apparently, you
might either have called this his weakness or his idiosyncrasy. He
summoned all his suavity, and refused. And the refusal of
Pierre--according to Miss Angelica Amabilia of Ambleside--was sweeter
than the compliance of others. But then--prior to the proffer of her
album--in a copse at Ambleside, Pierre in a gallant whim had in the
lady's own presence voluntarily carved Miss Angelica's initials upon the
bark of a beautiful maple. But all young ladies are not Miss Angelicas.
Blandly denied in the parlor, they courted repulse in the study. In
lovely envelopes they dispatched their albums to Pierre, not omitting
to drop a little attar-of-rose in the palm of the domestic who carried
them. While now Pierre--pushed to the wall in his
gallantry--shilly-shallied as to what he must do, the awaiting albums
multiplied upon him; and by-and-by monopolized an entire shelf in his
chamber; so that while their combined ornate bindings fairly dazzled his
eyes, their excessive redolence all but made him to faint, though
indeed, in moderation, he was very partial to perfumes. So that of
really chilly afternoons, he was still obliged to drop the upper sashes
a few inches.

The simplest of all things it is to write in a lady's album. But Cui
Bono? Is there such a dearth of printed reading, that the monkish times
must be revived, and ladies books be in manuscript? What could Pierre
write of his own on Love or any thing else, that would surpass what
divine Hafiz wrote so many long centuries ago? Was there not Anacreon
too, and Catullus, and Ovid--all translated, and readily accessible? And
then--bless all their souls!--had the dear creatures forgotten Tom
Moore? But the handwriting, Pierre,--they want the sight of your hand.
Well, thought Pierre, actual feeling is better than transmitted sight,
any day. I will give them the actual feeling of my hand, as much as they
want. And lips are still better than hands. Let them send their sweet
faces to me, and I will kiss _lipographs_ upon them forever and a day.
This was a felicitous idea. He called Dates, and had the albums carried
down by the basket-full into the dining-room. He opened and spread them
all out upon the extension-table there; then, modeling himself by the
Pope, when His Holiness collectively blesses long crates of rosaries--he
waved one devout kiss to the albums; and summoning three servants sent
the albums all home, with his best compliments, accompanied with a
confectioner's _kiss_ for each album, rolled up in the most ethereal
tissue.

From various quarters of the land, both town and country, and
especially during the preliminary season of autumn, Pierre received
various pressing invitations to lecture before Lyceums, Young Men's
Associations, and other Literary and Scientific Societies. The letters
conveying these invitations possessed quite an imposing and most
flattering aspect to the unsophisticated Pierre. One was as follows:--

     "_Urquhartian Club for the Immediate Extension of the Limits of all
     Knowledge, both Human and Divine._

     "ZADOCKPRATTSVILLE,
     "_June 11th, 18--_.

     "_Author of the 'Tropical Summer,' &c._
     "HONORED AND DEAR SIR:--

     "Official duty and private inclination in this present case most
     delightfully blend. What was the ardent desire of my heart, has now
     by the action of the _Committee on Lectures_ become professionally
     obligatory upon me. As Chairman of our _Committee on Lectures_, I
     hereby beg the privilege of entreating that you will honor this
     Society by lecturing before it on any subject you may choose, and
     at any day most convenient to yourself. The subject of Human
     Destiny we would respectfully suggest, without however at all
     wishing to impede you in your own unbiased selection.

     "If you honor us by complying with this invitation, be assured,
     sir, that the Committee on Lectures will take the best care of you
     throughout your stay, and endeavor to make Zadockprattsville
     agreeable to you. A carriage will be in attendance at the
     Stage-house to convey yourself and luggage to the Inn, under full
     escort of the _Committee on Lectures_, with the Chairman at their
     head.

    "Permit me to join my private homage
             To my high official consideration for you,
                   And to subscribe myself
                      Very humbly your servant,
                            DONALD DUNDONALD."


III.

But it was more especially the Lecture invitations coming from
venerable, gray-headed metropolitan Societies, and indited by venerable
gray-headed Secretaries, which far from elating filled the youthful
Pierre with the sincerest sense of humility. Lecture? lecture? such a
stripling as I lecture to fifty benches, with ten gray heads on each?
five hundred gray heads in all! Shall my one, poor, inexperienced brain
presume to lay down the law in a lecture to five hundred life-ripened
understandings? It seemed too absurd for thought. Yet the five hundred,
through their spokesman, had voluntarily extended this identical
invitation to him. Then how could it be otherwise, than that an
incipient Timonism should slide into Pierre, when he considered all the
disgraceful inferences to be derived from such a fact. He called to
mind, how that once upon a time, during a visit of his to the city, the
police were called out to quell a portentous riot, occasioned by the
vast press and contention for seats at the first lecture of an
illustrious lad of nineteen, the author of "A Week at Coney Island."

It is needless to say that Pierre most conscientiously and respectfully
declined all polite overtures of this sort.

Similar disenchantments of his cooler judgment did likewise deprive of
their full lusciousness several other equally marked demonstrations of
his literary celebrity. Applications for autographs showered in upon
him; but in sometimes humorously gratifying the more urgent requests of
these singular people Pierre could not but feel a pang of regret, that
owing to the very youthful and quite unformed character of his
handwriting, his signature did not possess that inflexible uniformity,
which--for mere prudential reasons, if nothing more--should always mark
the hand of illustrious men. His heart thrilled with sympathetic anguish
for posterity, which would be certain to stand hopelessly perplexed
before so many contradictory signatures of one supereminent name. Alas!
posterity would be sure to conclude that they were forgeries all; that
no chirographic relic of the sublime poet Glendinning survived to their
miserable times.

From the proprietors of the Magazines whose pages were honored by his
effusions, he received very pressing epistolary solicitations for the
loan of his portrait in oil, in order to take an engraving therefrom,
for a frontispiece to their periodicals. But here again the most
melancholy considerations obtruded. It had always been one of the lesser
ambitions of Pierre, to sport a flowing beard, which he deemed the most
noble corporeal badge of the man, not to speak of the illustrious
author. But as yet he was beardless; and no cunning compound of Rowland
and Son could force a beard which should arrive at maturity in any
reasonable time for the frontispiece. Besides, his boyish features and
whole expression were daily changing. Would he lend his authority to
this unprincipled imposture upon Posterity? Honor forbade.

These epistolary petitions were generally couched in an elaborately
respectful style; thereby intimating with what deep reverence his
portrait would be handled, while unavoidably subjected to the discipline
indispensable to obtain from it the engraved copy they prayed for. But
one or two of the persons who made occasional oral requisitions upon him
in this matter of his engraved portrait, seemed less regardful of the
inherent respect due to every man's portrait, much more, to that of a
genius so celebrated as Pierre. They did not even seem to remember that
the portrait of any man generally receives, and indeed is entitled to
more reverence than the original man himself; since one may freely clap
a celebrated friend on the shoulder, yet would by no means tweak his
nose in his portrait. The reason whereof may be this: that the portrait
is better entitled to reverence than the man; inasmuch as nothing
belittling can be imagined concerning the portrait, whereas many
unavoidably belittling things can be fancied as touching the man.

Upon one occasion, happening suddenly to encounter a literary
acquaintance--a joint editor of the "Captain Kidd Monthly"--who suddenly
popped upon him round a corner, Pierre was startled by a
rapid--"Good-morning, good-morning;--just the man I wanted:--come, step
round now with me, and have your Daguerreotype taken;--get it engraved
then in no time;--want it for the next issue."

So saying, this chief mate of Captain Kidd seized Pierre's arm, and in
the most vigorous manner was walking him off, like an officer a
pickpocket, when Pierre civilly said--"Pray, sir, hold, if you please, I
shall do no such thing."--"Pooh, pooh--must have it--public
property--come along--only a door or two now."--"Public property!"
rejoined Pierre, "that may do very well for the 'Captain Kidd
Monthly;'--it's very Captain Kiddish to say so. But I beg to repeat that
I do not intend to accede."--"Don't? Really?" cried the other, amazedly
staring Pierre full in the countenance;--"why bless your soul, _my_
portrait is published--long ago published!"--"Can't help that,
sir"--said Pierre. "Oh! come along, come along," and the chief mate
seized him again with the most uncompunctious familiarity by the arm.
Though the sweetest-tempered youth in the world when but decently
treated, Pierre had an ugly devil in him sometimes, very apt to be
evoked by the personal profaneness of gentlemen of the Captain Kidd
school of literature. "Look you, my good fellow," said he, submitting to
his impartial inspection a determinately double fist,--"drop my arm
now--or I'll drop you. To the devil with you and your Daguerreotype!"

This incident, suggestive as it was at the time, in the sequel had a
surprising effect upon Pierre. For he considered with what infinite
readiness now, the most faithful portrait of any one could be taken by
the Daguerreotype, whereas in former times a faithful portrait was only
within the power of the moneyed, or mental aristocrats of the earth. How
natural then the inference, that instead, as in old times, immortalizing
a genius, a portrait now only _dayalized_ a dunce. Besides, when every
body has his portrait published, true distinction lies in not having
yours published at all. For if you are published along with Tom, Dick,
and Harry, and wear a coat of their cut, how then are you distinct from
Tom, Dick, and Harry? Therefore, even so miserable a motive as downright
personal vanity helped to operate in this matter with Pierre.

Some zealous lovers of the general literature of the age, as well as
declared devotees to his own great genius, frequently petitioned him for
the materials wherewith to frame his biography. They assured him, that
life of all things was most insecure. He might feel many years in him
yet; time might go lightly by him; but in any sudden and fatal sickness,
how would his last hours be embittered by the thought, that he was about
to depart forever, leaving the world utterly unprovided with the
knowledge of what were the precise texture and hue of the first trowsers
he wore. These representations did certainly touch him in a very tender
spot, not previously unknown to the schoolmaster. But when Pierre
considered, that owing to his extreme youth, his own recollections of
the past soon merged into all manner of half-memories and a general
vagueness, he could not find it in his conscience to present such
materials to the impatient biographers, especially as his chief
verifying authority in these matters of his past career, was now
eternally departed beyond all human appeal. His excellent nurse Clarissa
had been dead four years and more. In vain a young literary friend, the
well-known author of two Indexes and one Epic, to whom the subject
happened to be mentioned, warmly espoused the cause of the distressed
biographers; saying that however unpleasant, one must needs pay the
penalty of celebrity; it was no use to stand back; and concluded by
taking from the crown of his hat the proof-sheets of his own biography,
which, with the most thoughtful consideration for the masses, was
shortly to be published in the pamphlet form, price only a shilling.

It only the more bewildered and pained him, when still other and less
delicate applicants sent him their regularly printed
_Biographico-Solicito Circulars_, with his name written in ink; begging
him to honor them and the world with a neat draft of his life, including
criticisms on his own writings; the printed circular indiscriminately
protesting, that undoubtedly he knew more of his own life than any other
living man; and that only he who had put together the great works of
Glendinning could be fully qualified thoroughly to analyze them, and
cast the ultimate judgment upon their remarkable construction.

Now, it was under the influence of the humiliating emotions engendered
by things like the above; it was when thus haunted by publishers,
engravers, editors, critics, autograph-collectors, portrait-fanciers,
biographers, and petitioning and remonstrating literary friends of all
sorts; it was then, that there stole into the youthful soul of Pierre,
melancholy forebodings of the utter unsatisfactoriness of all human
fame; since the most ardent profferings of the most martyrizing
demonstrations in his behalf,--these he was sorrowfully obliged to turn
away.

And it may well be believed, that after the wonderful vital
world-revelation so suddenly made to Pierre at the Meadows--a revelation
which, at moments, in some certain things, fairly Timonized him--he had
not failed to clutch with peculiar nervous detestation and contempt that
ample parcel, containing the letters of his Biographico and other silly
correspondents, which, in a less ferocious hour, he had filed away as
curiosities. It was with an almost infernal grin, that he saw that
particular heap of rubbish eternally quenched in the fire, and felt
that as it was consumed before his eyes, so in his soul was forever
killed the last and minutest undeveloped microscopic germ of that most
despicable vanity to which those absurd correspondents thought to
appeal.




BOOK XVIII.

PIERRE, AS A JUVENILE AUTHOR, RECONSIDERED.


I.

Inasmuch as by various indirect intimations much more than ordinary
natural genius has been imputed to Pierre, it may have seemed an
inconsistency, that only the merest magazine papers should have been
thus far the sole productions of his mind. Nor need it be added, that,
in the soberest earnest, those papers contained nothing uncommon;
indeed--entirely now to drop all irony, if hitherto any thing like that
has been indulged in--those fugitive things of Master Pierre's were the
veriest common-place.

It is true, as I long before said, that Nature at Saddle Meadows had
very early been as a benediction to Pierre;--had blown her wind-clarion
to him from the blue hills, and murmured melodious secrecies to him by
her streams and her woods. But while nature thus very early and very
abundantly feeds us, she is very late in tutoring us as to the proper
methodization of our diet. Or,--to change the metaphor,--there are
immense quarries of fine marble; but how to get it out; how to chisel
it; how to construct any temple? Youth must wholly quit, then, the
quarry, for awhile; and not only go forth, and get tools to use in the
quarry, but must go and thoroughly study architecture. Now the
quarry-discoverer is long before the stone-cutter; and the stone-cutter
is long before the architect; and the architect is long before the
temple; for the temple is the crown of the world.

Yes; Pierre was not only very unarchitectural at that time, but Pierre
was very young, indeed, at that time. And it is often to be observed,
that as in digging for precious metals in the mines, much earthy rubbish
has first to be troublesomely handled and thrown out; so, in digging in
one's soul for the fine gold of genius, much dullness and common-place
is first brought to light. Happy would it be, if the man possessed in
himself some receptacle for his own rubbish of this sort: but he is like
the occupant of a dwelling, whose refuse can not be clapped into his own
cellar, but must be deposited in the street before his own door, for the
public functionaries to take care of. No common-place is ever
effectually got rid of, except by essentially emptying one's self of it
into a book; for once trapped in a book, then the book can be put into
the fire, and all will be well. But they are not always put into the
fire; and this accounts for the vast majority of miserable books over
those of positive merit. Nor will any thoroughly sincere man, who is an
author, ever be rash in precisely defining the period, when he has
completely ridded himself of his rubbish, and come to the latent gold in
his mine. It holds true, in every case, that the wiser a man is, the
more misgivings he has on certain points.

It is well enough known, that the best productions of the best human
intellects, are generally regarded by those intellects as mere immature
freshman exercises, wholly worthless in themselves, except as
initiatives for entering the great University of God after death.
Certain it is, that if any inferences can be drawn from observations of
the familiar lives of men of the greatest mark, their finest things,
those which become the foolish glory of the world, are not only very
poor and inconsiderable to themselves, but often positively distasteful;
they would rather not have the book in the room. In minds comparatively
inferior as compared with the above, these surmising considerations so
sadden and unfit, that they become careless of what they write; go to
their desks with discontent, and only remain there--victims to headache,
and pain in the back--by the hard constraint of some social necessity.
Equally paltry and despicable to them, are the works thus composed; born
of unwillingness and the bill of the baker; the rickety offspring of a
parent, careless of life herself, and reckless of the germ-life she
contains. Let not the short-sighted world for a moment imagine, that any
vanity lurks in such minds; only hired to appear on the stage, not
voluntarily claiming the public attention; their utmost life-redness and
glow is but rouge, washed off in private with bitterest tears; their
laugh only rings because it is hollow; and the answering laugh is no
laughter to them.

There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the
first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because
we have found a snug sofa at last. Even so, it may possibly be, that
arrived at this quiet retrospective little episode in the career of my
hero--this shallowly expansive embayed Tappan Zee of my otherwise
deep-heady Hudson--I too begin to loungingly expand, and wax harmlessly
sad and sentimental.

Now, what has been hitherto presented in reference to Pierre, concerning
rubbish, as in some cases the unavoidable first-fruits of genius, is in
no wise contradicted by the fact, that the first published works of many
meritorious authors have given mature token of genius; for we do not
know how many they previously published to the flames; or privately
published in their own brains, and suppressed there as quickly. And in
the inferior instances of an immediate literary success, in very young
writers, it will be almost invariably observable, that for that instant
success they were chiefly indebted to some rich and peculiar experience
in life, embodied in a book, which because, for that cause, containing
original matter, the author himself, forsooth, is to be considered
original; in this way, many very original books, being the product of
very unoriginal minds. Indeed, man has only to be but a little
circumspect, and away flies the last rag of his vanity. The world is
forever babbling of originality; but there never yet was an original
man, in the sense intended by the world; the first man himself--who
according to the Rabbins was also the first author--not being an
original; the only original author being God. Had Milton's been the lot
of Caspar Hauser, Milton would have been vacant as he. For though the
naked soul of man doth assuredly contain one latent element of
intellectual productiveness; yet never was there a child born solely
from one parent; the visible world of experience being that procreative
thing which impregnates the muses; self-reciprocally efficient
hermaphrodites being but a fable.

There is infinite nonsense in the world on all of these matters; hence
blame me not if I contribute my mite. It is impossible to talk or to
write without apparently throwing oneself helplessly open; the
Invulnerable Knight wears his visor down. Still, it is pleasant to chat;
for it passes the time ere we go to our beds; and speech is farther
incited, when like strolling improvisatores of Italy, we are paid for
our breath. And we are only too thankful when the gapes of the audience
dismiss us with the few ducats we earn.


II.

It may have been already inferred, that the pecuniary plans of Pierre
touching his independent means of support in the city were based upon
his presumed literary capabilities. For what else could he do? He knew
no profession, no trade. Glad now perhaps might he have been, if Fate
had made him a blacksmith, and not a gentleman, a Glendinning, and a
genius. But here he would have been unpardonably rash, had he not
already, in some degree, actually tested the fact, in his own personal
experience, that it is not altogether impossible for a magazine
contributor to Juvenile American literature to receive a few pence in
exchange for his ditties. Such cases stand upon imperishable record, and
it were both folly and ingratitude to disown them.

But since the fine social position and noble patrimony of Pierre, had
thus far rendered it altogether unnecessary for him to earn the least
farthing of his own in the world, whether by hand or by brain; it may
seem desirable to explain a little here as we go. We shall do so, but
always including, the preamble.

Sometimes every possible maxim or thought seems an old one; yet it is
among the elder of the things in that unaugmentable stock, that never
mind what one's situation may be, however prosperous and happy, he will
still be impatient of it; he will still reach out of himself, and beyond
every present condition. So, while many a poor be-inked galley-slave,
toiling with the heavy oar of a quill, to gain something wherewithal to
stave off the cravings of nature; and in his hours of morbid
self-reproach, regarding his paltry wages, at all events, as an
unavoidable disgrace to him; while this galley-slave of letters would
have leaped with delight--reckless of the feeble seams of his
pantaloons--at the most distant prospect of inheriting the broad farms
of Saddle Meadows, lord of an all-sufficing income, and forever exempt
from wearing on his hands those treacherous plague-spots of
indigence--videlicet, blots from the inkstand;--Pierre himself, the
undoubted and actual possessor of the things only longingly and
hopelessly imagined by the other; the then top of Pierre's worldly
ambition, was the being able to boast that he had written such matters
as publishers would pay something for in the way of a mere business
transaction, which they thought would prove profitable. Yet altogether
weak and silly as this may seem in Pierre, let us preambillically
examine a little further, and see if it be so indeed.

Pierre was proud; and a proud man--proud with the sort of pride now
meant--ever holds but lightly those things, however beneficent, which he
did not for himself procure. Were such pride carried out to its
legitimate end, the man would eat no bread, the seeds whereof he had not
himself put into the soil, not entirely without humiliation, that even
that seed must be borrowed from some previous planter. A proud man likes
to feel himself in himself, and not by reflection in others. He likes to
be not only his own Alpha and Omega, but to be distinctly all the
intermediate gradations, and then to slope off on his own spine either
way, into the endless impalpable ether. What a glory it was then to
Pierre, when first in his two gentlemanly hands he jingled the wages of
labor! Talk of drums and the fife; the echo of coin of one's own earning
is more inspiring than all the trumpets of Sparta. How disdainfully now
he eyed the sumptuousness of his hereditary halls--the hangings, and the
pictures, and the bragging historic armorials and the banners of the
Glendinning renown; confident, that if need should come, he would not be
forced to turn resurrectionist, and dig up his grandfather's
Indian-chief grave for the ancestral sword and shield, ignominiously to
pawn them for a living! He could live on himself. Oh, twice-blessed now,
in the feeling of practical capacity, was Pierre.

The mechanic, the day-laborer, has but one way to live; his body must
provide for his body. But not only could Pierre in some sort, do that;
he could do the other; and letting his body stay lazily at home, send
off his soul to labor, and his soul would come faithfully back and pay
his body her wages. So, some unprofessional gentlemen of the
aristocratic South, who happen to own slaves, give those slaves liberty
to go and seek work, and every night return with their wages, which
constitute those idle gentlemen's income. Both ambidexter and
quadruple-armed is that man, who in a day-laborer's body, possesses a
day-laboring soul. Yet let not such an one be over-confident. Our God is
a jealous God; He wills not that any man should permanently possess the
least shadow of His own self-sufficient attributes. Yoke the body to the
soul, and put both to the plough, and the one or the other must in the
end assuredly drop in the furrow. Keep, then, thy body effeminate for
labor, and thy soul laboriously robust; or else thy soul effeminate for
labor, and thy body laboriously robust. Elect! the two will not
lastingly abide in one yoke. Thus over the most vigorous and soaring
conceits, doth the cloud of Truth come stealing; thus doth the shot,
even of a sixty-two-pounder pointed upward, light at last on the earth;
for strive we how we may, we can not overshoot the earth's orbit, to
receive the attractions of other planets; Earth's law of gravitation
extends far beyond her own atmosphere.

In the operative opinion of this world, he who is already fully provided
with what is necessary for him, that man shall have more; while he who
is deplorably destitute of the same, he shall have taken away from him
even that which he hath. Yet the world vows it is a very plain,
downright matter-of-fact, plodding, humane sort of world. It is governed
only by the simplest principles, and scorns all ambiguities, all
transcendentals, and all manner of juggling. Now some imaginatively
heterodoxical men are often surprisingly twitted upon their willful
inverting of all common-sense notions, their absurd and all-displacing
transcendentals, which say three is four, and two and two make ten. But
if the eminent Jugglarius himself ever advocated in mere words a
doctrine one thousandth part so ridiculous and subversive of all
practical sense, as that doctrine which the world actually and eternally
practices, of giving unto him who already hath more than enough, still
more of the superfluous article, and taking away from him who hath
nothing at all, even that which he hath,--then is the truest book in the
world a lie.

Wherefore we see that the so-called Transcendentalists are not the only
people who deal in Transcendentals. On the contrary, we seem to see that
the Utilitarians,--the every-day world's people themselves, far
transcend those inferior Transcendentalists by their own
incomprehensible worldly maxims. And--what is vastly more--with the one
party, their Transcendentals are but theoretic and inactive, and
therefore harmless; whereas with the other, they are actually clothed in
living deeds.

The highly graveling doctrine and practice of the world, above cited,
had in some small degree been manifested in the case of Pierre. He
prospectively possessed the fee of several hundred farms scattered over
part of two adjoining counties; and now the proprietor of that popular
periodical, the Gazelle Magazine, sent him several additional dollars
for his sonnets. That proprietor (though in sooth, he never read the
sonnets, but referred them to his professional adviser; and was so
ignorant, that, for a long time previous to the periodical's actually
being started, he insisted upon spelling the Gazelle with a _g_ for the
_z_, as thus: _Gagelle_; maintaining, that in the Gazelle connection,
the _z_ was a mere impostor, and that the _g_ was soft; for he was a
judge of softness, and could speak from experience); that proprietor was
undoubtedly a Transcendentalist; for did he not act upon the
Transcendental doctrine previously set forth?

Now, the dollars derived from his ditties, these Pierre had always
invested in cigars; so that the puffs which indirectly brought him his
dollars were again returned, but as perfumed puffs; perfumed with the
sweet leaf of Havanna. So that this highly-celebrated and world-renowned
Pierre--the great author--whose likeness the world had never seen (for
had he not repeatedly refused the world his likeness?), this famous
poet, and philosopher, author of "_The Tropical Summer: a Sonnet_;"
against whose very life several desperadoes were darkly plotting (for
had not the biographers sworn they would have it!); this towering
celebrity--there he would sit smoking, and smoking, mild and
self-festooned as a vapory mountain. It was very involuntarily and
satisfactorily reciprocal. His cigars were lighted in two ways: lighted
by the sale of his sonnets, and lighted by the printed sonnets
themselves.

For even at that early time in his authorial life, Pierre, however vain
of his fame, was not at all proud of his paper. Not only did he make
allumettes of his sonnets when published, but was very careless about
his discarded manuscripts; they were to be found lying all round the
house; gave a great deal of trouble to the housemaids in sweeping; went
for kindlings to the fires; and were forever flitting out of the
windows, and under the door-sills, into the faces of people passing the
manorial mansion. In this reckless, indifferent way of his, Pierre
himself was a sort of publisher. It is true his more familiar admirers
often earnestly remonstrated with him, against this irreverence to the
primitive vestments of his immortal productions; saying, that whatever
had once felt the nib of his mighty pen, was thenceforth sacred as the
lips which had but once saluted the great toe of the Pope. But hardened
as he was to these friendly censurings, Pierre never forbade that ardent
appreciation of "The Tear," who, finding a small fragment of the
original manuscript containing a dot (_tear_), over an _i_ (_eye_),
esteemed the significant event providential; and begged the
distinguished favor of being permitted to have it for a brooch; and
ousted a cameo-head of Homer, to replace it with the more invaluable
gem. He became inconsolable, when being caught in a rain, the dot
(_tear_) disappeared from over the _i_ (_eye_); so that the strangeness
and wonderfulness of the sonnet was still conspicuous; in that though
the least fragment of it could weep in a drought, yet did it become all
tearless in a shower.

But this indifferent and supercilious amateur--deaf to the admiration of
the world; the enigmatically merry and renowned author of "The Tear;"
the pride of the Gazelle Magazine, on whose flaunting cover his name
figured at the head of all contributors--(no small men either; for their
lives had all been fraternally written by each other, and they had
clubbed, and had their likenesses all taken by the aggregate job, and
published on paper, all bought at one shop) this high-prestiged
Pierre--whose future popularity and voluminousness had become so
startlingly announced by what he had already written, that certain
speculators came to the Meadows to survey its water-power, if any, with
a view to start a paper-mill expressly for the great author, and so
monopolize his stationery dealings;--this vast being,--spoken of with
awe by all merely youthful aspirants for fame; this age-neutralizing
Pierre;--before whom an old gentleman of sixty-five, formerly librarian
to Congress, on being introduced to him at the Magazine publishers',
devoutly took off his hat, and kept it so, and remained standing, though
Pierre was socially seated with his hat on;--this wonderful, disdainful
genius--but only life-amateur as yet--is now soon to appear in a far
different guise. He shall now learn, and very bitterly learn, that
though the world worship Mediocrity and Common Place, yet hath it fire
and sword for all cotemporary Grandeur; that though it swears that it
fiercely assails all Hypocrisy, yet hath it not always an ear for
Earnestness.

And though this state of things, united with the ever multiplying
freshets of new books, seems inevitably to point to a coming time, when
the mass of humanity reduced to one level of dotage, authors shall be
scarce as alchymists are to-day, and the printing-press be reckoned a
small invention:--yet even now, in the foretaste of this let us hug
ourselves, oh, my Aurelian! that though the age of authors be passing,
the hours of earnestness shall remain!




BOOK XIX.

THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES.


I.

In the lower old-fashioned part of the city, in a narrow street--almost
a lane--once filled with demure-looking dwellings, but now chiefly with
immense lofty warehouses of foreign importers; and not far from the
corner where the lane intersected with a very considerable but
contracted thoroughfare for merchants and their clerks, and their carmen
and porters; stood at this period a rather singular and ancient edifice,
a relic of the more primitive time. The material was a grayish stone,
rudely cut and masoned into walls of surprising thickness and strength;
along two of which walls--the side ones--were distributed as many rows
of arched and stately windows. A capacious, square, and wholly
unornamented tower rose in front to twice the height of the body of the
church; three sides of this tower were pierced with small and narrow
apertures. Thus far, in its external aspect, the building--now more than
a century old,--sufficiently attested for what purpose it had originally
been founded. In its rear, was a large and lofty plain brick structure,
with its front to the rearward street, but its back presented to the
back of the church, leaving a small, flagged, and quadrangular vacancy
between. At the sides of this quadrangle, three stories of homely brick
colonnades afforded covered communication between the ancient church,
and its less elderly adjunct. A dismantled, rusted, and forlorn old
railing of iron fencing in a small courtyard in front of the rearward
building, seemed to hint, that the latter had usurped an unoccupied
space formerly sacred as the old church's burial inclosure. Such a fancy
would have been entirely true. Built when that part of the city was
devoted to private residences, and not to warehouses and offices as now,
the old Church of the Apostles had had its days of sanctification and
grace; but the tide of change and progress had rolled clean through its
broad-aisle and side-aisles, and swept by far the greater part of its
congregation two or three miles up town. Some stubborn and elderly old
merchants and accountants, lingered awhile among its dusty pews,
listening to the exhortations of a faithful old pastor, who, sticking to
his post in this flight of his congregation, still propped his
half-palsied form in the worm-eaten pulpit, and occasionally
pounded--though now with less vigorous hand--the moth-eaten covering of
its desk. But it came to pass, that this good old clergyman died; and
when the gray-headed and bald-headed remaining merchants and accountants
followed his coffin out of the broad-aisle to see it reverently
interred; then that was the last time that ever the old edifice
witnessed the departure of a regular worshiping assembly from its walls.
The venerable merchants and accountants held a meeting, at which it was
finally decided, that, hard and unwelcome as the necessity might be, yet
it was now no use to disguise the fact, that the building could no
longer be efficiently devoted to its primitive purpose. It must be
divided into stores; cut into offices; and given for a roost to the
gregarious lawyers. This intention was executed, even to the making
offices high up in the tower; and so well did the thing succeed, that
ultimately the church-yard was invaded for a supplemental edifice,
likewise to be promiscuously rented to the legal crowd. But this new
building very much exceeded the body of the church in height. It was
some seven stories; a fearful pile of Titanic bricks, lifting its tiled
roof almost to a level with the top of the sacred tower.

In this ambitious erection the proprietors went a few steps, or rather a
few stories, too far. For as people would seldom willingly fall into
legal altercations unless the lawyers were always very handy to help
them; so it is ever an object with lawyers to have their offices as
convenient as feasible to the street; on the ground-floor, if possible,
without a single acclivity of a step; but at any rate not in the seventh
story of any house, where their clients might be deterred from employing
them at all, if they were compelled to mount seven long flights of
stairs, one over the other, with very brief landings, in order even to
pay their preliminary retaining fees. So, from some time after its
throwing open, the upper stories of the less ancient attached edifice
remained almost wholly without occupants; and by the forlorn echoes of
their vacuities, right over the head of the business-thriving legal
gentlemen below, must--to some few of them at least--have suggested
unwelcome similitudes, having reference to the crowded state of their
basement-pockets, as compared with the melancholy condition of their
attics;--alas! full purses and empty heads! This dreary posture of
affairs, however, was at last much altered for the better, by the
gradual filling up of the vacant chambers on high, by scores of those
miscellaneous, bread-and-cheese adventurers, and ambiguously
professional nondescripts in very genteel but shabby black, and
unaccountable foreign-looking fellows in blue spectacles; who,
previously issuing from unknown parts of the world, like storks in
Holland, light on the eaves, and in the attics of lofty old buildings in
most large sea-port towns. Here they sit and talk like magpies; or
descending in quest of improbable dinners, are to be seen drawn up along
the curb in front of the eating-houses, like lean rows of broken-hearted
pelicans on a beach; their pockets loose, hanging down and flabby, like
the pelican's pouches when fish are hard to be caught. But these poor,
penniless devils still strive to make ample amends for their physical
forlornness, by resolutely reveling in the region of blissful ideals.

They are mostly artists of various sorts; painters, or sculptors, or
indigent students, or teachers of languages, or poets, or fugitive
French politicians, or German philosophers. Their mental tendencies,
however heterodox at times, are still very fine and spiritual upon the
whole; since the vacuity of their exchequers leads them to reject the
coarse materialism of Hobbs, and incline to the airy exaltations of the
Berkelyan philosophy. Often groping in vain in their pockets, they can
not but give in to the Descartian vortices; while the abundance of
leisure in their attics (physical and figurative), unite with the
leisure in their stomachs, to fit them in an eminent degree for that
undivided attention indispensable to the proper digesting of the
sublimated Categories of Kant; especially as Kant (can't) is the one
great palpable fact in their pervadingly impalpable lives. These are the
glorious paupers, from whom I learn the profoundest mysteries of things;
since their very existence in the midst of such a terrible
precariousness of the commonest means of support, affords a problem on
which many speculative nutcrackers have been vainly employed. Yet let me
here offer up three locks of my hair, to the memory of all such glorious
paupers who have lived and died in this world. Surely, and truly I honor
them--noble men often at bottom--and for that very reason I make bold to
be gamesome about them; for where fundamental nobleness is, and
fundamental honor is due, merriment is never accounted irreverent. The
fools and pretenders of humanity, and the impostors and baboons among
the gods, these only are offended with raillery; since both those gods
and men whose titles to eminence are secure, seldom worry themselves
about the seditious gossip of old apple-women, and the skylarkings of
funny little boys in the street.

When the substance is gone, men cling to the shadow. Places once set
apart to lofty purposes, still retain the name of that loftiness, even
when converted to the meanest uses. It would seem, as if forced by
imperative Fate to renounce the reality of the romantic and lofty, the
people of the present would fain make a compromise by retaining some
purely imaginative remainder. The curious effects of this tendency is
oftenest evinced in those venerable countries of the old transatlantic
world; where still over the Thames one bridge yet retains the monastic
tide of Blackfriars; though not a single Black Friar, but many a
pickpocket, has stood on that bank since a good ways beyond the days of
Queen Bess; where still innumerable other historic anomalies sweetly and
sadly remind the present man of the wonderful procession that preceded
him in his new generation. Nor--though the comparative recentness of our
own foundation upon these Columbian shores, excludes any considerable
participation in these attractive anomalies,--yet are we not altogether,
in our more elderly towns, wholly without some touch of them, here and
there. It was thus with the ancient Church of the Apostles--better
known, even in its primitive day, under the abbreviative of The
Apostles--which, though now converted from its original purpose to one
so widely contrasting, yet still retained its majestical name. The
lawyer or artist tenanting its chambers, whether in the new building or
the old, when asked where he was to be found, invariably replied,--_At
the Apostles'_. But because now, at last, in the course of the
inevitable transplantations of the more notable localities of the
various professions in a thriving and amplifying town, the venerable
spot offered not such inducements as before to the legal gentlemen; and
as the strange nondescript adventurers and artists, and indigent
philosophers of all sorts, crowded in as fast as the others left;
therefore, in reference to the metaphysical strangeness of these curious
inhabitants, and owing in some sort to the circumstance, that several of
them were well-known Teleological Theorists, and Social Reformers, and
political propagandists of all manner of heterodoxical tenets;
therefore, I say, and partly, peradventure, from some slight waggishness
in the public; the immemorial popular name of the ancient church itself
was participatingly transferred to the dwellers therein. So it came to
pass, that in the general fashion of the day, he who had chambers in the
old church was familiarly styled an _Apostle_.

But as every effect is but the cause of another and a subsequent one, so
it now happened that finding themselves thus clannishly, and not
altogether infelicitously entitled, the occupants of the venerable
church began to come together out of their various dens, in more social
communion; attracted toward each other by a title common to all.
By-and-by, from this, they went further; and insensibly, at last became
organized in a peculiar society, which, though exceedingly
inconspicuous, and hardly perceptible in its public demonstrations, was
still secretly suspected to have some mysterious ulterior object,
vaguely connected with the absolute overturning of Church and State, and
the hasty and premature advance of some unknown great political and
religious Millennium. Still, though some zealous conservatives and
devotees of morals, several times left warning at the police-office, to
keep a wary eye on the old church; and though, indeed, sometimes an
officer would look up inquiringly at the suspicious narrow window-slits
in the lofty tower; yet, to say the truth, was the place, to all
appearance, a very quiet and decorous one, and its occupants a company
of harmless people, whose greatest reproach was efflorescent coats and
crack-crowned hats all podding in the sun.

Though in the middle of the day many bales and boxes would be trundled
along the stores in front of the Apostles'; and along its critically
narrow sidewalk, the merchants would now and then hurry to meet their
checks ere the banks should close: yet the street, being mostly devoted
to mere warehousing purposes, and not used as a general thoroughfare, it
was at all times a rather secluded and silent place. But from an hour or
two before sundown to ten or eleven o'clock the next morning, it was
remarkably silent and depopulated, except by the Apostles themselves;
while every Sunday it presented an aspect of surprising and startling
quiescence; showing nothing but one long vista of six or seven stories
of inexorable iron shutters on both sides of the way. It was pretty much
the same with the other street, which, as before said, intersected with
the warehousing lane, not very far from the Apostles'. For though that
street was indeed a different one from the latter, being full of cheap
refectories for clerks, foreign restaurants, and other places of
commercial resort; yet the only hum in it was restricted to business
hours; by night it was deserted of every occupant but the lamp-posts;
and on Sunday, to walk through it, was like walking through an avenue of
sphinxes.

Such, then, was the present condition of the ancient Church of the
Apostles; buzzing with a few lingering, equivocal lawyers in the
basement, and populous with all sorts of poets, painters, paupers and
philosophers above. A mysterious professor of the flute was perched in
one of the upper stories of the tower; and often, of silent, moonlight
nights, his lofty, melodious notes would be warbled forth over the roofs
of the ten thousand warehouses around him--as of yore, the bell had
pealed over the domestic gables of a long-departed generation.


II.

On the third night following the arrival of the party in the city,
Pierre sat at twilight by a lofty window in the rear building of the
Apostles'. The chamber was meager even to meanness. No carpet on the
floor, no picture on the wall; nothing but a low, long, and very
curious-looking single bedstead, that might possibly serve for an
indigent bachelor's pallet, a large, blue, chintz-covered chest, a
rickety, rheumatic, and most ancient mahogany chair, and a wide board of
the toughest live-oak, about six feet long, laid upon two upright empty
flour-barrels, and loaded with a large bottle of ink, an unfastened
bundle of quills, a pen-knife, a folder, and a still unbound ream of
foolscap paper, significantly stamped, "Ruled; Blue."

There, on the third night, at twilight, sat Pierre by that lofty window
of a beggarly room in the rear-building of the Apostles'. He was
entirely idle, apparently; there was nothing in his hands; but there
might have been something on his heart. Now and then he fixedly gazes at
the curious-looking, rusty old bedstead. It seemed powerfully symbolical
to him; and most symbolical it was. For it was the ancient dismemberable
and portable camp-bedstead of his grandfather, the defiant defender of
the Fort, the valiant captain in many an unsuccumbing campaign. On that
very camp-bedstead, there, beneath his tent on the field, the glorious
old mild-eyed and warrior-hearted general had slept, and but waked to
buckle his knight-making sword by his side; for it was noble knighthood
to be slain by grand Pierre; in the other world his foes' ghosts bragged
of the hand that had given them their passports.

But has that hard bed of War, descended for an inheritance to the soft
body of Peace? In the peaceful time of full barns, and when the noise of
the peaceful flail is abroad, and the hum of peaceful commerce resounds,
is the grandson of two Generals a warrior too? Oh, not for naught, in
the time of this seeming peace, are warrior grandsires given to Pierre!
For Pierre is a warrior too; Life his campaign, and three fierce allies,
Woe and Scorn and Want, his foes. The wide world is banded against him;
for lo you! he holds up the standard of Right, and swears by the Eternal
and True! But ah, Pierre, Pierre, when thou goest to that bed, how
humbling the thought, that thy most extended length measures not the
proud six feet four of thy grand John of Gaunt sire! The stature of the
warrior is cut down to the dwindled glory of the fight. For more
glorious in real tented field to strike down your valiant foe, than in
the conflicts of a noble soul with a dastardly world to chase a vile
enemy who ne'er will show front.

There, then, on the third night, at twilight, by the lofty window of
that beggarly room, sat Pierre in the rear building of the Apostles'. He
is gazing out from the window now. But except the donjon form of the old
gray tower, seemingly there is nothing to see but a wilderness of tiles,
slate, shingles, and tin;--the desolate hanging wildernesses of tiles,
slate, shingles and tin, wherewith we modern Babylonians replace the
fair hanging-gardens of the fine old Asiatic times when the excellent
Nebuchadnezzar was king.

There he sits, a strange exotic, transplanted from the delectable
alcoves of the old manorial mansion, to take root in this niggard soil.
No more do the sweet purple airs of the hills round about the green
fields of Saddle Meadows come revivingly wafted to his cheek. Like a
flower he feels the change; his bloom is gone from his cheek; his cheek
is wilted and pale.

From the lofty window of that beggarly room, what is it that Pierre is
so intently eying? There is no street at his feet; like a profound black
gulf the open area of the quadrangle gapes beneath him. But across it,
and at the further end of the steep roof of the ancient church, there
looms the gray and grand old tower; emblem to Pierre of an unshakable
fortitude, which, deep-rooted in the heart of the earth, defied all the
howls of the air.

There is a door in Pierre's room opposite the window of Pierre: and now
a soft knock is heard in that direction, accompanied by gentle words,
asking whether the speaker might enter.

"Yes, always, sweet Isabel"--answered Pierre, rising and approaching
the door;--"here: let us drag out the old camp-bed for a sofa; come, sit
down now, my sister, and let us fancy ourselves anywhere thou wilt."

"Then, my brother, let us fancy ourselves in realms of everlasting
twilight and peace, where no bright sun shall rise, because the black
night is always its follower. Twilight and peace, my brother, twilight
and peace!"

"It is twilight now, my sister; and surely, this part of the city at
least seems still."

"Twilight now, but night soon; then a brief sun, and then another long
night. Peace now, but sleep and nothingness soon, and then hard work for
thee, my brother, till the sweet twilight come again."

"Let us light a candle, my sister; the evening is deepening."

"For what light a candle, dear Pierre?--Sit close to me, my brother."

He moved nearer to her, and stole one arm around her; her sweet head
leaned against his breast; each felt the other's throbbing.

"Oh, my dear Pierre, why should we always be longing for peace, and then
be impatient of peace when it comes? Tell me, my brother! Not two hours
ago, thou wert wishing for twilight, and now thou wantest a candle to
hurry the twilight's last lingering away."

But Pierre did not seem to hear her; his arm embraced her tighter; his
whole frame was invisibly trembling. Then suddenly in a low tone of
wonderful intensity he breathed:

"Isabel! Isabel!"

She caught one arm around him, as his was around herself; the tremor ran
from him to her; both sat dumb.

He rose, and paced the room.

"Well, Pierre; thou camest in here to arrange thy matters, thou saidst.
Now what hast thou done? Come, we will light a candle now."

The candle was lighted, and their talk went on.

"How about the papers, my brother? Dost thou find every thing right?
Hast thou decided upon what to publish first, while thou art writing the
new thing thou didst hint of?"

"Look at that chest, my sister. Seest thou not that the cords are yet
untied?"

"Then thou hast not been into it at all as yet?"

"Not at all, Isabel. In ten days I have lived ten thousand years.
Forewarned now of the rubbish in that chest, I can not summon the heart
to open it. Trash! Dross! Dirt!"

"Pierre! Pierre! what change is this? Didst thou not tell me, ere we
came hither, that thy chest not only contained some silver and gold, but
likewise far more precious things, readily convertible into silver and
gold? Ah, Pierre, thou didst swear we had naught to fear!"

"If I have ever willfully deceived thee, Isabel, may the high gods prove
Benedict Arnolds to me, and go over to the devils to reinforce them
against me! But to have ignorantly deceived myself and thee together,
Isabel; that is a very different thing. Oh, what a vile juggler and
cheat is man! Isabel, in that chest are things which in the hour of
composition, I thought the very heavens looked in from the windows in
astonishment at their beauty and power. Then, afterward, when days
cooled me down, and again I took them up and scanned them, some
underlying suspicions intruded; but when in the open air, I recalled the
fresh, unwritten images of the bunglingly written things; then I felt
buoyant and triumphant again; as if by that act of ideal recalling, I
had, forsooth, transferred the perfect ideal to the miserable written
attempt at embodying it. This mood remained. So that afterward how I
talked to thee about the wonderful things I had done; the gold and the
silver mine I had long before sprung for thee and for me, who never were
to come to want in body or mind. Yet all this time, there was the latent
suspicion of folly; but I would not admit it; I shut my soul's door in
its face. Yet now, the ten thousand universal revealings brand me on the
forehead with fool! and like protested notes at the Bankers, all those
written things of mine, are jaggingly cut through and through with the
protesting hammer of Truth!--Oh, I am sick, sick, sick!"

"Let the arms that never were filled but by thee, lure thee back again,
Pierre, to the peace of the twilight, even though it be of the dimmest!"

She blew out the light, and made Pierre sit down by her; and their hands
were placed in each other's.

"Say, are not thy torments now gone, my brother?"

"But replaced by--by--by--Oh God, Isabel, unhand me!" cried Pierre,
starting up. "Ye heavens, that have hidden yourselves in the black hood
of the night, I call to ye! If to follow Virtue to her uttermost vista,
where common souls never go; if by that I take hold on hell, and the
uttermost virtue, after all, prove but a betraying pander to the
monstrousest vice,--then close in and crush me, ye stony walls, and into
one gulf let all things tumble together!"

"My brother! this is some incomprehensible raving," pealed Isabel,
throwing both arms around him;--"my brother, my brother!"

"Hark thee to thy furthest inland soul"--thrilled Pierre in a steeled
and quivering voice. "Call me brother no more! How knowest thou I am thy
brother? Did thy mother tell thee? Did my father say so to me?--I am
Pierre, and thou Isabel, wide brother and sister in the common
humanity,--no more. For the rest, let the gods look after their own
combustibles. If they have put powder-casks in me--let them look to it!
let them look to it! Ah! now I catch glimpses, and seem to half-see,
somehow, that the uttermost ideal of moral perfection in man is wide of
the mark. The demigods trample on trash, and Virtue and Vice are trash!
Isabel, I will write such things--I will gospelize the world anew, and
show them deeper secrets than the Apocalypse!--I will write it, I will
write it!"

"Pierre, I am a poor girl, born in the midst of a mystery, bred in
mystery, and still surviving to mystery. So mysterious myself, the air
and the earth are unutterable to me; no word have I to express them. But
these are the circumambient mysteries; thy words, thy thoughts, open
other wonder-worlds to me, whither by myself I might fear to go. But
trust to me, Pierre. With thee, with thee, I would boldly swim a
starless sea, and be buoy to thee, there, when thou the strong swimmer
shouldst faint. Thou, Pierre, speakest of Virtue and Vice; life-secluded
Isabel knows neither the one nor the other, but by hearsay. What are
they, in their real selves, Pierre? Tell me first what is
Virtue:--begin!"

"If on that point the gods are dumb, shall a pigmy speak? Ask the air!"

"Then Virtue is nothing."

"Not that!"

"Then Vice?"

"Look: a nothing is the substance, it casts one shadow one way, and
another the other way; and these two shadows cast from one nothing;
these, seems to me, are Virtue and Vice."

"Then why torment thyself so, dearest Pierre?"

"It is the law."

"What?"

"That a nothing should torment a nothing; for I am a nothing. It is all
a dream--we dream that we dreamed we dream."

"Pierre, when thou just hovered on the verge, thou wert a riddle to me;
but now, that thou art deep down in the gulf of the soul,--now, when
thou wouldst be lunatic to wise men, perhaps--now doth poor ignorant
Isabel begin to comprehend thee. Thy feeling hath long been mine,
Pierre. Long loneliness and anguish have opened miracles to me. Yes, it
is all a dream!"

Swiftly he caught her in his arms:--"From nothing proceeds nothing,
Isabel! How can one sin in a dream?"

"First what is sin, Pierre?"

"Another name for the other name, Isabel."

"For Virtue, Pierre?"

"No, for Vice."

"Let us sit down again, my brother."

"I am Pierre."

"Let us sit down again, Pierre; sit close; thy arm!"

And so, on the third night, when the twilight was gone, and no lamp was
lit, within the lofty window of that beggarly room, sat Pierre and
Isabel hushed.




BOOK XX.

CHARLIE MILLTHORPE.


I.

Pierre had been induced to take chambers at the Apostles', by one of the
Apostles themselves, an old acquaintance of his, and a native of Saddle
Meadows.

Millthorpe was the son of a very respectable farmer--now dead--of more
than common intelligence, and whose bowed shoulders and homely garb had
still been surmounted by a head fit for a Greek philosopher, and
features so fine and regular that they would have well graced an opulent
gentleman. The political and social levelings and confoundings of all
manner of human elements in America, produce many striking individual
anomalies unknown in other lands. Pierre well remembered old farmer
Millthorpe:--the handsome, melancholy, calm-tempered, mute, old man; in
whose countenance--refinedly ennobled by nature, and yet coarsely tanned
and attenuated by many a prolonged day's work in the harvest--rusticity
and classicalness were strangely united. The delicate profile of his
face, bespoke the loftiest aristocracy; his knobbed and bony hands
resembled a beggar's.

Though for several generations the Millthorpes had lived on the
Glendinning lands, they loosely and unostentatiously traced their origin
to an emigrating English Knight, who had crossed the sea in the time of
the elder Charles. But that indigence which had prompted the knight to
forsake his courtly country for the howling wilderness, was the only
remaining hereditament left to his bedwindled descendants in the fourth
and fifth remove. At the time that Pierre first recollected this
interesting man, he had, a year or two previous, abandoned an ample farm
on account of absolute inability to meet the manorial rent, and was
become the occupant of a very poor and contracted little place, on which
was a small and half-ruinous house. There, he then harbored with his
wife,--a very gentle and retiring person,--his three little daughters,
and his only son, a lad of Pierre's own age. The hereditary beauty and
youthful bloom of this boy; his sweetness of temper, and something of
natural refinement as contrasted with the unrelieved rudeness, and
oftentimes sordidness, of his neighbors; these things had early
attracted the sympathetic, spontaneous friendliness of Pierre. They were
often wont to take their boyish rambles together; and even the severely
critical Mrs. Glendinning, always fastidiously cautious as to the
companions of Pierre, had never objected to his intimacy with so
prepossessing and handsome a rustic as Charles.

Boys are often very swiftly acute in forming a judgment on character.
The lads had not long companioned, ere Pierre concluded, that however
fine his face, and sweet his temper, young Millthorpe was but little
vigorous in mind; besides possessing a certain constitutional,
sophomorean presumption and egotism; which, however, having nothing to
feed on but his father's meal and potatoes, and his own essentially
timid and humane disposition, merely presented an amusing and harmless,
though incurable, anomalous feature in his character, not at all
impairing the good-will and companionableness of Pierre; for even in his
boyhood, Pierre possessed a sterling charity, which could cheerfully
overlook all minor blemishes in his inferiors, whether in fortune or
mind; content and glad to embrace the good whenever presented, or with
whatever conjoined. So, in youth, do we unconsciously act upon those
peculiar principles, which in conscious and verbalized maxims shall
systematically regulate our maturer lives;--a fact, which forcibly
illustrates the necessitarian dependence of our lives, and their
subordination, not to ourselves, but to Fate.

If the grown man of taste, possess not only some eye to detect the
picturesque in the natural landscape, so also, has he as keen a
perception of what may not unfitly be here styled, the _povertiresque_
in the social landscape. To such an one, not more picturesquely
conspicuous is the dismantled thatch in a painted cottage of
Gainsborough, than the time-tangled and want-thinned locks of a beggar,
_povertiresquely_ diversifying those snug little cabinet-pictures of the
world, which, exquisitely varnished and framed, are hung up in the
drawing-room minds of humane men of taste, and amiable philosophers of
either the "Compensation," or "Optimist" school. They deny that any
misery is in the world, except for the purpose of throwing the fine
_povertiresque_ element into its general picture. Go to! God hath
deposited cash in the Bank subject to our gentlemanly order; he hath
bounteously blessed the world with a summer carpet of green. Begone,
Heraclitus! The lamentations of the rain are but to make us our
rainbows!

Not that in equivocal reference to the _povertiresque_ old farmer
Millthorpe, Pierre is here intended to be hinted at. Still, man can not
wholly escape his surroundings. Unconsciously Mrs. Glendinning had
always been one of these curious Optimists; and in his boyish life
Pierre had not wholly escaped the maternal contagion. Yet often, in
calling at the old farmer's for Charles of some early winter mornings,
and meeting the painfully embarrassed, thin, feeble features of Mrs.
Millthorpe, and the sadly inquisitive and hopelessly half-envious
glances of the three little girls; and standing on the threshold, Pierre
would catch low, aged, life-weary groans from a recess out of sight
from the door; then would Pierre have some boyish inklings of something
else than the pure _povertiresque_ in poverty: some inklings of what it
might be, to be old, and poor, and worn, and rheumatic, with shivering
death drawing nigh, and present life itself but a dull and a chill! some
inklings of what it might be, for him who in youth had vivaciously
leaped from his bed, impatient to meet the earliest sun, and lose no
sweet drop of his life, now hating the beams he once so dearly loved;
turning round in his bed to the wall to avoid them; and still postponing
the foot which should bring him back to the dismal day; when the sun is
not gold, but copper; and the sky is not blue, but gray; and the blood,
like Rhenish wine, too long unquaffed by Death, grows thin and sour in
the veins.

Pierre had not forgotten that the augmented penury of the Millthorpe's
was, at the time we now retrospectively treat of, gravely imputed by the
gossiping frequenters of the Black Swan Inn, to certain insinuated moral
derelictions of the farmer. "The old man tipped his elbow too often,"
once said in Pierre's hearing an old bottle-necked fellow, performing
the identical same act with a half-emptied glass in his hand. But though
the form of old Millthorpe was broken, his countenance, however sad and
thin, betrayed no slightest sign of the sot, either past or present. He
never was publicly known to frequent the inn, and seldom quitted the few
acres he cultivated with his son. And though, alas, indigent enough, yet
was he most punctually honest in paying his little debts of shillings
and pence for his groceries. And though, heaven knows, he had plenty of
occasion for all the money he could possibly earn, yet Pierre
remembered, that when, one autumn, a hog was bought of him for the
servants' hall at the Mansion, the old man never called for his money
till the midwinter following; and then, as with trembling fingers he
eagerly clutched the silver, he unsteadily said, "I have no use for it
now; it might just as well have stood over." It was then, that chancing
to overhear this, Mrs. Glendinning had looked at the old man, with a
kindly and benignantly interested eye to the _povertiresque_; and
murmured, "Ah! the old English Knight is not yet out of his blood.
Bravo, old man!"

One day, in Pierre's sight, nine silent figures emerged from the door of
old Millthorpe; a coffin was put into a neighbor's farm-wagon; and a
procession, some thirty feet long, including the elongated pole and box
of the wagon, wound along Saddle Meadows to a hill, where, at last, old
Millthorpe was laid down in a bed, where the rising sun should affront
him no more. Oh, softest and daintiest of Holland linen is the motherly
earth! There, beneath the sublime tester of the infinite sky, like
emperors and kings, sleep, in grand state, the beggars and paupers of
earth! I joy that Death is this Democrat; and hopeless of all other real
and permanent democracies, still hug the thought, that though in life
some heads are crowned with gold, and some bound round with thorns, yet
chisel them how they will, head-stones are all alike.

This somewhat particular account of the father of young Millthorpe, will
better set forth the less immature condition and character of the son,
on whom had now descended the maintenance of his mother and sisters.
But, though the son of a farmer, Charles was peculiarly averse to hard
labor. It was not impossible that by resolute hard labor he might
eventually have succeeded in placing his family in a far more
comfortable situation than he had ever remembered them. But it was not
so fated; the benevolent State had in its great wisdom decreed
otherwise.

In the village of Saddle Meadows there was an institution, half
common-school and half academy, but mainly supported by a general
ordinance and financial provision of the government Here, not only were
the rudiments of an English education taught, but likewise some touch of
belles lettres, and composition, and that great American bulwark and
bore--elocution. On the high-raised, stage platform of the Saddle
Meadows Academy, the sons of the most indigent day-laborers were wont to
drawl out the fiery revolutionary rhetoric of Patrick Henry, or
gesticulate impetuously through the soft cadences of Drake's "Culprit
Fay." What wonder, then, that of Saturdays, when there was no elocution
and poesy, these boys should grow melancholy and disdainful over the
heavy, plodding handles of dung-forks and hoes?

At the age of fifteen, the ambition of Charles Millthorpe was to be
either an orator, or a poet; at any rate, a great genius of one sort or
other. He recalled the ancestral Knight, and indignantly spurned the
plow. Detecting in him the first germ of this inclination, old
Millthorpe had very seriously reasoned with his son; warning him against
the evils of his vagrant ambition. Ambition of that sort was either for
undoubted genius, rich boys, or poor boys, standing entirely alone in
the world, with no one relying upon them. Charles had better consider
the case; his father was old and infirm; he could not last very long; he
had nothing to leave behind him but his plow and his hoe; his mother was
sickly; his sisters pale and delicate; and finally, life was a fact, and
the winters in that part of the country exceedingly bitter and long.
Seven months out of the twelve the pastures bore nothing, and all cattle
must be fed in the barns. But Charles was a boy; advice often seems the
most wantonly wasted of all human breath; man will not take wisdom on
trust; may be, it is well; for such wisdom is worthless; we must find
the true gem for ourselves; and so we go groping and groping for many
and many a day.

Yet was Charles Millthorpe as affectionate and dutiful a boy as ever
boasted of his brain, and knew not that he possessed a far more
excellent and angelical thing in the possession of a generous heart. His
father died; to his family he resolved to be a second father, and a
careful provider now. But not by hard toil of his hand; but by gentler
practices of his mind. Already he had read many books--history, poetry,
romance, essays, and all. The manorial book-shelves had often been
honored by his visits, and Pierre had kindly been his librarian. Not to
lengthen the tale, at the age of seventeen, Charles sold the horse, the
cow, the pig, the plow, the hoe, and almost every movable thing on the
premises; and, converting all into cash, departed with his mother and
sisters for the city; chiefly basing his expectations of success on some
vague representations of an apothecary relative there resident. How he
and his mother and sisters battled it out; how they pined and
half-starved for a while; how they took in sewing; and Charles took in
copying; and all but scantily sufficed for a livelihood; all this may be
easily imagined. But some mysterious latent good-will of Fate toward
him, had not only thus far kept Charles from the Poor-House, but had
really advanced his fortunes in a degree. At any rate, that certain
harmless presumption and innocent egotism which have been previously
adverted to as sharing in his general character, these had by no means
retarded him; for it is often to be observed of the shallower men, that
they are the very last to despond. It is the glory of the bladder that
nothing can sink it; it is the reproach of a box of treasure, that once
overboard it must down.


II.

When arrived in the city, and discovering the heartless neglect of Glen,
Pierre,--looking about him for whom to apply to in this
strait,--bethought him of his old boy-companion Charlie, and went out to
seek him, and found him at last; he saw before him, a tall, well-grown,
but rather thin and pale yet strikingly handsome young man of
two-and-twenty; occupying a small dusty law-office on the third floor
of the older building of the Apostles; assuming to be doing a very
large, and hourly increasing business among empty pigeon-holes, and
directly under the eye of an unopened bottle of ink; his mother and
sisters dwelling in a chamber overhead; and himself, not only following
the law for a corporeal living, but likewise inter-linked with the
peculiar secret, theologico-politico-social schemes of the masonic order
of the seedy-coated Apostles; and pursuing some crude, transcendental
Philosophy, for both a contributory means of support, as well as for his
complete intellectual aliment.

Pierre was at first somewhat startled by his exceedingly frank and
familiar manner; all old manorial deference for Pierre was clean gone
and departed; though at the first shock of their encounter, Charlie
could not possibly have known that Pierre was cast off.

"Ha, Pierre! glad to see you, my boy! Hark ye, next month I am to
deliver an address before the Omega order of the Apostles. The Grand
Master, Plinlimmon, will be there. I have heard on the best authority
that he once said of me--'That youth has the Primitive Categories in
him; he is destined to astonish the world.' Why, lad, I have received
propositions from the Editors of the Spinozaist to contribute a weekly
column to their paper, and you know how very few can understand the
Spinozaist; nothing is admitted there but the Ultimate Transcendentals.
Hark now, in your ear; I think of throwing off the Apostolic disguise
and coming boldly out; Pierre! I think of stumping the State, and
preaching our philosophy to the masses.--When did you arrive in town?"

Spite of all his tribulations, Pierre could not restrain a smile at this
highly diverting reception; but well knowing the youth, he did not
conclude from this audacious burst of enthusiastic egotism that his
heart had at all corroded; for egotism is one thing, and selfishness
another. No sooner did Pierre intimate his condition to him, than
immediately, Charlie was all earnest and practical kindness; recommended
the Apostles as the best possible lodgment for him,--cheap, snug, and
convenient to most public places; he offered to procure a cart and see
himself to the transport of Pierre's luggage; but finally thought it
best to mount the stairs and show him the vacant rooms. But when these
at last were decided upon; and Charlie, all cheerfulness and alacrity,
started with Pierre for the hotel, to assist him in the removal;
grasping his arm the moment they emerged from the great arched door
under the tower of the Apostles; he instantly launched into his amusing
heroics, and continued the strain till the trunks were fairly in sight.

"Lord! my law-business overwhelms me! I must drive away some of my
clients; I must have my exercise, and this ever-growing business denies
it to me. Besides, I owe something to the sublime cause of the general
humanity; I must displace some of my briefs for my metaphysical
treatises. I can not waste all my oil over bonds and mortgages.--You
said you were married, I think?"

But without stopping for any reply, he rattled on. "Well, I suppose it
is wise after all. It settles, centralizes, and confirms a man, I have
heard.--No, I didn't; it is a random thought of my own, that!--Yes, it
makes the world definite to him; it removes his morbid _sub_jectiveness,
and makes all things _ob_jective; nine small children, for instance, may
be considered _ob_jective. Marriage, hey!--A fine thing, no doubt, no
doubt:--domestic--pretty--nice, all round. But I owe something to the
world, my boy! By marriage, I might contribute to the population of men,
but not to the census of mind. The great men are all bachelors, you
know. Their family is the universe: I should say the planet Saturn was
their elder son; and Plato their uncle.--So you are married?"

But again, reckless of answers, Charlie went on. "Pierre, a thought, my
boy;--a thought for you! You do not say it, but you hint of a low
purse. Now I shall help you to fill it--Stump the State on the Kantian
Philosophy! A dollar a head, my boy! Pass round your beaver, and you'll
get it. I have every confidence in the penetration and magnanimousness
of the people! Pierre, hark in your ear;--it's my opinion the world is
all wrong. Hist, I say--an entire mistake. Society demands an Avatar,--a
Curtius, my boy! to leap into the fiery gulf, and by perishing himself,
save the whole empire of men! Pierre, I have long renounced the
allurements of life and fashion. Look at my coat, and see how I spurn
them! Pierre! but, stop, have you ever a shilling! let's take a cold cut
here--it's a cheap place; I go here sometimes. Come, let's in."




BOOK XXI.

PIERRE IMMATURELY ATTEMPTS A MATURE WORK. TIDINGS FROM THE MEADOWS.
PLINLIMMON.


I.

We are now to behold Pierre permanently lodged in three lofty adjoining
chambers of the Apostles. And passing on a little further in time, and
overlooking the hundred and one domestic details, of how their internal
arrangements were finally put into steady working order; how poor Delly,
now giving over the sharper pangs of her grief, found in the lighter
occupations of a handmaid and familiar companion to Isabel, the only
practical relief from the memories of her miserable past; how Isabel
herself in the otherwise occupied hours of Pierre, passed some of her
time in mastering the chirographical incoherencies of his manuscripts,
with a view to eventually copying them out in a legible hand for the
printer; or went below stairs to the rooms of the Millthorpes, and in
the modest and amiable society of the three young ladies and their
excellent mother, found some little solace for the absence of Pierre;
or, when his day's work was done, sat by him in the twilight, and played
her mystic guitar till Pierre felt chapter after chapter born of its
wondrous suggestiveness; but alas! eternally incapable of being
translated into words; for where the deepest words end, there music
begins with its supersensuous and all-confounding intimations.

Disowning now all previous exertions of his mind, and burning in scorn
even those fine fruits of a care-free fancy, which, written at Saddle
Meadows in the sweet legendary time of Lucy and her love, he had
jealously kept from the publishers, as too true and good to be
published; renouncing all his foregone self, Pierre was now engaged in a
comprehensive compacted work, to whose speedy completion two tremendous
motives unitedly impelled;--the burning desire to deliver what he
thought to be new, or at least miserably neglected Truth to the world;
and the prospective menace of being absolutely penniless, unless by the
sale of his book, he could realize money. Swayed to universality of
thought by the widely-explosive mental tendencies of the profound events
which had lately befallen him, and the unprecedented situation in which
he now found himself; and perceiving, by presentiment, that most grand
productions of the best human intellects ever are built round a circle,
as atolls (_i. e._ the primitive coral islets which, raising themselves
in the depths of profoundest seas, rise funnel-like to the surface, and
present there a hoop of white rock, which though on the outside
everywhere lashed by the ocean, yet excludes all tempests from the quiet
lagoon within), digestively including the whole range of all that can be
known or dreamed; Pierre was resolved to give the world a book, which
the world should hail with surprise and delight. A varied scope of
reading, little suspected by his friends, and randomly acquired by a
random but lynx-eyed mind, in the course of the multifarious,
incidental, bibliographic encounterings of almost any civilized young
inquirer after Truth; this poured one considerable contributary stream
into that bottomless spring of original thought which the occasion and
time had caused to burst out in himself. Now he congratulated himself
upon all his cursory acquisitions of this sort; ignorant that in reality
to a mind bent on producing some thoughtful thing of absolute Truth, all
mere reading is apt to prove but an obstacle hard to overcome; and not
an accelerator helpingly pushing him along.

While Pierre was thinking that he was entirely transplanted into a new
and wonderful element of Beauty and Power, he was, in fact, but in one
of the stages of the transition. That ultimate element once fairly
gained, then books no more are needed for buoys to our souls; our own
strong limbs support us, and we float over all bottomlessnesses with a
jeering impunity. He did not see,--or if he did, he could not yet name
the true cause for it,--that already, in the incipiency of his work, the
heavy unmalleable element of mere book-knowledge would not congenially
weld with the wide fluidness and ethereal airiness of spontaneous
creative thought. He would climb Parnassus with a pile of folios on his
back. He did not see, that it was nothing at all to him, what other men
had written; that though Plato was indeed a transcendently great man in
himself, yet Plato must not be transcendently great to him (Pierre), so
long as he (Pierre himself) would also do something transcendently
great. He did not see that there is no such thing as a standard for the
creative spirit; that no one great book must ever be separately
regarded, and permitted to domineer with its own uniqueness upon the
creative mind; but that all existing great works must be federated in
the fancy; and so regarded as a miscellaneous and Pantheistic whole; and
then,--without at all dictating to his own mind, or unduly biasing it
any way,--thus combined, they would prove simply an exhilarative and
provocative to him. He did not see, that even when thus combined, all
was but one small mite, compared to the latent infiniteness and
inexhaustibility in himself; that all the great books in the world are
but the mutilated shadowings-forth of invisible and eternally unembodied
images in the soul; so that they are but the mirrors, distortedly
reflecting to us our own things; and never mind what the mirror may be,
if we would see the object, we must look at the object itself, and not
at its reflection.

But, as to the resolute traveler in Switzerland, the Alps do never in
one wide and comprehensive sweep, instantaneously reveal their full
awfulness of amplitude--their overawing extent of peak crowded on peak,
and spur sloping on spur, and chain jammed behind chain, and all their
wonderful battalionings of might; so hath heaven wisely ordained, that
on first entering into the Switzerland of his soul, man shall not at
once perceive its tremendous immensity; lest illy prepared for such an
encounter, his spirit should sink and perish in the lowermost snows.
Only by judicious degrees, appointed of God, does man come at last to
gain his Mont Blanc and take an overtopping view of these Alps; and even
then, the tithe is not shown; and far over the invisible Atlantic, the
Rocky Mountains and the Andes are yet unbeheld. Appalling is the soul of
a man! Better might one be pushed off into the material spaces beyond
the uttermost orbit of our sun, than once feel himself fairly afloat in
himself!

But not now to consider these ulterior things, Pierre, though strangely
and very newly alive to many before unregarded wonders in the general
world; still, had he not as yet procured for himself that enchanter's
wand of the soul, which but touching the humblest experiences in one's
life, straightway it starts up all eyes, in every one of which are
endless significancies. Not yet had he dropped his angle into the well
of his childhood, to find what fish might be there; for who dreams to
find fish in a well? the running stream of the outer world, there
doubtless swim the golden perch and the pickerel! Ten million things
were as yet uncovered to Pierre. The old mummy lies buried in cloth on
cloth; it takes time to unwrap this Egyptian king. Yet now, forsooth,
because Pierre began to see through the first superficiality of the
world, he fondly weens he has come to the unlayered substance. But, far
as any geologist has yet gone down into the world, it is found to
consist of nothing but surface stratified on surface. To its axis, the
world being nothing but superinduced superficies. By vast pains we mine
into the pyramid; by horrible gropings we come to the central room; with
joy we espy the sarcophagus; but we lift the lid--and no body is
there!--appallingly vacant as vast is the soul of a man!


II.

He had been engaged some weeks upon his book--in pursuance of his
settled plan avoiding all contact with any of his city-connections or
friends, even as in his social downfall they sedulously avoided seeking
him out--nor ever once going or sending to the post-office, though it
was but a little round the corner from where he was, since having
dispatched no letters himself, he expected none; thus isolated from the
world, and intent upon his literary enterprise, Pierre had passed some
weeks, when verbal tidings came to him, of three most momentous events.

First: his mother was dead.

Second: all Saddle Meadows was become Glen Stanly's.

Third: Glen Stanly was believed to be the suitor of Lucy; who,
convalescent from an almost mortal illness, was now dwelling at her
mother's house in town.

It was chiefly the first-mentioned of these events which darted a sharp
natural anguish into Pierre. No letter had come to him; no smallest ring
or memorial been sent him; no slightest mention made of him in the will;
and yet it was reported that an inconsolable grief had induced his
mother's mortal malady, and driven her at length into insanity, which
suddenly terminated in death; and when he first heard of that event,
she had been cold in the ground for twenty-five days.

How plainly did all this speak of the equally immense pride and grief of
his once magnificent mother; and how agonizedly now did it hint of her
mortally-wounded love for her only and best-beloved Pierre! In vain he
reasoned with himself; in vain remonstrated with himself; in vain sought
to parade all his stoic arguments to drive off the onslaught of natural
passion. Nature prevailed; and with tears that like acid burned and
scorched as they flowed, he wept, he raved, at the bitter loss of his
parent; whose eyes had been closed by unrelated hands that were hired;
but whose heart had been broken, and whose very reason been ruined, by
the related hands of her son.

For some interval it almost seemed as if his own heart would snap; his
own reason go down. Unendurable grief of a man, when Death itself gives
the stab, and then snatches all availments to solacement away. For in
the grave is no help, no prayer thither may go, no forgiveness thence
come; so that the penitent whose sad victim lies in the ground, for that
useless penitent his doom is eternal, and though it be Christmas-day
with all Christendom, with him it is Hell-day and an eaten liver
forever.

With what marvelous precision and exactitude he now went over in his
mind all the minutest details of his old joyous life with his mother at
Saddle Meadows. He began with his own toilet in the morning; then his
mild stroll into the fields; then his cheerful return to call his mother
in her chamber; then the gay breakfast--and so on, and on, all through
the sweet day, till mother and son kissed, and with light, loving hearts
separated to their beds, to prepare themselves for still another day of
affectionate delight. This recalling of innocence and joy in the hour of
remorsefulness and woe; this is as heating red-hot the pincers that tear
us. But in this delirium of his soul, Pierre could not define where
that line was, which separated the natural grief for the loss of a
parent from that other one which was born of compunction. He strove hard
to define it, but could not. He tried to cozen himself into believing
that all his grief was but natural, or if there existed any other, that
must spring--not from the consciousness of having done any possible
wrong--but from the pang at what terrible cost the more exalted virtues
are gained. Nor did he wholly fail in this endeavor. At last he
dismissed his mother's memory into that same profound vault where
hitherto had reposed the swooned form of his Lucy. But, as sometimes men
are coffined in a trance, being thereby mistaken for dead; so it is
possible to bury a tranced grief in the soul, erroneously supposing that
it hath no more vitality of suffering. Now, immortal things only can
beget immortality. It would almost seem one presumptive argument for the
endless duration of the human soul, that it is impossible in time and
space to kill any compunction arising from having cruelly injured a
departed fellow-being.

Ere he finally committed his mother to the profoundest vault of his
soul, fain would he have drawn one poor alleviation from a circumstance,
which nevertheless, impartially viewed, seemed equally capable either of
soothing or intensifying his grief. His mother's will, which without the
least mention of his own name, bequeathed several legacies to her
friends, and concluded by leaving all Saddle Meadows and its rent-rolls
to Glendinning Stanly; this will bore the date of the day immediately
succeeding his fatal announcement on the landing of the stairs, of his
assumed nuptials with Isabel. It plausibly pressed upon him, that as all
the evidences of his mother's dying unrelentingness toward him were
negative; and the only positive evidence--so to speak--of even that
negativeness, was the will which omitted all mention of Pierre;
therefore, as that will bore so significant a date, it must needs be
most reasonable to conclude, that it was dictated in the not yet
subsided transports of his mother's first indignation. But small
consolation was this, when he considered the final insanity of his
mother; for whence that insanity but from a hate-grief unrelenting, even
as his father must have become insane from a sin-grief irreparable? Nor
did this remarkable double-doom of his parents wholly fail to impress
his mind with presentiments concerning his own fate--his own hereditary
liability to madness. Presentiment, I say; but what is a presentiment?
how shall you coherently define a presentiment, or how make any thing
out of it which is at all lucid, unless you say that a presentiment is
but a judgment in disguise? And if a judgment in disguise, and yet
possessing this preternaturalness of prophecy, how then shall you escape
the fateful conclusion, that you are helplessly held in the six hands of
the Sisters? For while still dreading your doom, you foreknow it. Yet
how foreknow and dread in one breath, unless with this divine seeming
power of prescience, you blend the actual slimy powerlessness of
defense?

That his cousin, Glen Stanly, had been chosen by his mother to inherit
the domain of the Meadows, was not entirely surprising to Pierre. Not
only had Glen always been a favorite with his mother by reason of his
superb person and his congeniality of worldly views with herself, but
excepting only Pierre, he was her nearest surviving blood relation; and
moreover, in his christian name, bore the hereditary syllables,
Glendinning. So that if to any one but Pierre the Meadows must descend,
Glen, on these general grounds, seemed the appropriate heir.

But it is not natural for a man, never mind who he may be, to see a
noble patrimony, rightfully his, go over to a soul-alien, and that alien
once his rival in love, and now his heartless, sneering foe; for so
Pierre could not but now argue of Glen; it is not natural for a man to
see this without singular emotions of discomfort and hate. Nor in Pierre
were these feelings at all soothed by the report of Glen's renewed
attentions to Lucy. For there is something in the breast of almost
every man, which at bottom takes offense at the attentions of any other
man offered to a woman, the hope of whose nuptial love he himself may
have discarded. Fain would a man selfishly appropriate all the hearts
which have ever in any way confessed themselves his. Besides, in
Pierre's case, this resentment was heightened by Glen's previous
hypocritical demeanor. For now all his suspicions seemed abundantly
verified; and comparing all dates, he inferred that Glen's visit to
Europe had only been undertaken to wear off the pang of his rejection by
Lucy, a rejection tacitly consequent upon her not denying her affianced
relation to Pierre.

But now, under the mask of profound sympathy--in time, ripening into
love--for a most beautiful girl, ruffianly deserted by her betrothed,
Glen could afford to be entirely open in his new suit, without at all
exposing his old scar to the world. So at least it now seemed to Pierre.
Moreover, Glen could now approach Lucy under the most favorable possible
auspices. He could approach her as a deeply sympathizing friend, all
wishful to assuage her sorrow, but hinting nothing, at present, of any
selfish matrimonial intent; by enacting this prudent and unclamorous
part, the mere sight of such tranquil, disinterested, but indestructible
devotedness, could not but suggest in Lucy's mind, very natural
comparisons between Glen and Pierre, most deplorably abasing to the
latter. Then, no woman--as it would sometimes seem--no woman is utterly
free from the influence of a princely social position in her suitor,
especially if he be handsome and young. And Glen would come to her now
the master of two immense fortunes, and the heir, by voluntary election,
no less than by blood propinquity, to the ancestral bannered hall, and
the broad manorial meadows of the Glendinnings. And thus, too, the
spirit of Pierre's own mother would seem to press Glen's suit. Indeed,
situated now as he was Glen would seem all the finest part of Pierre,
without any of Pierre's shame; would almost seem Pierre himself--what
Pierre had once been to Lucy. And as in the case of a man who has lost a
sweet wife, and who long refuses the least consolation; as this man at
last finds a singular solace in the companionship of his wife's sister,
who happens to bear a peculiar family resemblance to the dead; and as
he, in the end, proposes marriage to this sister, merely from the force
of such magical associative influences; so it did not seem wholly out of
reason to suppose, that the great manly beauty of Glen, possessing a
strong related similitude to Pierre's, might raise in Lucy's heart
associations, which would lead her at least to seek--if she could not
find--solace for one now regarded as dead and gone to her forever, in
the devotedness of another, who would notwithstanding almost seem as
that dead one brought back to life.

Deep, deep, and still deep and deeper must we go, if we would find out
the heart of a man; descending into which is as descending a spiral
stair in a shaft, without any end, and where that endlessness is only
concealed by the spiralness of the stair, and the blackness of the
shaft.

As Pierre conjured up this phantom of Glen transformed into the seeming
semblance of himself; as he figured it advancing toward Lucy and raising
her hand in devotion; an infinite quenchless rage and malice possessed
him. Many commingled emotions combined to provoke this storm. But chief
of all was something strangely akin to that indefinable detestation
which one feels for any impostor who has dared to assume one's own name
and aspect in any equivocal or dishonorable affair; an emotion greatly
intensified if this impostor be known for a mean villain at bottom, and
also, by the freak of nature to be almost the personal duplicate of the
man whose identity he assumes. All these and a host of other distressful
and resentful fancies now ran through the breast of Pierre. All his
Faith-born, enthusiastic, high-wrought, stoic, and philosophic defenses,
were now beaten down by this sudden storm of nature in his soul. For
there is no faith, and no stoicism, and no philosophy, that a mortal man
can possibly evoke, which will stand the final test of a real
impassioned onset of Life and Passion upon him. Then all the fair
philosophic or Faith-phantoms that he raised from the mist, slide away
and disappear as ghosts at cock-crow. For Faith and philosophy are air,
but events are brass. Amidst his gray philosophizings, Life breaks upon
a man like a morning.

While this mood was on him, Pierre cursed himself for a heartless
villain and an idiot fool;--heartless villain, as the murderer of his
mother--idiot fool, because he had thrown away all his felicity; because
he had himself, as it were, resigned his noble birthright to a cunning
kinsman for a mess of pottage, which now proved all but ashes in his
mouth.

Resolved to hide these new, and--as it latently seemed to him--unworthy
pangs, from Isabel, as also their cause, he quitted his chamber,
intending a long vagabond stroll in the suburbs of the town, to wear off
his sharper grief, ere he should again return into her sight.


III.

As Pierre, now hurrying from his chamber, was rapidly passing through
one of the higher brick colonnades connecting the ancient building with
the modern, there advanced toward him from the direction of the latter,
a very plain, composed, manly figure, with a countenance rather pale if
any thing, but quite clear and without wrinkle. Though the brow and the
beard, and the steadiness of the head and settledness of the step
indicated mature age, yet the blue, bright, but still quiescent eye
offered a very striking contrast. In that eye, the gay immortal youth
Apollo, seemed enshrined; while on that ivory-throned brow, old Saturn
cross-legged sat. The whole countenance of this man, the whole air and
look of this man, expressed a cheerful content. Cheerful is the
adjective, for it was the contrary of gloom; content--perhaps
acquiescence--is the substantive, for it was not Happiness or Delight.
But while the personal look and air of this man were thus winning, there
was still something latently visible in him which repelled. That
something may best be characterized as non-Benevolence. Non-Benevolence
seems the best word, for it was neither Malice nor Ill-will; but
something passive. To crown all, a certain floating atmosphere seemed to
invest and go along with this man. That atmosphere seems only renderable
in words by the term Inscrutableness. Though the clothes worn by this
man were strictly in accordance with the general style of any
unobtrusive gentleman's dress, yet his clothes seemed to disguise this
man. One would almost have said, his very face, the apparently natural
glance of his very eye disguised this man.

Now, as this person deliberately passed by Pierre, he lifted his hat,
gracefully bowed, smiled gently, and passed on. But Pierre was all
confusion; he flushed, looked askance, stammered with his hand at his
hat to return the courtesy of the other; he seemed thoroughly upset by
the mere sight of this hat-lifting, gracefully bowing, gently-smiling,
and most miraculously self-possessed, non-benevolent man.

Now who was this man? This man was Plotinus Plinlimmon. Pierre had read
a treatise of his in a stage-coach coming to the city, and had heard him
often spoken of by Millthorpe and others as the Grand Master of a
certain mystic Society among the Apostles. Whence he came, no one could
tell. His surname was Welsh, but he was a Tennesseean by birth. He
seemed to have no family or blood ties of any sort. He never was known
to work with his hands; never to write with his hands (he would not even
write a letter); he never was known to open a book. There were no books
in his chamber. Nevertheless, some day or other he must have read books,
but that time seemed gone now; as for the sleazy works that went under
his name, they were nothing more than his verbal things, taken down at
random, and bunglingly methodized by his young disciples.

Finding Plinlimmon thus unfurnished either with books or pen and paper,
and imputing it to something like indigence, a foreign scholar, a rich
nobleman, who chanced to meet him once, sent him a fine supply of
stationery, with a very fine set of volumes,--Cardan, Epictetus, the
Book of Mormon, Abraham Tucker, Condorcet and the Zenda-Vesta. But this
noble foreign scholar calling next day--perhaps in expectation of some
compliment for his great kindness--started aghast at his own package
deposited just without the door of Plinlimmon, and with all fastenings
untouched.

"Missent," said Plotinus Plinlimmon placidly: "if any thing, I looked
for some choice Curaçoa from a nobleman like you. I should be very
happy, my dear Count, to accept a few jugs of choice Curaçoa."

"I thought that the society of which you are the head, excluded all
things of that sort"--replied the Count.

"Dear Count, so they do; but Mohammed hath his own dispensation."

"Ah! I see," said the noble scholar archly.

"I am afraid you do not see, dear Count"--said Plinlimmon; and instantly
before the eyes of the Count, the inscrutable atmosphere eddied and
eddied roundabout this Plotinus Plinlimmon.

His chance brushing encounter in the corridor was the first time that
ever Pierre had without medium beheld the form or the face of
Plinlimmon. Very early after taking chambers at the Apostles', he had
been struck by a steady observant blue-eyed countenance at one of the
loftiest windows of the old gray tower, which on the opposite side of
the quadrangular space, rose prominently before his own chamber. Only
through two panes of glass--his own and the stranger's--had Pierre
hitherto beheld that remarkable face of repose,--repose neither divine
nor human, nor any thing made up of either or both--but a repose
separate and apart--a repose of a face by itself. One adequate look at
that face conveyed to most philosophical observers a notion of something
not before included in their scheme of the Universe.

Now as to the mild sun, glass is no hindrance at all, but he transmits
his light and life through the glass; even so through Pierre's panes did
the tower face transmit its strange mystery.

Becoming more and more interested in this face, he had questioned
Millthorpe concerning it "Bless your soul"--replied Millthorpe--"that is
Plotinus Plinlimmon! our Grand Master, Plotinus Plinlimmon! By gad, you
must know Plotinus thoroughly, as I have long done. Come away with me,
now, and let me introduce you instanter to Plotinus Plinlimmon."

But Pierre declined; and could not help thinking, that though in all
human probability Plotinus well understood Millthorpe, yet Millthorpe
could hardly yet have wound himself into Plotinus;--though indeed
Plotinus--who at times was capable of assuming a very off-hand,
confidential, and simple, sophomorean air--might, for reasons best known
to himself, have tacitly pretended to Millthorpe, that he (Millthorpe)
had thoroughly wriggled himself into his (Plotinus') innermost soul.

A man will be given a book, and when the donor's back is turned, will
carelessly drop it in the first corner; he is not over-anxious to be
bothered with the book. But now personally point out to him the author,
and ten to one he goes back to the corner, picks up the book, dusts the
cover, and very carefully reads that invaluable work. One does not
vitally believe in a man till one's own two eyes have beheld him. If
then, by the force of peculiar circumstances, Pierre while in the
stage, had formerly been drawn into an attentive perusal of the work on
"Chronometricals and Horologicals;" how then was his original interest
heightened by catching a subsequent glimpse of the author. But at the
first reading, not being able--as he thought--to master the pivot-idea
of the pamphlet; and as every incomprehended idea is not only a
perplexity but a taunting reproach to one's mind, Pierre had at last
ceased studying it altogether; nor consciously troubled himself further
about it during the remainder of the journey. But still thinking now it
might possibly have been mechanically retained by him, he searched all
the pockets of his clothes, but without success. He begged Millthorpe to
do his best toward procuring him another copy; but it proved impossible
to find one. Plotinus himself could not furnish it.

Among other efforts, Pierre in person had accosted a limping half-deaf
old book-stall man, not very far from the Apostles'. "Have you the
'_Chronometrics_,' my friend?" forgetting the exact title.

"Very bad, very bad!" said the old man, rubbing his back;--"has had the
_chronic-rheumatics_ ever so long; what's good for 'em?"

Perceiving his mistake, Pierre replied that he did not know what was the
infallible remedy.

"Whist! let me tell ye, then, young 'un," said the old cripple, limping
close up to him, and putting his mouth in Pierre's ear--"Never catch
'em!--now's the time, while you're young:--never catch 'em!"

By-and-by the blue-eyed, mystic-mild face in the upper window of the old
gray tower began to domineer in a very remarkable manner upon Pierre.
When in his moods of peculiar depression and despair; when dark thoughts
of his miserable condition would steal over him; and black doubts as to
the integrity of his unprecedented course in life would most
malignantly suggest themselves; when a thought of the vanity of his
deep book would glidingly intrude; if glancing at his closet-window that
mystic-mild face met Pierre's; under any of these influences the effect
was surprising, and not to be adequately detailed in any possible words.

Vain! vain! vain! said the face to him. Fool! fool! fool! said the face
to him. Quit! quit! quit! said the face to him. But when he mentally
interrogated the face as to why it thrice said Vain! Fool! Quit! to him;
here there was no response. For that face did not respond to any thing.
Did I not say before that that face was something separate, and apart; a
face by itself? Now, any thing which is thus a thing by itself never
responds to any other thing. If to affirm, be to expand one's isolated
self; and if to deny, be to contract one's isolated self; then to
respond is a suspension of all isolation. Though this face in the tower
was so clear and so mild; though the gay youth Apollo was enshrined in
that eye, and paternal old Saturn sat cross-legged on that ivory brow;
yet somehow to Pierre the face at last wore a sort of malicious leer to
him. But the Kantists might say, that this was a _subjective_ sort of
leer in Pierre. Any way, the face seemed to leer upon Pierre. And now it
said to him--_Ass! ass! ass!_ This expression was insufferable. He
procured some muslin for his closet-window; and the face became
curtained like any portrait. But this did not mend the leer. Pierre knew
that still the face leered behind the muslin. What was most terrible was
the idea that by some magical means or other the face had got hold of
his secret. "Ay," shuddered Pierre, "the face knows that Isabel is not
my wife! And that seems the reason it leers."

Then would all manner of wild fancyings float through his soul, and
detached sentences of the "Chronometrics" would vividly recur to
him--sentences before but imperfectly comprehended, but now shedding a
strange, baleful light upon his peculiar condition, and emphatically
denouncing it. Again he tried his best to procure the pamphlet, to read
it now by the commentary of the mystic-mild face; again he searched
through the pockets of his clothes for the stage-coach copy, but in
vain.

And when--at the critical moment of quitting his chambers that morning
of the receipt of the fatal tidings--the face itself--the man
himself--this inscrutable Plotinus Plinlimmon himself--did visibly brush
by him in the brick corridor, and all the trepidation he had ever before
felt at the mild-mystic aspect in the tower window, now redoubled upon
him, so that, as before said, he flushed, looked askance, and stammered
with his saluting hand to his hat;--then anew did there burn in him the
desire of procuring the pamphlet. "Cursed fate that I should have lost
it"--he cried;--"more cursed, that when I did have it, and did read it,
I was such a ninny as not to comprehend; and now it is all too late!"

Yet--to anticipate here--when years after, an old Jew Clothesman
rummaged over a surtout of Pierre's--which by some means had come into
his hands--his lynx-like fingers happened to feel something foreign
between the cloth and the heavy quilted bombazine lining. He ripped open
the skirt, and found several old pamphlet pages, soft and worn almost to
tissue, but still legible enough to reveal the title--"Chronometricals
and Horologicals." Pierre must have ignorantly thrust it into his
pocket, in the stage, and it had worked through a rent there, and worked
its way clean down into the skirt, and there helped pad the padding. So
that all the time he was hunting for this pamphlet, he himself was
wearing the pamphlet. When he brushed past Plinlimmon in the brick
corridor, and felt that renewed intense longing for the pamphlet, then
his right hand was not two inches from the pamphlet.

Possibly this curious circumstance may in some sort illustrate his
self-supposed non-understanding of the pamphlet, as first read by him
in the stage. Could he likewise have carried about with him in his mind
the thorough understanding of the book, and yet not be aware that he so
understood it? I think that--regarded in one light--the final career of
Pierre will seem to show, that he _did_ understand it. And here it may
be randomly suggested, by way of bagatelle, whether some things that men
think they do not know, are not for all that thoroughly comprehended by
them; and yet, so to speak, though contained in themselves, are kept a
secret from themselves? The idea of Death seems such a thing.




BOOK XXII.

THE FLOWER-CURTAIN LIFTED FROM BEFORE A TROPICAL AUTHOR, WITH SOME
REMARKS ON THE TRANSCENDENTAL FLESH-BRUSH PHILOSOPHY.


I.

Some days passed after the fatal tidings from the Meadows, and at
length, somewhat mastering his emotions, Pierre again sits down in his
chamber; for grieve how he will, yet work he must. And now day succeeds
day, and week follows week, and Pierre still sits in his chamber. The
long rows of cooled brick-kilns around him scarce know of the change;
but from the fair fields of his great-great-great-grandfather's manor,
Summer hath flown like a swallow-guest; the perfidious wight, Autumn,
hath peeped in at the groves of the maple, and under pretense of
clothing them in rich russet and gold, hath stript them at last of the
slightest rag, and then ran away laughing; prophetic icicles depend from
the arbors round about the old manorial mansion--now locked up and
abandoned; and the little, round, marble table in the viny summer-house
where, of July mornings, he had sat chatting and drinking negus with his
gay mother, is now spread with a shivering napkin of frost; sleety
varnish hath encrusted that once gay mother's grave, preparing it for
its final cerements of wrapping snow upon snow; wild howl the winds in
the woods: it is Winter. Sweet Summer is done; and Autumn is done; but
the book, like the bitter winter, is yet to be finished.

That season's wheat is long garnered, Pierre; that season's ripe apples
and grapes are in; no crop, no plant, no fruit is out; the whole harvest
is done. Oh, woe to that belated winter-overtaken plant, which the
summer could not bring to maturity! The drifting winter snows shall
whelm it. Think, Pierre, doth not thy plant belong to some other and
tropical clime? Though transplanted to northern Maine, the orange-tree
of the Floridas will put forth leaves in that parsimonious summer, and
show some few tokens of fruitage; yet November will find no golden
globes thereon; and the passionate old lumber-man, December, shall peel
the whole tree, wrench it off at the ground, and toss it for a fagot to
some lime-kiln. Ah, Pierre, Pierre, make haste! make haste! force thy
fruitage, lest the winter force thee.

Watch yon little toddler, how long it is learning to stand by itself!
First it shrieks and implores, and will not try to stand at all, unless
both father and mother uphold it; then a little more bold, it must, at
least, feel one parental hand, else again the cry and the tremble; long
time is it ere by degrees this child comes to stand without any support.
But, by-and-by, grown up to man's estate, it shall leave the very mother
that bore it, and the father that begot it, and cross the seas, perhaps,
or settle in far Oregon lands. There now, do you see the soul. In its
germ on all sides it is closely folded by the world, as the husk folds
the tenderest fruit; then it is born from the world-husk, but still now
outwardly clings to it;--still clamors for the support of its mother the
world, and its father the Deity. But it shall yet learn to stand
independent, though not without many a bitter wail, and many a miserable
fall.

That hour of the life of a man when first the help of humanity fails
him, and he learns that in his obscurity and indigence humanity holds
him a dog and no man: that hour is a hard one, but not the hardest.
There is still another hour which follows, when he learns that in his
infinite comparative minuteness and abjectness, the gods do likewise
despise him, and own him not of their clan. Divinity and humanity then
are equally willing that he should starve in the street for all that
either will do for him. Now cruel father and mother have both let go his
hand, and the little soul-toddler, now you shall hear his shriek and his
wail, and often his fall.

When at Saddle Meadows, Pierre had wavered and trembled in those first
wretched hours ensuing upon the receipt of Isabel's letter; then
humanity had let go the hand of Pierre, and therefore his cry; but when
at last inured to this, Pierre was seated at his book, willing that
humanity should desert him, so long as he thought he felt a far higher
support; then, ere long, he began to feel the utter loss of that other
support, too; ay, even the paternal gods themselves did now desert
Pierre; the toddler was toddling entirely alone, and not without
shrieks.

If man must wrestle, perhaps it is well that it should be on the
nakedest possible plain.

The three chambers of Pierre at the Apostles' were connecting ones. The
first--having a little retreat where Delly slept--was used for the more
exacting domestic purposes: here also their meals were taken; the second
was the chamber of Isabel; the third was the closet of Pierre. In the
first--the dining room, as they called it--there was a stove which
boiled the water for their coffee and tea, and where Delly concocted
their light repasts. This was their only fire; for, warned again and
again to economize to the uttermost, Pierre did not dare to purchase any
additional warmth. But by prudent management, a very little warmth may
go a great way. In the present case, it went some forty feet or more. A
horizontal pipe, after elbowing away from above the stove in the
dining-room, pierced the partition wall, and passing straight through
Isabel's chamber, entered the closet of Pierre at one corner, and then
abruptly disappeared into the wall, where all further caloric--if
any--went up through the chimney into the air, to help warm the
December sun. Now, the great distance of Pierre's calorical stream from
its fountain, sadly impaired it, and weakened it. It hardly had the
flavor of heat. It would have had but very inconsiderable influence in
raising the depressed spirits of the most mercurial thermometer;
certainly it was not very elevating to the spirits of Pierre. Besides,
this calorical stream, small as it was, did not flow through the room,
but only entered it, to elbow right out of it, as some coquettish
maidens enter the heart; moreover, it was in the furthest corner from
the only place where, with a judicious view to the light, Pierre's
desk-barrels and board could advantageously stand. Often, Isabel
insisted upon his having a separate stove to himself; but Pierre would
not listen to such a thing. Then Isabel would offer her own room to him;
saying it was of no indispensable use to her by day; she could easily
spend her time in the dining-room; but Pierre would not listen to such a
thing; he would not deprive her of the comfort of a continually
accessible privacy; besides, he was now used to his own room, and must
sit by that particular window there, and no other. Then Isabel would
insist upon keeping her connecting door open while Pierre was employed
at his desk, that so the heat of her room might bodily go into his; but
Pierre would not listen to such a thing: because he must be religiously
locked up while at work; outer love and hate must alike be excluded
then. In vain Isabel said she would make not the slightest noise, and
muffle the point of the very needle she used. All in vain. Pierre was
inflexible here.

Yes, he was resolved to battle it out in his own solitary closet; though
a strange, transcendental conceit of one of the more erratic and
non-conforming Apostles,--who was also at this time engaged upon a
profound work above stairs, and who denied himself his full sufficiency
of food, in order to insure an abundant fire;--the strange conceit of
this Apostle, I say,--accidentally communicated to Pierre,--that,
through all the kingdoms of Nature, caloric was the great universal
producer and vivifyer, and could not be prudently excluded from the spot
where great books were in the act of creation; and therefore, he (the
Apostle) for one, was resolved to plant his head in a hot-bed of
stove-warmed air, and so force his brain to germinate and blossom, and
bud, and put forth the eventual, crowning, victorious flower;--though
indeed this conceit rather staggered Pierre--for in truth, there was no
small smack of plausible analogy in it--yet one thought of his purse
would wholly expel the unwelcome intrusion, and reinforce his own
previous resolve.

However lofty and magnificent the movements of the stars; whatever
celestial melodies they may thereby beget; yet the astronomers assure us
that they are the most rigidly methodical of all the things that exist.
No old housewife goes her daily domestic round with one millionth part
the precision of the great planet Jupiter in his stated and unalterable
revolutions. He has found his orbit, and stays in it; he has timed
himself, and adheres to his periods. So, in some degree with Pierre, now
revolving in the troubled orbit of his book.

Pierre rose moderately early; and the better to inure himself to the
permanent chill of his room, and to defy and beard to its face, the
cruelest cold of the outer air; he would--behind the curtain--throw down
the upper sash of his window; and on a square of old painted canvas,
formerly wrapping some bale of goods in the neighborhood, treat his
limbs, of those early December mornings, to a copious ablution, in water
thickened with incipient ice. Nor, in this stoic performance, was he at
all without company,--not present, but adjoiningly sympathetic; for
scarce an Apostle in all those scores and scores of chambers, but
undeviatingly took his daily December bath. Pierre had only to peep out
of his pane and glance round the multi-windowed, inclosing walls of the
quadrangle, to catch plentiful half-glimpses, all round him, of many a
lean, philosophical nudity, refreshing his meager bones with crash-towel
and cold water. "Quick be the play," was their motto: "Lively our
elbows, and nimble all our tenuities." Oh, the dismal echoings of the
raspings of flesh-brushes, perverted to the filing and polishing of the
merest ribs! Oh, the shuddersome splashings of pails of ice-water over
feverish heads, not unfamiliar with aches! Oh, the rheumatical
cracklings of rusted joints, in that defied air of December! for every
thick-frosted sash was down, and every lean nudity courted the zephyr!

Among all the innate, hyena-like repellants to the reception of any set
form of a spiritually-minded and pure archetypical faith, there is
nothing so potent in its skeptical tendencies, as that inevitable
perverse ridiculousness, which so often bestreaks some of the
essentially finest and noblest aspirations of those men, who disgusted
with the common conventional quackeries, strive, in their clogged
terrestrial humanities, after some imperfectly discerned, but heavenly
ideals: ideals, not only imperfectly discerned in themselves, but the
path to them so little traceable, that no two minds will entirely agree
upon it.

Hardly a new-light Apostle, but who, in superaddition to his
revolutionary scheme for the minds and philosophies of men, entertains
some insane, heterodoxical notions about the economy of his body. His
soul, introduced by the gentlemanly gods, into the supernal
society,--practically rejects that most sensible maxim of men of the
world, who chancing to gain the friendship of any great character, never
make that the ground of boring him with the supplemental acquaintance of
their next friend, who perhaps, is some miserable ninny. Love me, love
my dog, is only an adage for the old country-women who affectionately
kiss their cows. The gods love the soul of a man; often, they will
frankly accost it; but they abominate his body; and will forever cut it
dead, both here and hereafter. So, if thou wouldst go to the gods,
leave thy dog of a body behind thee. And most impotently thou strivest
with thy purifying cold baths, and thy diligent scrubbings with
flesh-brushes, to prepare it as a meet offering for their altar. Nor
shall all thy Pythagorean and Shellian dietings on apple-parings, dried
prunes, and crumbs of oat-meal cracker, ever fit thy body for heaven.
Feed all things with food convenient for them,--that is, if the food be
procurable. The food of thy soul is light and space; feed it then on
light and space. But the food of thy body is champagne and oysters; feed
it then on champagne and oysters; and so shall it merit a joyful
resurrection, if there is any to be. Say, wouldst thou rise with a
lantern jaw and a spavined knee? Rise with brawn on thee, and a most
royal corporation before thee; so shalt thou in that day claim
respectful attention. Know this: that while many a consumptive dietarian
has but produced the merest literary flatulencies to the world;
convivial authors have alike given utterance to the sublimest wisdom,
and created the least gross and most ethereal forms. And for men of
demonstrative muscle and action, consider that right royal epitaph which
Cyrus the Great caused to be engraved on his tomb--"I could drink a
great deal of wine, and it did me a great deal of good." Ah, foolish! to
think that by starving thy body, thou shalt fatten thy soul! Is yonder
ox fatted because yonder lean fox starves in the winter wood? And prate
not of despising thy body, while still thou flourisheth thy flesh-brush!
The finest houses are most cared for within; the outer walls are freely
left to the dust and the soot. Put venison in thee, and so wit shall
come out of thee. It is one thing in the mill, but another in the sack.

Now it was the continual, quadrangular example of those forlorn fellows,
the Apostles, who, in this period of his half-developments and
transitions, had deluded Pierre into the Flesh-Brush Philosophy, and had
almost tempted him into the Apple-Parings Dialectics. For all the long
wards, corridors, and multitudinous chambers of the Apostles' were
scattered with the stems of apples, the stones of prunes, and the shells
of peanuts. They went about huskily muttering the Kantian Categories
through teeth and lips dry and dusty as any miller's, with the crumbs of
Graham crackers. A tumbler of cold water was the utmost welcome to their
reception rooms; at the grand supposed Sanhedrim presided over by one of
the deputies of Plotinus Plinlimmon, a huge jug of Adam's Ale, and a
bushel-basket of Graham crackers were the only convivials. Continually
bits of cheese were dropping from their pockets, and old shiny apple
parchments were ignorantly exhibited every time they drew out a
manuscript to read you. Some were curious in the vintages of waters; and
in three glass decanters set before you, Fairmount, Croton, and
Cochituate; they held that Croton was the most potent, Fairmount a
gentle tonic, and Cochituate the mildest and least inebriating of all.
Take some more of the Croton, my dear sir! Be brisk with the Fairmount!
Why stops that Cochituate? So on their philosophical tables went round
their Port, their Sherry, and their Claret.

Some, further advanced, rejected mere water in the bath, as altogether
too coarse an element; and so, took to the Vapor-baths, and steamed
their lean ribs every morning. The smoke which issued from their heads,
and overspread their pages, was prefigured in the mists that issued from
under their door-sills and out of their windows. Some could not sit down
of a morning until after first applying the Vapor-bath outside and then
thoroughly rinsing out their interiors with five cups of cold Croton.
They were as faithfully replenished fire-buckets; and could they,
standing in one cordon, have consecutively pumped themselves into each
other, then the great fire of 1835 had been far less wide-spread and
disastrous.

Ah! ye poor lean ones! ye wretched Soakites and Vaporites! have not your
niggardly fortunes enough rinsed ye out, and wizened ye, but ye must
still be dragging the hose-pipe, and throwing still more cold Croton on
yourselves and the world? Ah! attach the screw of your hose-pipe to some
fine old butt of Madeira! pump us some sparkling wine into the world!
see, see, already, from all eternity, two-thirds of it have lain
helplessly soaking!


II.

With cheek rather pale, then, and lips rather blue, Pierre sits down to
his plank.

But is Pierre packed in the mail for St. Petersburg this morning? Over
his boots are his moccasins; over his ordinary coat is his surtout; and
over that, a cloak of Isabel's. Now he is squared to his plank; and at
his hint, the affectionate Isabel gently pushes his chair closer to it,
for he is so muffled, he can hardly move of himself. Now Delly comes in
with bricks hot from the stove; and now Isabel and she with devoted
solicitude pack away these comforting stones in the folds of an old blue
cloak, a military garment of the grandfather of Pierre, and tenderly
arrange it both over and under his feet; but putting the warm flagging
beneath. Then Delly brings still another hot brick to put under his
inkstand, to prevent the ink from thickening. Then Isabel drags the
camp-bedstead nearer to him, on which are the two or three books he may
possibly have occasion to refer to that day, with a biscuit or two, and
some water, and a clean towel, and a basin. Then she leans against the
plank by the elbow of Pierre, a crook-ended stick. Is Pierre a shepherd,
or a bishop, or a cripple? No, but he has in effect, reduced himself to
the miserable condition of the last. With the crook-ended cane,
Pierre--unable to rise without sadly impairing his manifold
intrenchments, and admitting the cold air into their innermost
nooks,--Pierre, if in his solitude, he should chance to need any thing
beyond the reach of his arm, then the crook-ended cane drags it to his
immediate vicinity.

Pierre glances slowly all round him; every thing seems to be right; he
looks up with a grateful, melancholy satisfaction at Isabel; a tear
gathers in her eye; but she conceals it from him by coming very close to
him, stooping over, and kissing his brow. 'Tis her lips that leave the
warm moisture there; not her tears, she says.

"I suppose I must go now, Pierre. Now don't, don't be so long to-day. I
will call thee at half-past four. Thou shalt not strain thine eyes in
the twilight."

"We will _see_ about that," says Pierre, with an unobserved attempt at a
very sad pun. "Come, thou must go. Leave me."

And there he is left.

Pierre is young; heaven gave him the divinest, freshest form of a man;
put light into his eye, and fire into his blood, and brawn into his arm,
and a joyous, jubilant, overflowing, upbubbling, universal life in him
everywhere. Now look around in that most miserable room, and at that
most miserable of all the pursuits of a man, and say if here be the
place, and this be the trade, that God intended him for. A rickety
chair, two hollow barrels, a plank, paper, pens, and infernally black
ink, four leprously dingy white walls, no carpet, a cup of water, and a
dry biscuit or two. Oh, I hear the leap of the Texan Camanche, as at
this moment he goes crashing like a wild deer through the green
underbrush; I hear his glorious whoop of savage and untamable health;
and then I look in at Pierre. If physical, practical unreason make the
savage, which is he? Civilization, Philosophy, Ideal Virtue! behold your
victim!


III.

Some hours pass. Let us peep over the shoulder of Pierre, and see what
it is he is writing there, in that most melancholy closet. Here, topping
the reeking pile by his side, is the last sheet from his hand, the
frenzied ink not yet entirely dry. It is much to our purpose; for in
this sheet, he seems to have directly plagiarized from his own
experiences, to fill out the mood of his apparent author-hero, Vivia,
who thus soliloquizes: "A deep-down, unutterable mournfulness is in me.
Now I drop all humorous or indifferent disguises, and all philosophical
pretensions. I own myself a brother of the clod, a child of the Primeval
Gloom. Hopelessness and despair are over me, as pall on pall. Away, ye
chattering apes of a sophomorean Spinoza and Plato, who once didst all
but delude me that the night was day, and pain only a tickle. Explain
this darkness, exorcise this devil, ye can not. Tell me not, thou
inconceivable coxcomb of a Goethe, that the universe can not spare thee
and thy immortality, so long as--like a hired waiter--thou makest
thyself 'generally useful.' Already the universe gets on without thee,
and could still spare a million more of the same identical kidney.
Corporations have no souls, and thy Pantheism, what was that? Thou wert
but the pretensious, heartless part of a man. Lo! I hold thee in this
hand, and thou art crushed in it like an egg from which the meat hath
been sucked."

Here is a slip from the floor.

"Whence flow the panegyrical melodies that precede the march of these
heroes? From what but from a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal!"

And here is a second.

"Cast thy eye in there on Vivia; tell me why those four limbs should be
clapt in a dismal jail--day out, day in--week out, week in--month out,
month in--and himself the voluntary jailer! Is this the end of
philosophy? This the larger, and spiritual life? This your boasted
empyrean? Is it for this that a man should grow wise, and leave off his
most excellent and calumniated folly?"

And here is a third.

"Cast thy eye in there on Vivia; he, who in the pursuit of the highest
health of virtue and truth, shows but a pallid cheek! Weigh his heart in
thy hand, oh, thou gold-laced, virtuoso Goethe! and tell me whether it
does not exceed thy standard weight!"

And here is a fourth.

"Oh God, that man should spoil and rust on the stalk, and be wilted and
threshed ere the harvest hath come! And oh God, that men that call
themselves men should still insist on a laugh! I hate the world, and
could trample all lungs of mankind as grapes, and heel them out of their
breath, to think of the woe and the cant,--to think of the Truth and the
Lie! Oh! blessed be the twenty-first day of December, and cursed be the
twenty-first day of June!"

From these random slips, it would seem, that Pierre is quite conscious
of much that is so anomalously hard and bitter in his lot, of much that
is so black and terrific in his soul. Yet that knowing his fatal
condition does not one whit enable him to change or better his
condition. Conclusive proof that he has no power over his condition. For
in tremendous extremities human souls are like drowning men; well enough
they know they are in peril; well enough they know the causes of that
peril;--nevertheless, the sea is the sea, and these drowning men do
drown.


IV.

From eight o'clock in the morning till half-past four in the evening,
Pierre sits there in his room;--eight hours and a half!

From throbbing neck-bands, and swinging belly-bands of gay-hearted
horses, the sleigh-bells chimingly jingle;--but Pierre sits there in his
room; Thanksgiving comes, with its glad thanks, and crisp turkeys;--but
Pierre sits there in his room; soft through the snows, on tinted Indian
moccasin, Merry Christmas comes stealing;--but Pierre sits there in his
room; it is New-Year's, and like a great flagon, the vast city overbrims
at all curb-stones, wharves, and piers, with bubbling jubilations;--but
Pierre sits there in his room:--Nor jingling sleigh-bells at throbbing
neck-band, or swinging belly-band; nor glad thanks, and crisp turkeys of
Thanksgiving; nor tinted Indian moccasin of Merry Christmas softly
stealing through the snows; nor New-Year's curb-stones, wharves, and
piers, over-brimming with bubbling jubilations:--Nor jingling
sleigh-bells, nor glad Thanksgiving, nor Merry Christmas, nor jubilating
New Year's:--Nor Bell, Thank, Christ, Year;--none of these are for
Pierre. In the midst of the merriments of the mutations of Time, Pierre
hath ringed himself in with the grief of Eternity. Pierre is a peak
inflexible in the heart of Time, as the isle-peak, Piko, stands
unassaultable in the midst of waves.

He will not be called to; he will not be stirred. Sometimes the intent
ear of Isabel in the next room, overhears the alternate silence, and
then the long lonely scratch of his pen. It is, as if she heard the busy
claw of some midnight mole in the ground. Sometimes, she hears a low
cough, and sometimes the scrape of his crook-handled cane.

Here surely is a wonderful stillness of eight hours and a half, repeated
day after day. In the heart of such silence, surely something is at
work. Is it creation, or destruction? Builds Pierre the noble world of
a new book? or does the Pale Haggardness unbuild the lungs and the life
in him?--Unutterable, that a man should be thus!

When in the meridian flush of the day, we recall the black apex of
night; then night seems impossible; this sun can never go down. Oh that
the memory of the uttermost gloom as an already tasted thing to the
dregs, should be no security against its return. One may be passibly
well one day, but the next, he may sup at black broth with Pluto.

Is there then all this work to one book, which shall be read in a very
few hours; and, far more frequently, utterly skipped in one second; and
which, in the end, whatever it be, must undoubtedly go to the worms?

Not so; that which now absorbs the time and the life of Pierre, is not
the book, but the primitive elementalizing of the strange stuff, which
in the act of attempting that book, have upheaved and upgushed in his
soul. Two books are being writ; of which the world shall only see one,
and that the bungled one. The larger book, and the infinitely better, is
for Pierre's own private shelf. That it is, whose unfathomable cravings
drink his blood; the other only demands his ink. But circumstances have
so decreed, that the one can not be composed on the paper, but only as
the other is writ down in his soul. And the one of the soul is
elephantinely sluggish, and will not budge at a breath. Thus Pierre is
fastened on by two leeches;--how then can the life of Pierre last? Lo!
he is fitting himself for the highest life, by thinning his blood and
collapsing his heart. He is learning how to live, by rehearsing the part
of death.

Who shall tell all the thoughts and feelings of Pierre in that desolate
and shivering room, when at last the idea obtruded, that the wiser and
the profounder he should grow, the more and the more he lessened the
chances for bread; that could he now hurl his deep book out of the
window, and fall to on some shallow nothing of a novel, composable in a
month at the longest, then could he reasonably hope for both
appreciation and cash. But the devouring profundities, now opened up in
him, consume all his vigor; would he, he could not now be entertainingly
and profitably shallow in some pellucid and merry romance. Now he sees,
that with every accession of the personal divine to him, some great
land-slide of the general surrounding divineness slips from him, and
falls crashing away. Said I not that the gods, as well as mankind, had
unhanded themselves from this Pierre? So now in him you behold the baby
toddler I spoke of; forced now to stand and toddle alone.

Now and then he turns to the camp-bed, and wetting his towel in the
basin, presses it against his brow. Now he leans back in his chair, as
if to give up; but again bends over and plods.

Twilight draws on, the summons of Isabel is heard from the door; the
poor, frozen, blue-lipped, soul-shivering traveler for St. Petersburg is
unpacked; and for a moment stands toddling on the floor. Then his hat,
and his cane, and out he sallies for fresh air. A most comfortless
staggering of a stroll! People gaze at him passing, as at some imprudent
sick man, willfully burst from his bed. If an acquaintance is met, and
would say a pleasant newsmonger's word in his ear, that acquaintance
turns from him, affronted at his hard aspect of icy discourtesy.
"Bad-hearted," mutters the man, and goes on.

He comes back to his chambers, and sits down at the neat table of Delly;
and Isabel soothingly eyes him, and presses him to eat and be strong.
But his is the famishing which loathes all food. He can not eat but by
force. He has assassinated the natural day; how then can he eat with an
appetite? If he lays him down, he can not sleep; he has waked the
infinite wakefulness in him; then how can he slumber? Still his book,
like a vast lumbering planet, revolves in his aching head. He can not
command the thing out of its orbit; fain would he behead himself, to
gain one night's repose. At last the heavy hours move on; and sheer
exhaustion overtakes him, and he lies still--not asleep as children and
day-laborers sleep--but he lies still from his throbbings, and for that
interval holdingly sheaths the beak of the vulture in his hand, and lets
it not enter his heart.

Morning comes; again the dropt sash, the icy water, the flesh-brush, the
breakfast, the hot bricks, the ink, the pen, the
from-eight-o'clock-to-half-past-four, and the whole general inclusive
hell of the same departed day.

Ah! shivering thus day after day in his wrappers and cloaks, is this the
warm lad that once sung to the world of the Tropical Summer?




BOOK XXIII.

A LETTER FOR PIERRE. ISABEL. ARRIVAL OF LUCY'S EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE
APOSTLES'.


I.

If a frontier man be seized by wild Indians, and carried far and deep
into the wilderness, and there held a captive, with no slightest
probability of eventual deliverance; then the wisest thing for that man
is to exclude from his memory by every possible method, the least images
of those beloved objects now forever reft from him. For the more
delicious they were to him in the now departed possession, so much the
more agonizing shall they be in the present recalling. And though a
strong man may sometimes succeed in strangling such tormenting memories;
yet, if in the beginning permitted to encroach upon him unchecked, the
same man shall, in the end, become as an idiot. With a continent and an
ocean between him and his wife--thus sundered from her, by whatever
imperative cause, for a term of long years;--the husband, if
passionately devoted to her, and by nature broodingly sensitive of soul,
is wise to forget her till he embrace her again;--is wise never to
remember her if he hear of her death. And though such complete suicidal
forgettings prove practically impossible, yet is it the shallow and
ostentatious affections alone which are bustling in the offices of
obituarian memories. _The love deep as death_--what mean those five
words, but that such love can not live, and be continually remembering
that the loved one is no more? If it be thus then in cases where entire
unremorsefulness as regards the beloved absent objects is presumed, how
much more intolerable, when the knowledge of their hopeless wretchedness
occurs, attended by the visitations of before latent upbraidings in the
rememberer as having been any way--even unwillingly--the producers of
their sufferings. There seems no other sane recourse for some moody
organizations on whom such things, under such circumstances intrude, but
right and left to flee them, whatever betide.

If little or nothing hitherto has been said of Lucy Tartan in reference
to the condition of Pierre after his departure from the Meadows, it has
only been because her image did not willingly occupy his soul. He had
striven his utmost to banish it thence; and only once--on receiving the
tidings of Glen's renewed attentions--did he remit the intensity of
those strivings, or rather feel them, as impotent in him in that hour of
his manifold and overwhelming prostration.

Not that the pale form of Lucy, swooning on her snow-white bed; not that
the inexpressible anguish of the shriek--"My heart! my heart!" would not
now at times force themselves upon him, and cause his whole being to
thrill with a nameless horror and terror. But the very thrillingness of
the phantom made him to shun it, with all remaining might of his spirit.

Nor were there wanting still other, and far more wonderful, though but
dimly conscious influences in the breast of Pierre, to meet as
repellants the imploring form. Not to speak of his being devoured by the
all-exacting theme of his book, there were sinister preoccupations in
him of a still subtler and more fearful sort, of which some inklings
have already been given.

It was while seated solitary in his room one morning; his flagging
faculties seeking a momentary respite; his head sideways turned toward
the naked floor, following the seams in it, which, as wires, led
straight from where he sat to the connecting door, and disappeared
beneath it into the chamber of Isabel; that he started at a tap at that
very door, followed by the wonted, low, sweet voice,--

"Pierre! a letter for thee--dost thou hear? a letter,--may I come in?"

At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension; for he was
precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer world,
that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but disastrous, or at
least, unwelcome ones. He assented; and Isabel entered, holding out the
billet in her hand.

"'Tis from some lady, Pierre; who can it be?--not thy mother though, of
that I am certain;--the expression of her face, as seen by me, not at
all answering to the expression of this handwriting here."

"My mother? from my mother?" muttered Pierre, in wild vacancy--"no! no!
it can scarce be from her.--Oh, she writes no more, even in her own
private tablets now! Death hath stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all
out, to scribble his own ineffaceable _hic jacet_ there!"

"Pierre!" cried Isabel, in affright.

"Give it me!" he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand. "Forgive me,
sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind; this book makes me mad.
There; I have it now"--in a tone of indifference--"now, leave me again.
It is from some pretty aunt, or cousin, I suppose," carelessly balancing
the letter in his hand.

Isabel quitted the room; the moment the door closed upon her, Pierre
eagerly split open the letter, and read:--


II.

"This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre I feel stronger
to-day; for to-day I have still more thought of thine own superhuman,
angelical strength; which so, has a very little been transferred to me.
Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with what words shall I write thee now;--now, when
still knowing nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer,
suspect. Grief,--deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. I
could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous blindness; but
that only came from my swoon. It was horrible and most murdersome; but
now I see thou wert right in being so instantaneous with me, and in
never afterward writing to me, Pierre; yes, now I see it, and adore thee
the more.

"Ah! thou too noble and angelical Pierre, now I feel that a being like
thee, can possibly have no love as other men love; but thou lovest as
angels do; not for thyself, but wholly for others. But still are we one,
Pierre; thou art sacrificing thyself, and I hasten to re-tie myself to
thee, that so I may catch thy fire, and all the ardent multitudinous
arms of our common flames may embrace. I will ask of thee nothing,
Pierre; thou shalt tell me no secret. Very right wert thou, Pierre,
when, in that ride to the hills, thou wouldst not swear the fond,
foolish oath I demanded. Very right, very right; now I see it.

"If then I solemnly vow, never to seek from thee any slightest thing
which thou wouldst not willingly have me know; if ever I, in all outward
actions, shall recognize, just as thou dost, the peculiar position of
that mysterious, and ever-sacred being;--then, may I not come and live
with thee? I will be no encumbrance to thee. I know just where thou art,
and how thou art living; and only just there, Pierre, and only just so,
is any further life endurable, or possible for me. She will never
know--for thus far I am sure thou thyself hast never disclosed it to
her what I once was to thee. Let it seem, as though I were some
nun-like cousin immovably vowed to dwell with thee in thy strange exile.
Show not to me,--never show more any visible conscious token of love. I
will never to thee. Our mortal lives, oh, my heavenly Pierre, shall
henceforth be one mute wooing of each other; with no declaration; no
bridal; till we meet in the pure realms of God's final blessedness for
us;--till we meet where the ever-interrupting and ever-marring world can
not and shall not come; where all thy hidden, glorious unselfishness
shall be gloriously revealed in the full splendor of that heavenly
light; where, no more forced to these cruelest disguises, she, _she_ too
shall assume her own glorious place, nor take it hard, but rather feel
the more blessed, when, there, thy sweet heart, shall be openly and
unreservedly mine. Pierre, Pierre, my Pierre!--only this thought, this
hope, this sublime faith now supports me. Well was it, that the swoon,
in which thou didst leave me, that long eternity ago--well was it, dear
Pierre, that though I came out of it to stare and grope, yet it was only
to stare and grope, and then I swooned again, and then groped again, and
then again swooned. But all this was vacancy; little I clutched; nothing
I knew; 'twas less than a dream, my Pierre, I had no conscious thought
of thee, love; but felt an utter blank, a vacancy;--for wert thou not
then utterly gone from me? and what could there then be left of poor
Lucy?--But now, this long, long swoon is past; I come out again into
life and light; but how could I come out, how could I any way _be_, my
Pierre, if not in thee? So the moment I came out of the long, long
swoon, straightway came to me the immortal faith in thee, which though
it could offer no one slightest possible argument of mere sense in thy
behalf, yet was it only the more mysteriously imperative for that, my
Pierre. Know then, dearest Pierre, that with every most glaring earthly
reason to disbelieve in thy love; I do yet wholly give myself up to the
unshakable belief in it. For I feel, that always is love love, and can
not know change, Pierre; I feel that heaven hath called me to a
wonderful office toward thee. By throwing me into that long, long
swoon,--during which, Martha tells me, I hardly ate altogether, three
ordinary meals,--by that, heaven, I feel now, was preparing me for the
superhuman office I speak of; was wholly estranging me from this earth,
even while I yet lingered in it; was fitting me for a celestial mission
in terrestrial elements. Oh, give to me of thine own dear strength! I am
but a poor weak girl, dear Pierre; one that didst once love thee but too
fondly, and with earthly frailty. But now I shall be wafted far upward
from that; shall soar up to thee, where thou sittest in thine own calm,
sublime heaven of heroism.

"Oh seek not to dissuade me, Pierre. Wouldst thou slay me, and slay me a
million times more? and never have done with murdering me? I must come!
I must come! God himself can not stay me, for it is He that commands
me.--I know all that will follow my flight to thee;--my amazed mother,
my enraged brothers, the whole taunting and despising world.--But thou
art my mother and my brothers, and all the world, and all heaven, and
all the universe to me--thou _art_ my Pierre. One only being does this
soul in me serve--and that is thee, Pierre.--So I am coming to thee,
Pierre, and quickly;--to-morrow it shall be, and never more will I quit
thee, Pierre. Speak thou immediately to her about me; thou shalt know
best what to say. Is there not some connection between our families,
Pierre? I have heard my mother sometimes trace such a thing out,--some
indirect cousinship. If thou approvest then, thou shalt say to her, I am
thy cousin, Pierre;--thy resolved and immovable nun-like cousin; vowed
to dwell with thee forever; to serve thee and her, to guard thee and her
without end. Prepare some little corner for me somewhere; but let it be
very near. Ere I come, I shall send a few little things,--the tools I
shall work by, Pierre, and so contribute to the welfare of all. Look for
me then. I am coming! I am coming, my Pierre; for a deep, deep voice
assures me, that all noble as thou art, Pierre, some terrible jeopardy
involves thee, which my continual presence only can drive away. I am
coming! I am coming!"

LUCY.


III.

When surrounded by the base and mercenary crew, man, too long wonted to
eye his race with a suspicious disdain, suddenly is brushed by some
angelical plume of humanity, and the human accents of superhuman love,
and the human eyes of superhuman beauty and glory, suddenly burst on his
being; then how wonderful and fearful the shock! It is as if the
sky-cope were rent, and from the black valley of Jehoshaphat, he caught
upper glimpses of the seraphim in the visible act of adoring.

He held the artless, angelical letter in his unrealizing hand; he
started, and gazed round his room, and out at the window, commanding the
bare, desolate, all-forbidding quadrangle, and then asked himself
whether this was the place that an angel should choose for its visit to
earth. Then he felt a vast, out-swelling triumphantness, that the girl
whose rare merits his intuitive soul had once so clearly and
passionately discerned, should indeed, in this most tremendous of all
trials, have acquitted herself with such infinite majesty. Then again,
he sunk utterly down from her, as in a bottomless gulf, and ran
shuddering through hideous galleries of despair, in pursuit of some
vague, white shape, and lo! two unfathomable dark eyes met his, and
Isabel stood mutely and mournfully, yet all-ravishingly before him.

He started up from his plank; cast off his manifold wrappings, and
crossed the floor to remove himself from the spot, where such sweet,
such sublime, such terrific revelations had been made him.

Then a timid little rap was heard at the door.

"Pierre, Pierre; now that thou art risen, may I not come in--just for a
moment, Pierre."

"Come in, Isabel."

She was approaching him in her wonted most strange and sweetly mournful
manner, when he retreated a step from her, and held out his arm, not
seemingly to invite, but rather as if to warn.

She looked fixedly in his face, and stood rooted.

"Isabel, another is coming to me. Thou dost not speak, Isabel. She is
coming to dwell with us so long as we live, Isabel. Wilt thou not
speak?"

The girl still stood rooted; the eyes, which she had first fixed on him,
still remained wide-openly riveted.

"Wilt thou not speak, Isabel?" said Pierre, terrified at her frozen,
immovable aspect, yet too terrified to manifest his own terror to her;
and still coming slowly near her. She slightly raised one arm, as if to
grasp some support; then turned her head slowly sideways toward the door
by which she had entered; then her dry lips slowly parted--"My bed; lay
me; lay me!"

The verbal effort broke her stiffening enchantment of frost; her thawed
form sloped sidelong into the air; but Pierre caught her, and bore her
into her own chamber, and laid her there on the bed.

"Fan me; fan me!"

He fanned the fainting flame of her life; by-and-by she turned slowly
toward him.

"Oh! that feminine word from thy mouth, dear Pierre:--that _she_, that
_she_!"

Pierre sat silent, fanning her.

"Oh, I want none in the world but thee, my brother--but thee, but thee!
and, oh God! am _I_ not enough for thee? Bare earth with my brother were
all heaven for me; but all my life, all my full soul, contents not my
brother."

Pierre spoke not; he but listened; a terrible, burning curiosity was in
him, that made him as heartless. But still all that she had said thus
far was ambiguous.

"Had I known--had I but known it before! Oh bitterly cruel to reveal it
now. That _she_! That _she_!"

She raised herself suddenly, and almost fiercely confronted him.

"Either thou hast told thy secret, or she is not worthy the commonest
love of man! Speak Pierre,--which?"

"The secret is still a secret, Isabel."

"Then is she worthless, Pierre, whoever she be--foolishly, madly
fond!--Doth not the world know me for thy wife?--She shall not come!
'Twere a foul blot on thee and me. She shall not come! One look from me
shall murder her, Pierre!"

"This is madness, Isabel. Look: now reason with me. Did I not before
opening the letter, say to thee, that doubtless it was from some pretty
young aunt or cousin?"

"Speak quick!--a cousin?"

"A cousin, Isabel."

"Yet, yet, that is not wholly out of the degree, I have heard. Tell me
more, and quicker! more! more!"

"A very strange cousin, Isabel; almost a nun in her notions. Hearing of
our mysterious exile, she, without knowing the cause, hath yet as
mysteriously vowed herself ours--not so much mine, Isabel, as ours,
_ours_--to serve _us_; and by some sweet heavenly fancying, to guide us
and guard us here."

"Then, possibly, it may be all very well, Pierre, my brother--my
_brother_--I can say that now?"

"Any,--all words are thine, Isabel; words and worlds with all their
containings, shall be slaves to thee, Isabel."

She looked eagerly and inquiringly at him; then dropped her eyes, and
touched his hand; then gazed again. "Speak so more to me, Pierre! Thou
art my brother; art thou not my brother?--But tell me now more of--her;
it is all newness, and utter strangeness to me, Pierre."

"I have said, my sweetest sister, that she has this wild, nun-like
notion in her. She is willful in it; in this letter she vows she must
and will come, and nothing on earth shall stay her. Do not have any
sisterly jealousy, then, my sister. Thou wilt find her a most gentle,
unobtrusive, ministering girl, Isabel. She will never name the
not-to-be-named things to thee; nor hint of them; because she knows them
not. Still, without knowing the secret, she yet hath the vague,
unspecializing sensation of the secret--the mystical presentiment,
somehow, of the secret. And her divineness hath drowned all womanly
curiosity in her; so that she desires not, in any way, to verify the
presentiment; content with the vague presentiment only; for in that, she
thinks, the heavenly summons to come to us, lies;--even there, in that,
Isabel. Dost thou now comprehend me?"

"I comprehend nothing, Pierre; there is nothing these eyes have ever
looked upon, Pierre, that this soul comprehended. Ever, as now, do I go
all a-grope amid the wide mysteriousness of things. Yes, she shall come;
it is only one mystery the more. Doth she talk in her sleep, Pierre?
Would it be well, if I slept with her, my brother?"

"On thy account; wishful for thy sake; to leave thee incommoded;
and--and--not knowing precisely how things really are;--she probably
anticipates and desires otherwise, my sister."

She gazed steadfastly at his outwardly firm, but not interiorly
unfaltering aspect; and then dropped her glance in silence.

"Yes, she shall come, my brother; she shall come. But it weaves its
thread into the general riddle, my brother.--Hath she that which they
call the memory, Pierre; the memory? Hath she that?"

"We all have the memory, my sister."

"Not all! not all!--poor Bell hath but very little. Pierre! I have seen
her in some dream. She is fair-haired--blue eyes--she is not quite so
tall as I, yet a very little slighter."

Pierre started. "Thou hast seen Lucy Tartan, at Saddle Meadows?"

"Is Lucy Tartan the name?--Perhaps, perhaps;--but also, in the dream,
Pierre; she came, with her blue eyes turned beseechingly on me; she
seemed as if persuading me from thee;--methought she was then more than
thy cousin;--methought she was that good angel, which some say, hovers
over every human soul; and methought--oh, methought that I was thy
other,--thy other angel, Pierre. Look: see these eyes,--this hair--nay,
this cheek;--all dark, dark, dark,--and she--the blue-eyed--the
fair-haired--oh, once the red-cheeked!"

She tossed her ebon tresses over her; she fixed her ebon eyes on him.

"Say, Pierre; doth not a funerealness invest me? Was ever hearse so
plumed?--Oh, God! that I had been born with blue eyes, and fair hair!
Those make the livery of heaven! Heard ye ever yet of a good angel with
dark eyes, Pierre?--no, no, no--all blue, blue, blue--heaven's own
blue--the clear, vivid, unspeakable blue, which we see in June skies,
when all clouds are swept by.--But the good angel shall come to thee,
Pierre. Then both will be close by thee, my brother; and thou mayest
perhaps elect,--elect!--She shall come; she shall come.--When is it to
be, dear Pierre?"

"To-morrow, Isabel. So it is here written."

She fixed her eye on the crumpled billet in his hand. "It were vile to
ask, but not wrong to suppose the asking.--Pierre,--no, I need not say
it,--wouldst thou?"

"No; I would not let thee read it, my sister; I would not; because I
have no right to--no right--no right;--that is it; no: I have no right.
I will burn it this instant, Isabel."

He stepped from her into the adjoining room; threw the billet into the
stove, and watching its last ashes, returned to Isabel.

She looked with endless intimations upon him.

"It is burnt, but not consumed; it is gone, but not lost. Through stove,
pipe, and flue, it hath mounted in flame, and gone as a scroll to
heaven! It shall appear again, my brother.--Woe is me--woe, woe!--woe is
me, oh, woe! Do not speak to me, Pierre; leave me now. She shall come.
The Bad angel shall tend the Good; she shall dwell with us, Pierre.
Mistrust me not; her considerateness to me, shall be outdone by mine to
her.--Let me be alone now, my brother."


IV.

Though by the unexpected petition to enter his privacy--a petition he
could scarce ever deny to Isabel, since she so religiously abstained
from preferring it, unless for some very reasonable cause, Pierre, in
the midst of those conflicting, secondary emotions, immediately
following the first wonderful effect of Lucy's strange letter, had been
forced to put on, toward Isabel, some air of assurance and understanding
concerning its contents; yet at bottom, he was still a prey to all
manner of devouring mysteries.

Soon, now, as he left the chamber of Isabel, these mysteriousnesses
re-mastered him completely; and as he mechanically sat down in the
dining-room chair, gently offered him by Delly--for the silent girl saw
that some strangeness that sought stillness was in him;--Pierre's mind
was revolving how it was possible, or any way conceivable, that Lucy
should have been inspired with such seemingly wonderful presentiments of
something assumed, or disguising, or non-substantial, somewhere and
somehow, in his present most singular apparent position in the eye of
world. The wild words of Isabel yet rang in his ears. It were an outrage
upon all womanhood to imagine that Lucy, however yet devoted to him in
her hidden heart, should be willing to come to him, so long as she
supposed, with the rest of the world, that Pierre was an ordinarily
married man. But how--what possible reason--what possible intimation
could she have had to suspect the contrary, or to suspect any thing
unsound? For neither at this present time, nor at any subsequent period,
did Pierre, or could Pierre, possibly imagine that in her marvelous
presentiments of Love she had any definite conceit of the precise nature
of the secret which so unrevealingly and enchantedly wrapt him. But a
peculiar thought passingly recurred to him here.

Within his social recollections there was a very remarkable case of a
youth, who, while all but affianced to a beautiful girl--one returning
his own throbbings with incipient passion--became somehow casually and
momentarily betrayed into an imprudent manifested tenderness toward a
second lady; or else, that second lady's deeply-concerned friends caused
it to be made known to the poor youth, that such committal tenderness
toward her he had displayed, nor had it failed to exert its natural
effect upon her; certain it is, this second lady drooped and drooped,
and came nigh to dying, all the while raving of the cruel infidelity of
her supposed lover; so that those agonizing appeals, from so really
lovely a girl, that seemed dying of grief for him, at last so moved the
youth, that--morbidly disregardful of the fact, that inasmuch as two
ladies claimed him, the prior lady had the best title to his hand--his
conscience insanely upbraided him concerning the second lady; he thought
that eternal woe would surely overtake him both here and hereafter if he
did not renounce his first love--terrible as the effort would be both to
him and her--and wed with the second lady; which he accordingly did;
while, through his whole subsequent life, delicacy and honor toward his
thus wedded wife, forbade that by explaining to his first love how it
was with him in this matter, he should tranquilize her heart; and,
therefore, in her complete ignorance, she believed that he was willfully
and heartlessly false to her; and so came to a lunatic's death on his
account.

This strange story of real life, Pierre knew to be also familiar to
Lucy; for they had several times conversed upon it; and the first love
of the demented youth had been a school-mate of Lucy's, and Lucy had
counted upon standing up with her as bridesmaid. Now, the passing idea
was self-suggested to Pierre, whether into Lucy's mind some such conceit
as this, concerning himself and Isabel, might not possibly have stolen.
But then again such a supposition proved wholly untenable in the end;
for it did by no means suffice for a satisfactory solution of the
absolute motive of the extraordinary proposed step of Lucy; nor indeed
by any ordinary law of propriety, did it at all seem to justify that
step. Therefore, he know not what to think; hardly what to dream.
Wonders, nay, downright miracles and no less were sung about Love; but
here was the absolute miracle itself--the out-acted miracle. For
infallibly certain he inwardly felt, that whatever her strange conceit;
whatever her enigmatical delusion; whatever her most secret and
inexplicable motive; still Lucy in her own virgin heart remained
transparently immaculate, without shadow of flaw or vein. Nevertheless,
what inconceivable conduct this was in her, which she in her letter so
passionately proposed! Altogether, it amazed him; it confounded him.

Now, that vague, fearful feeling stole into him, that, rail as all
atheists will, there is a mysterious, inscrutable divineness in the
world--a God--a Being positively present everywhere;--nay, He is now in
this room; the air did part when I here sat down. I displaced the Spirit
then--condensed it a little off from this spot. He looked
apprehensively around him; he felt overjoyed at the sight of the
humanness of Delly.

While he was thus plunged into this mysteriousness, a knock was heard at
the door.

Delly hesitatingly rose--"Shall I let any one in, sir?--I think it is
Mr. Millthorpe's knock."

"Go and see--go and see"--said Pierre, vacantly.

The moment the door was opened, Millthorpe--for it was he--catching a
glimpse of Pierre's seated form, brushed past Delly, and loudly entered
the room.

"Ha, ha! well, my boy, how comes on the Inferno? That is it you are
writing; one is apt to look black while writing Infernoes; you always
loved Dante. My lad! I have finished ten metaphysical treatises; argued
five cases before the court; attended all our society's meetings;
accompanied our great Professor, Monsieur Volvoon, the lecturer, through
his circuit in the philosophical saloons, sharing all the honors of his
illustrious triumph; and by the way, let me tell you, Volvoon secretly
gives me even more credit than is my due; for 'pon my soul, I did not
help write more than one half, at most, of his Lectures;
edited--anonymously, though--a learned, scientific work on 'The Precise
Cause of the Modifications in the Undulatory Motion in Waves,' a
posthumous work of a poor fellow--fine lad he was, too--a friend of
mine. Yes, here I have been doing all this, while you still are
hammering away at that one poor plaguy Inferno! Oh, there's a secret in
dispatching these things; patience! patience! you will yet learn the
secret. Time! time! I can't teach it to you, my boy, but Time can: I
wish I could, but I can't."

There was another knock at the door.

"Oh!" cried Millthorpe, suddenly turning round to it, "I forgot, my boy.
I came to tell you that there is a porter, with some queer things,
inquiring for you. I happened to meet him down stairs in the corridors,
and I told him to follow me up--I would show him the road; here he is;
let him in, let him in, good Delly, my girl."

Thus far, the rattlings of Millthorpe, if producing any effect at all,
had but stunned the averted Pierre. But now he started to his feet. A
man with his hat on, stood in the door, holding an easel before him.

"Is this Mr. Glendinning's room, gentlemen?"

"Oh, come in, come in," cried Millthorpe, "all right."

"Oh! is that _you_, sir? well, well, then;" and the man set down the
easel.

"Well, my boy," exclaimed Millthorpe to Pierre; "you are in the Inferno
dream yet. Look; that's what people call an _easel_, my boy. An _easel_,
an _easel_--not a _weasel_; you look at it as though you thought it a
weasel. Come; wake up, wake up! You ordered it, I suppose, and here it
is. Going to paint and illustrate the Inferno, as you go along, I
suppose. Well, my friends tell me it is a great pity my own things aint
illustrated. But I can't afford it. There now is that Hymn to the Niger,
which I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago--that would be fine
for illustrations."

"Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire?" said Pierre now, in a slow, icy
tone, to the porter.

"Mr. Glendinning, sir; all right, aint it?"

"Perfectly," said Pierre mechanically, and casting another strange,
rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. "But something seems strangely
wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it:--Villain!--the vines! Thou hast
torn the green heart-strings! Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of
the sweet arbor wherein she once nestled! Thou besotted, heartless hind
and fiend, dost thou so much as dream in thy shriveled liver of the
eternal mischief thou hast done? Restore thou the green vines! untrample
them, thou accursed!--Oh my God, my God, trampled vines pounded and
crushed in all fibers, how can they live over again, even though they be
replanted! Curse thee, thou!--Nay, nay," he added moodily--"I was but
wandering to myself." Then rapidly and mockingly--"Pardon,
pardon!--porter; I most humbly crave thy most haughty pardon." Then
imperiously--"Come, stir thyself, man; thou hast more below: bring all
up."

As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe--"Is he
safe?--shall I bring 'em?"

"Oh certainly," smiled Millthorpe: "I'll look out for him; he's never
really dangerous when I'm present; there, go!"

Two trunks now followed, with "L. T." blurredly marked upon the ends.

"Is that all, my man?" said Pierre, as the trunks were being put down
before him; "well, how much?"--that moment his eyes first caught the
blurred letters.

"Prepaid, sir; but no objection to more."

Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eying the blurred
letters; his body contorted, and one side drooping, as though that
moment half-way down-stricken with a paralysis, and yet unconscious of
the stroke.

His two companions, momentarily stood motionless in those respective
attitudes, in which they had first caught sight of the remarkable change
that had come over him. But, as if ashamed of having been thus affected,
Millthorpe summoning a loud, merry voice, advanced toward Pierre, and,
tapping his shoulder, cried, "Wake up, wake up, my boy!--He says he is
prepaid, but no objection to more."

"Prepaid;--what's that? Go, go, and jabber to apes!"

"A curious young gentleman, is he not?" said Millthorpe lightly to the
porter;--"Look you, my boy, I'll repeat:--He says he's prepaid, but no
objection to more."

"Ah?--take that then," said Pierre, vacantly putting something into the
porter's hand.

"And what shall I do with this, sir?" said the porter, staring.

"Drink a health; but not mine; that were mockery!"

"With a key, sir? This is a key you gave me."

"Ah!--well, you at least shall not have the thing that unlocks me. Give
me the key, and take this."

"Ay, ay!--here's the chink! Thank'ee sir, thank'ee. This'll drink. I
aint called a porter for nothing; Stout's the word; 2151 is my number;
any jobs, call on me."

"Do you ever cart a coffin, my man?" said Pierre.

"'Pon my soul!" cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, "if you aint writing
an Inferno, then--but never mind. Porter! this gentleman is under
medical treatment at present. You had better--ab'--you
understand--'squatulate, porter! There, my boy, he is gone; I understand
how to manage these fellows; there's a trick in it, my boy--an
off-handed sort of what d'ye call it?--you understand--the trick! the
trick!--the whole world's a trick. Know the trick of it, all's right;
don't know, all's wrong. Ha! ha!"

"The porter is gone then?" said Pierre, calmly. "Well, Mr. Millthorpe,
you will have the goodness to follow him."

"Rare joke! admirable!--Good morning, sir. Ha, ha!"

And with his unruffleable hilariousness, Millthorpe quitted the room.

But hardly had the door closed upon him, nor had he yet removed his hand
from its outer knob, when suddenly it swung half open again, and
thrusting his fair curly head within, Millthorpe cried: "By the way, my
boy, I have a word for you. You know that greasy fellow who has been
dunning you so of late. Well, be at rest there; he's paid. I was
suddenly made flush yesterday:--regular flood-tide. You can return it
any day, you know--no hurry; that's all.--But, by the way,--as you look
as though you were going to have company here--just send for me in case
you want to use me--any bedstead to put up, or heavy things to be lifted
about. Don't you and the women do it, now, mind! That's all again.
Addios, my boy. Take care of yourself!"

"Stay!" cried Pierre, reaching forth one hand, but moving neither
foot--"Stay!"--in the midst of all his prior emotions struck by these
singular traits in Millthorpe. But the door was abruptly closed; and
singing Fa, la, la: Millthorpe in his seedy coat went tripping down the
corridor.

"Plus heart, minus head," muttered Pierre, his eyes fixed on the door.
"Now, by heaven! the god that made Millthorpe was both a better and a
greater than the god that made Napoleon or Byron.--Plus head, minus
heart--Pah! the brains grow maggoty without a heart; but the heart's the
preserving salt itself, and can keep sweet without the head.--Delly!"

"Sir?"

"My cousin Miss Tartan is coming here to live with us, Delly. That
easel,--those trunks are hers."

"Good heavens!--coming here?--your cousin?--Miss Tartan?"

"Yes, I thought you must have heard of her and me;--but it was broken
off; Delly."

"Sir? Sir?"

"I have no explanation, Delly; and from you, I must have no amazement.
My cousin,--mind, my _cousin_, Miss Tartan, is coming to live with us.
The next room to this, on the other side there, is unoccupied. That room
shall be hers. You must wait upon her, too, Delly."

"Certainly sir, certainly; I will do any thing;" said Delly trembling;
"but,--but--does Mrs. Glendin-din--does my mistress know this?"

"My wife knows all"--said Pierre sternly. "I will go down and get the
key of the room; and you must sweep it out."

"What is to be put into it, sir?" said Delly. "Miss Tartan--why, she is
used to all sorts of fine things,--rich
carpets--wardrobes--mirrors--curtains;--why, why, why!"

"Look," said Pierre, touching an old rug with his foot;--"here is a bit
of carpet; drag that into her room; here is a chair, put that in; and
for a bed,--ay, ay," he muttered to himself; "I have made it for her,
and she ignorantly lies on it now!--as made--so lie. Oh God!"

"Hark! my mistress is calling"--cried Delly, moving toward the opposite
room.

"Stay!"--cried Pierre, grasping her shoulder; "if both called at one
time from these opposite chambers, and both were swooning, which door
would you first fly to?"

The girl gazed at him uncomprehendingly and affrighted a moment; and
then said,--"This one, sir"--out of mere confusion perhaps, putting her
hand on Isabel's latch.

"It is well. Now go."

He stood in an intent unchanged attitude till Delly returned.

"How is my wife, now?"

Again startled by the peculiar emphasis placed on the magical word
_wife_, Delly, who had long before this, been occasionally struck with
the infrequency of his using that term; she looked at him perplexedly,
and said half-unconsciously--

"Your wife, sir?"

"Ay, is she not?"

"God grant that she be--Oh, 'tis most cruel to ask that of poor, poor
Delly, sir!"

"Tut for thy tears! Never deny it again then!--I swear to heaven, she
is!"

With these wild words, Pierre seized his hat, and departed the room,
muttering something about bringing the key of the additional chamber.

As the door closed on him, Delly dropped on her knees. She lifted her
head toward the ceiling, but dropped it again, as if tyrannically awed
downward, and bent it low over, till her whole form tremulously cringed
to the floor.

"God that made me, and that wast not so hard to me as wicked Delly
deserved,--God that made me, I pray to thee! ward it off from me, if it
be coming to me. Be not deaf to me; these stony walls--Thou canst hear
through them. Pity! pity!--mercy, my God!--If they are not married; if
I, penitentially seeking to be pure, am now but the servant to a greater
sin, than I myself committed: then, pity! pity! pity! pity! pity! Oh God
that made me,--See me, see me here--what can Delly do? If I go hence,
none will take me in but villains. If I stay, then--for stay I must--and
they be not married,--then pity, pity, pity, pity, pity!"




BOOK XXIV.

LUCY AT THE APOSTLES.


I.

Next morning, the recently appropriated room adjoining on the other side
of the dining-room, presented a different aspect from that which met the
eye of Delly upon first unlocking it with Pierre on the previous
evening. Two squares of faded carpeting of different patterns, covered
the middle of the floor, leaving, toward the surbase, a wide, blank
margin around them. A small glass hung in the pier; beneath that, a
little stand, with a foot or two of carpet before it. In one corner was
a cot, neatly equipped with bedding. At the outer side of the cot,
another strip of carpeting was placed. Lucy's delicate feet should not
shiver on the naked floor.

Pierre, Isabel, and Delly were standing in the room; Isabel's eyes were
fixed on the cot.

"I think it will be pretty cosy now," said Delly, palely glancing all
round, and then adjusting the pillow anew.

"There is no warmth, though," said Isabel. "Pierre, there is no stove in
the room. She will be very cold. The pipe--can we not send it this way?"
And she looked more intently at him, than the question seemed to
warrant.

"Let the pipe stay where it is, Isabel," said Pierre, answering her own
pointed gaze. "The dining-room door can stand open. She never liked
sleeping in a heated room. Let all be; it is well. Eh! but there is a
grate here, I see. I will buy coals. Yes, yes--that can be easily done;
a little fire of a morning--the expense will be nothing. Stay, we will
have a little fire here now for a welcome. She shall always have fire."

"Better change the pipe, Pierre," said Isabel, "that will be permanent,
and save the coals."

"It shall not be done, Isabel. Doth not that pipe and that warmth go
into thy room? Shall I rob my wife, good Delly, even to benefit my most
devoted and true-hearted cousin?"

"Oh! I should say not, sir; not at all," said Delly hysterically.

A triumphant fire flashed in Isabel's eye; her full bosom arched out;
but she was silent.

"She may be here, now, at any moment, Isabel," said Pierre; "come, we
will meet her in the dining-room; that is our reception-place, thou
knowest."

So the three went into the dining-room.


II.

They had not been there long, when Pierre, who had been pacing up and
down, suddenly paused, as if struck by some laggard thought, which had
just occurred to him at the eleventh hour. First he looked toward Delly,
as if about to bid her quit the apartment, while he should say something
private to Isabel; but as if, on a second thought, holding the contrary
of this procedure most advisable, he, without preface, at once addressed
Isabel, in his ordinary conversational tone, so that Delly could not but
plainly hear him, whether she would or no.

"My dear Isabel, though, as I said to thee before, my cousin, Miss
Tartan, that strange, and willful, nun-like girl, is at all hazards,
mystically resolved to come and live with us, yet it must be quite
impossible that her friends can approve in her such a singular step; a
step even more singular, Isabel, than thou, in thy unsophisticatedness,
can'st at all imagine. I shall be immensely deceived if they do not, to
their very utmost, strive against it. Now what I am going to add may be
quite unnecessary, but I can not avoid speaking it, for all that."

Isabel with empty hands sat silent, but intently and expectantly eying
him; while behind her chair, Delly was bending her face low over her
knitting--which she had seized so soon as Pierre had begun speaking--and
with trembling fingers was nervously twitching the points of her long
needles. It was plain that she awaited Pierre's accents with hardly much
less eagerness than Isabel. Marking well this expression in Delly, and
apparently not unpleased with it, Pierre continued; but by no slightest
outward tone or look seemed addressing his remarks to any one but
Isabel.

"Now what I mean, dear Isabel, is this: if that very probable hostility
on the part of Miss Tartan's friends to her fulfilling her strange
resolution--if any of that hostility should chance to be manifested
under thine eye, then thou certainly wilt know how to account for it;
and as certainly wilt draw no inference from it in the minutest
conceivable degree involving any thing sinister in me. No, I am sure
thou wilt not, my dearest Isabel. For, understand me, regarding this
strange mood in my cousin as a thing wholly above my comprehension, and
indeed regarding my poor cousin herself as a rapt enthusiast in some
wild mystery utterly unknown to me; and unwilling ignorantly to
interfere in what almost seems some supernatural thing, I shall not
repulse her coming, however violently her friends may seek to stay it. I
shall not repulse, as certainly as I have not invited. But a neutral
attitude sometimes seems a suspicious one. Now what I mean is this: let
all such vague suspicions of me, if any, be confined to Lucy's friends;
but let not such absurd misgivings come near my dearest Isabel, to give
the least uneasiness. Isabel! tell me; have I not now said enough to
make plain what I mean? Or, indeed, is not all I have said wholly
unnecessary; seeing that when one feels deeply conscientious, one is
often apt to seem superfluously, and indeed unpleasantly and
unbeseemingly scrupulous? Speak, my own Isabel,"--and he stept nearer to
her, reaching forth his arm.

"Thy hand is the caster's ladle, Pierre, which holds me entirely fluid.
Into thy forms and slightest moods of thought, thou pourest me; and I
there solidify to that form, and take it on, and thenceforth wear it,
till once more thou moldest me anew. If what thou tellest me be thy
thought, then how can I help its being mine, my Pierre?"

"The gods made thee of a holyday, when all the common world was done,
and shaped thee leisurely in elaborate hours, thou paragon!"

So saying, in a burst of admiring love and wonder, Pierre paced the
room; while Isabel sat silent, leaning on her hand, and half-vailed with
her hair. Delly's nervous stitches became less convulsive. She seemed
soothed; some dark and vague conceit seemed driven out of her by
something either directly expressed by Pierre, or inferred from his
expressions.


III.

"Pierre! Pierre!--Quick! Quick!--They are dragging me back!--oh, quick,
dear Pierre!"

"What is that?" swiftly cried Isabel, rising to her feet, and amazedly
glancing toward the door leading into the corridor.

But Pierre darted from the room, prohibiting any one from following him.

Half-way down the stairs, a slight, airy, almost unearthly figure was
clinging to the balluster; and two young men, one in naval uniform, were
vainly seeking to remove the two thin white hands without hurting them.
They were Glen Stanly, and Frederic, the elder brother of Lucy.

In a moment, Pierre's hands were among the rest.

"Villain!--Damn thee!" cried Frederic; and letting go the hand of his
sister, he struck fiercely at Pierre.

But the blow was intercepted by Pierre.

"Thou hast bewitched, thou damned juggler, the sweetest angel! Defend
thyself!"

"Nay, nay," cried Glen, catching the drawn rapier of the frantic
brother, and holding him in his powerful grasp; "he is unarmed; this is
no time or place to settle our feud with him. Thy sister,--sweet
Lucy--let us save her first, and then what thou wilt. Pierre
Glendinning--if thou art but the little finger of a man--begone with
thee from hence! Thy depravity, thy pollutedness, is that of a
fiend!--Thou canst not desire this thing:--the sweet girl is mad!"

Pierre stepped back a little, and looked palely and haggardly at all
three.

"I render no accounts: I am what I am. This sweet girl--this angel whom
ye two defile by your touches--she is of age by the law:--she is her own
mistress by the law. And now, I swear she shall have her will! Unhand
the girl! Let her stand alone. See; she will faint; let her go, I say!"
And again his hands were among them.

Suddenly, as they all, for the one instant vaguely struggled, the pale
girl drooped, and fell sideways toward Pierre; and, unprepared for this,
the two opposite champions, unconsciously relinquished their hold,
tripped, and stumbled against each other, and both fell on the stairs.
Snatching Lucy in his arms, Pierre darted from them; gained the door;
drove before him Isabel and Delly,--who, affrighted, had been lingering
there;--and bursting into the prepared chamber, laid Lucy on her cot;
then swiftly turned out of the room, and locked them all three in: and
so swiftly--like lightning--was this whole thing done, that not till the
lock clicked, did he find Glen and Frederic fiercely fronting him.

"Gentlemen, it is all over. This door is locked. She is in women's
hands.--Stand back!"

As the two infuriated young men now caught at him to hurl him aside,
several of the Apostles rapidly entered, having been attracted by the
noise.

"Drag them off from me!" cried Pierre. "They are trespassers! drag them
off!"

Immediately Glen and Frederic were pinioned by twenty hands; and, in
obedience to a sign from Pierre, were dragged out of the room, and
dragged down stairs; and given into the custody of a passing officer, as
two disorderly youths invading the sanctuary of a private retreat.

In vain they fiercely expostulated; but at last, as if now aware that
nothing farther could be done without some previous legal action, they
most reluctantly and chafingly declared themselves ready to depart.
Accordingly they were let go; but not without a terrible menace of swift
retribution directed to Pierre.


IV.

Happy is the dumb man in the hour of passion. He makes no impulsive
threats, and therefore seldom falsifies himself in the transition from
choler to calm.

Proceeding into the thoroughfare, after leaving the Apostles', it was
not very long ere Glen and Frederic concluded between themselves, that
Lucy could not so easily be rescued by threat or force. The pale,
inscrutable determinateness, and flinchless intrepidity of Pierre, now
began to domineer upon them; for any social unusualness or greatness is
sometimes most impressive in the retrospect. What Pierre had said
concerning Lucy's being her own mistress in the eye of the law; this now
recurred to them. After much tribulation of thought, the more collected
Glen proposed, that Frederic's mother should visit the rooms of Pierre;
he imagined, that though insensible to their own united intimidations,
Lucy might not prove deaf to the maternal prayers. Had Mrs. Tartan been
a different woman than she was; had she indeed any disinterested agonies
of a generous heart, and not mere match-making mortifications, however
poignant; then the hope of Frederic and Glen might have had more
likelihood in it. Nevertheless, the experiment was tried, but signally
failed.

In the combined presence of her mother, Pierre, Isabel, and Delly; and
addressing Pierre and Isabel as Mr. and Mrs. Glendinning; Lucy took the
most solemn vows upon herself, to reside with her present host and
hostess until they should cast her off. In vain her by turns suppliant,
and exasperated mother went down on her knees to her, or seemed almost
on the point of smiting her; in vain she painted all the scorn and the
loathing; sideways hinted of the handsome and gallant Glen; threatened
her that in case she persisted, her entire family would renounce her;
and though she should be starving, would not bestow one morsel upon such
a recreant, and infinitely worse than dishonorable girl.

To all this, Lucy--now entirely unmenaced in person--replied in the
gentlest and most heavenly manner; yet with a collectedness, and
steadfastness, from which there was nothing to hope. What she was doing
was not of herself; she had been moved to it by all-encompassing
influences above, around, and beneath. She felt no pain for her own
condition; her only suffering was sympathetic. She looked for no reward;
the essence of well-doing was the consciousness of having done well
without the least hope of reward. Concerning the loss of worldly wealth
and sumptuousness, and all the brocaded applauses of drawing-rooms;
these were no loss to her, for they had always been valueless. Nothing
was she now renouncing; but in acting upon her present inspiration she
was inheriting every thing. Indifferent to scorn, she craved no pity. As
to the question of her sanity, that matter she referred to the verdict
of angels, and not to the sordid opinions of man. If any one protested
that she was defying the sacred counsels of her mother, she had nothing
to answer but this: that her mother possessed all her daughterly
deference, but her unconditional obedience was elsewhere due. Let all
hope of moving her be immediately, and once for all, abandoned. One only
thing could move her; and that would only move her, to make her forever
immovable;--that thing was death.

Such wonderful strength in such wonderful sweetness; such inflexibility
in one so fragile, would have been matter for marvel to any observer.
But to her mother it was very much more; for, like many other
superficial observers, forming her previous opinion of Lucy upon the
slightness of her person, and the dulcetness of her temper, Mrs. Tartan
had always imagined that her daughter was quite incapable of any such
daring act. As if sterling heavenliness were incompatible with
heroicness. These two are never found apart. Nor, though Pierre knew
more of Lucy than any one else, did this most singular behavior in her
fail to amaze him. Seldom even had the mystery of Isabel fascinated him
more, with a fascination partaking of the terrible. The mere bodily
aspect of Lucy, as changed by her more recent life, filled him with the
most powerful and novel emotions. That unsullied complexion of bloom was
now entirely gone, without being any way replaced by sallowness, as is
usual in similar instances. And as if her body indeed were the temple
of God, and marble indeed were the only fit material for so holy a
shrine, a brilliant, supernatural whiteness now gleamed in her cheek.
Her head sat on her shoulders as a chiseled statue's head; and the soft,
firm light in her eye seemed as much a prodigy, as though a chiseled
statue should give token of vision and intelligence.

Isabel also was most strangely moved by this sweet unearthliness in the
aspect of Lucy. But it did not so much persuade her by any common
appeals to her heart, as irrespectively commend her by the very signet
of heaven. In the deference with which she ministered to Lucy's little
occasional wants, there was more of blank spontaneousness than
compassionate voluntariness. And when it so chanced, that--owing perhaps
to some momentary jarring of the distant and lonely guitar--as Lucy was
so mildly speaking in the presence of her mother, a sudden, just
audible, submissively answering musical, stringed tone, came through the
open door from the adjoining chamber; then Isabel, as if seized by some
spiritual awe, fell on her knees before Lucy, and made a rapid gesture
of homage; yet still, somehow, as it were, without evidence of voluntary
will.

Finding all her most ardent efforts ineffectual, Mrs. Tartan now
distressedly motioned to Pierre and Isabel to quit the chamber, that she
might urge her entreaties and menaces in private. But Lucy gently waved
them to stay; and then turned to her mother. Henceforth she had no
secrets but those which would also be secrets in heaven. Whatever was
publicly known in heaven, should be publicly known on earth. There was
no slightest secret between her and her mother.

Wholly confounded by this inscrutableness of her so alienated and
infatuated daughter, Mrs. Tartan turned inflamedly upon Pierre, and bade
him follow her forth. But again Lucy said nay, there were no secrets
between her mother and Pierre. She would anticipate every thing there.
Calling for pen and paper, and a book to hold on her knee and write,
she traced the following lines, and reached them to her mother:

"I am Lucy Tartan. I have come to dwell during their pleasure with Mr.
and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, of my own unsolicited free-will. If they
desire it, I shall go; but no other power shall remove me, except by
violence; and against any violence I have the ordinary appeal to the
law."

"Read this, madam," said Mrs. Tartan, tremblingly handing it to Isabel,
and eying her with a passionate and disdainful significance.

"I have read it," said Isabel, quietly, after a glance, and handing it
to Pierre, as if by that act to show, that she had no separate decision
in the matter.

"And do you, sir, too, indirectly connive?" said Mrs. Tartan to Pierre,
when he had read it.

"I render no accounts, madam. This seems to be the written and final
calm will of your daughter. As such, you had best respect it, and
depart."

Mrs. Tartan glanced despairingly and incensedly about her; then fixing
her eyes on her daughter, spoke.

"Girl! here where I stand, I forever cast thee off. Never more shalt
thou be vexed by my maternal entreaties. I shall instruct thy brothers
to disown thee; I shall instruct Glen Stanly to banish thy worthless
image from his heart, if banished thence it be not already by thine own
incredible folly and depravity. For thee, Mr. Monster! the judgment of
God will overtake thee for this. And for thee, madam, I have no words
for the woman who will connivingly permit her own husband's paramour to
dwell beneath her roof. For thee, frail one," (to Delly), "thou needest
no amplification.--A nest of vileness! And now, surely, whom God himself
hath abandoned forever, a mother may quit, never more to revisit."

This parting maternal malediction seemed to work no visibly
corresponding effect upon Lucy; already she was so marble-white, that
fear could no more blanch her, if indeed fear was then at all within her
heart. For as the highest, and purest, and thinnest ether remains
unvexed by all the tumults of the inferior air; so that transparent
ether of her cheek, that clear mild azure of her eye, showed no sign of
passion, as her terrestrial mother stormed below. Helpings she had from
unstirring arms; glimpses she caught of aid invisible; sustained she was
by those high powers of immortal Love, that once siding with the weakest
reed which the utmost tempest tosses; then that utmost tempest shall be
broken down before the irresistible resistings of that weakest reed.




BOOK XXV.

LUCY, ISABEL, AND PIERRE. PIERRE AT HIS BOOK. ENCELADUS.


I.

A day or two after the arrival of Lucy, when she had quite recovered
from any possible ill-effects of recent events,--events conveying such a
shock to both Pierre and Isabel,--though to each in a quite different
way,--but not, apparently, at least, moving Lucy so intensely--as they
were all three sitting at coffee, Lucy expressed her intention to
practice her crayon art professionally. It would be so pleasant an
employment for her, besides contributing to their common fund. Pierre
well knew her expertness in catching likenesses, and judiciously and
truthfully beautifying them; not by altering the features so much, as by
steeping them in a beautifying atmosphere. For even so, said Lucy,
thrown into the Lagoon, and there beheld--as I have heard--the roughest
stones, without transformation, put on the softest aspects. If Pierre
would only take a little trouble to bring sitters to her room, she
doubted not a fine harvest of heads might easily be secured. Certainly,
among the numerous inmates of the old Church, Pierre must know many who
would have no objections to being sketched. Moreover, though as yet she
had had small opportunity to see them; yet among such a remarkable
company of poets, philosophers, and mystics of all sorts, there must be
some striking heads. In conclusion, she expressed her satisfaction at
the chamber prepared for her, inasmuch as having been formerly the
studio of an artist, one window had been considerably elevated, while by
a singular arrangement of the interior shutters, the light could in any
direction be thrown about at will.

Already Pierre had anticipated something of this sort; the first sight
of the easel having suggested it to him. His reply was therefore not
wholly unconsidered. He said, that so far as she herself was concerned,
the systematic practice of her art at present would certainly be a great
advantage in supplying her with a very delightful occupation. But since
she could hardly hope for any patronage from her mother's fashionable
and wealthy associates; indeed, as such a thing must be very far from
her own desires; and as it was only from the Apostles she could--for
some time to come, at least--reasonably anticipate sitters; and as those
Apostles were almost universally a very forlorn and penniless
set--though in truth there were some wonderfully rich-looking heads
among them--therefore, Lucy must not look for much immediate pecuniary
emolument. Ere long she might indeed do something very handsome; but at
the outset, it was well to be moderate in her expectations. This
admonishment came, modifiedly, from that certain stoic, dogged mood of
Pierre, born of his recent life, which taught him never to expect any
good from any thing; but always to anticipate ill; however not in
unreadiness to meet the contrary; and then, if good came, so much the
better. He added that he would that very morning go among the rooms and
corridors of the Apostles, familiarly announcing that his cousin, a
lady-artist in crayons, occupied a room adjoining his, where she would
be very happy to receive any sitters.

"And now, Lucy, what shall be the terms? That is a very important point,
thou knowest."

"I suppose, Pierre, they must be very low," said Lucy, looking at him
meditatively.

"Very low, Lucy; very low, indeed."

"Well, ten dollars, then."

"Ten Banks of England, Lucy!" exclaimed Pierre. "Why, Lucy, that were
almost a quarter's income for some of the Apostles!"

"Four dollars, Pierre."

"I will tell thee now, Lucy--but first, how long does it take to
complete one portrait?"

"Two sittings; and two mornings' work by myself, Pierre."

"And let me see; what are thy materials? They are not very costly, I
believe. 'Tis not like cutting glass,--thy tools must not be pointed
with diamonds, Lucy?"

"See, Pierre!" said Lucy, holding out her little palm, "see; this
handful of charcoal, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a square of
paper:--that is all."

"Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a portrait."

"Only one-seventy-five, Pierre?"

"I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy. Thou must not
be extravagant. Look: if thy terms were ten dollars, and thou didst
crayon on trust; then thou wouldst have plenty of sitters, but small
returns. But if thou puttest thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou
must have thy cash right-down too--don't start so at that _cash_--then
not so many sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest."

"It shall be just as thou say'st, Pierre."

"Well, then, I will write a card for thee, stating thy terms; and put it
up conspicuously in thy room, so that every Apostle may know what he has
to expect."

"Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre," said Lucy, rising. "I rejoice
at thy pleasant and not entirely unhopeful view of my poor little plan.
But I must be doing something; I must be earning money. See, I have
eaten ever so much bread this morning, but have not earned one penny."

With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remainder of the one
only piece she had touched, and then would have spoken banteringly to
her; but she had slid away into her own room.

He was presently roused from the strange revery into which the
conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of Isabel's hand
upon his knee, and her large expressive glance upon his face. During all
the foregoing colloquy, she had remained entirely silent; but an
unoccupied observer would perhaps have noticed, that some new and very
strong emotions were restrainedly stirring within her.

"Pierre!" she said, intently bending over toward him.

"Well, well, Isabel," stammeringly replied Pierre; while a mysterious
color suffused itself over his whole face, neck, and brow; and
involuntarily he started a little back from her self-proffering form.

Arrested by this movement Isabel eyed him fixedly; then slowly rose, and
with immense mournful stateliness, drew herself up, and said: "If thy
sister can ever come too nigh to thee, Pierre, tell thy sister so,
beforehand; for the September sun draws not up the valley-vapor more
jealously from the disdainful earth, than my secret god shall draw me up
from thee, if ever I can come too nigh to thee."

Thus speaking, one hand was on her bosom, as if resolutely feeling of
something deadly there concealed; but, riveted by her general manner
more than by her particular gesture, Pierre, at the instant, did not so
particularly note the all-significant movement of the hand upon her
bosom, though afterward he recalled it, and darkly and thoroughly
comprehended its meaning.

"Too nigh to me, Isabel? Sun or dew, thou fertilizest me! Can sunbeams
or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they warm and water? Then sit
down by me, Isabel, and sit close; wind in within my ribs,--if so thou
canst,--that my one frame may be the continent of two."

"Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard," said Isabel, most
bitterly--"but do fine sayings always make fine deeds? Pierre, thou
didst but just now draw away from me!"

"When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back our arms,
Isabel; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer to thee."

"Well; all words are arrant skirmishers; deeds are the army's self! be
it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee.--Pierre."

"My breath waits thine; what is it, Isabel?"

"I have been more blockish than a block; I am mad to think of it! More
mad, that her great sweetness should first remind me of mine own
stupidity. But she shall not get the start of me! Pierre, some way I
must work for thee! See, I will sell this hair; have these teeth pulled
out; but some way I will earn money for thee!"

Pierre now eyed her startledly. Touches of a determinate meaning shone
in her; some hidden thing was deeply wounded in her. An affectionate
soothing syllable was on his tongue; his arm was out; when shifting his
expression, he whisperingly and alarmedly exclaimed--"Hark! she is
coming.--Be still."

But rising boldly, Isabel threw open the connecting door, exclaiming
half-hysterically--"Look, Lucy; here is the strangest husband; fearful
of being caught speaking to his wife!"

With an artist's little box before her--whose rattling, perhaps, had
startled Pierre--Lucy was sitting midway in her room, opposite the
opened door; so that at that moment, both Pierre and Isabel were plainly
visible to her. The singular tone of Isabel's voice instantly caused her
to look up intently. At once, a sudden irradiation of some subtile
intelligence--but whether welcome to her, or otherwise, could not be
determined--shot over her whole aspect. She murmured some vague random
reply; and then bent low over her box, saying she was very busy.

Isabel closed the door, and sat down again by Pierre. Her countenance
wore a mixed and writhing, impatient look. She seemed as one in whom the
most powerful emotion of life is caught in inextricable toils of
circumstances, and while longing to disengage itself, still knows that
all struggles will prove worse than vain; and so, for the moment, grows
madly reckless and defiant of all obstacles. Pierre trembled as he gazed
upon her. But soon the mood passed from her; her old, sweet mournfulness
returned; again the clear unfathomableness was in her mystic eye.

"Pierre, ere now,--ere I ever knew thee--I have done mad things, which I
have never been conscious of, but in the dim recalling. I hold such
things no things of mine. What I now remember, as just now done, was one
of them."

"Thou hast done nothing but shown thy strength, while I have shown my
weakness, Isabel;--yes, to the whole world thou art my wife--to her,
too, thou art my wife. Have I not told her so, myself? I was weaker than
a kitten, Isabel; and thou, strong as those high things angelical, from
which utmost beauty takes not strength."

"Pierre, once such syllables from thee, were all refreshing, and
bedewing to me; now, though they drop as warmly and as fluidly from
thee, yet falling through another and an intercepting zone, they freeze
on the way, and clatter on my heart like hail, Pierre.---- Thou didst
not speak thus to her!"

"She is not Isabel."

The girl gazed at him with a quick and piercing scrutiny; then looked
quite calm, and spoke. "My guitar, Pierre: thou know'st how complete a
mistress I am of it; now, before thou gettest sitters for the
portrait-sketcher, thou shalt get pupils for the music-teacher. Wilt
thou?" and she looked at him with a persuasiveness and touchingness,
which to Pierre, seemed more than mortal.

"My poor poor, Isabel!" cried Pierre; "thou art the mistress of the
natural sweetness of the guitar, not of its invented regulated
artifices; and these are all that the silly pupil will pay for learning.
And what thou hast can not be taught. Ah, thy sweet ignorance is all
transporting to me! my sweet, my sweet!--dear, divine girl!" And
impulsively he caught her in his arms.

While the first fire of his feeling plainly glowed upon him, but ere he
had yet caught her to him, Isabel had backward glided close to the
connecting door; which, at the instant of his embrace, suddenly opened,
as by its own volition.

Before the eyes of seated Lucy, Pierre and Isabel stood locked; Pierre's
lips upon her cheek.


II.

Notwithstanding the maternal visit of Mrs. Tartan, and the
peremptoriness with which it had been closed by her declared departure
never to return, and her vow to teach all Lucy's relatives and friends,
and Lucy's own brothers, and her suitor, to disown her, and forget her;
yet Pierre fancied that he knew too much in general of the human heart,
and too much in particular of the character of both Glen and Frederic,
to remain entirely untouched by disquietude, concerning what those two
fiery youths might now be plotting against him, as the imagined monster,
by whose infernal tricks Lucy Tartan was supposed to have been seduced
from every earthly seemliness. Not happily, but only so much the more
gloomily, did he augur from the fact, that Mrs. Tartan had come to Lucy
unattended; and that Glen and Frederic had let eight-and-forty hours and
more go by, without giving the slightest hostile or neutral sign. At
first he thought, that bridling their impulsive fierceness, they were
resolved to take the slower, but perhaps the surer method, to wrest Lucy
back to them, by instituting some legal process. But this idea was
repulsed by more than one consideration.

Not only was Frederic of that sort of temper, peculiar to military men,
which would prompt him, in so closely personal and intensely private and
family a matter, to scorn the hireling publicity of the law's lingering
arm; and impel him, as by the furiousness of fire, to be his own righter
and avenger; for, in him, it was perhaps quite as much the feeling of an
outrageous family affront to himself, through Lucy, as her own presumed
separate wrong, however black, which stung him to the quick: not only
were these things so respecting Frederic; but concerning Glen, Pierre
well knew, that be Glen heartless as he might, to do a deed of love,
Glen was not heartless to do a deed of hate; that though, on that
memorable night of his arrival in the city, Glen had heartlessly closed
his door upon him, yet now Glen might heartfully burst Pierre's open, if
by that he at all believed, that permanent success would crown the fray.

Besides, Pierre knew this;--that so invincible is the natural,
untamable, latent spirit of a courageous manliness in man, that though
now socially educated for thousands of years in an arbitrary homage to
the Law, as the one only appointed redress for every injured person; yet
immemorially and universally, among all gentlemen of spirit, once to
have uttered independent personal threats of personal vengeance against
your foe, and then, after that, to fall back slinking into a court, and
hire with sops a pack of yelping pettifoggers to fight the battle so
valiantly proclaimed; this, on the surface, is ever deemed very
decorous, and very prudent--a most wise second thought; but, at bottom,
a miserably ignoble thing. Frederic was not the watery man for
that,--Glen had more grapey blood in him.

Moreover, it seemed quite clear to Pierre, that only by making out Lucy
absolutely mad, and striving to prove it by a thousand despicable little
particulars, could the law succeed in tearing her from the refuge she
had voluntarily sought; a course equally abhorrent to all the parties
possibly to be concerned on either side.

What then would those two boiling bloods do? Perhaps they would patrol
the streets; and at the first glimpse of lonely Lucy, kidnap her home.
Or if Pierre were with her, then, smite him down by hook or crook, fair
play or foul; and then, away with Lucy! Or if Lucy systematically kept
her room, then fall on Pierre in the most public way, fell him, and
cover him from all decent recognition beneath heaps on heaps of hate and
insult; so that broken on the wheel of such dishonor, Pierre might feel
himself unstrung, and basely yield the prize.

Not the gibbering of ghosts in any old haunted house; no sulphurous and
portentous sign at night beheld in heaven, will so make the hair to
stand, as when a proud and honorable man is revolving in his soul the
possibilities of some gross public and corporeal disgrace. It is not
fear; it is a pride-horror, which is more terrible than any fear. Then,
by tremendous imagery, the murderer's mark of Cain is felt burning on
the brow, and the already acquitted knife blood-rusts in the clutch of
the anticipating hand.

Certain that those two youths must be plotting something furious against
him; with the echoes of their scorning curses on the stairs still
ringing in his ears--curses, whose swift responses from himself, he, at
the time, had had much ado to check;--thoroughly alive to the
supernaturalism of that mad frothing hate which a spirited brother forks
forth at the insulter of a sister's honor--beyond doubt the most
uncompromising of all the social passions known to man--and not blind to
the anomalous fact, that if such a brother stab his foe at his own
mother's table, all people and all juries would bear him out, accounting
every thing allowable to a noble soul made mad by a sweet sister's shame
caused by a damned seducer;--imagining to himself his own feelings, if
he were actually in the position which Frederic so vividly fancied to
be his; remembering that in love matters jealousy is as an adder, and
that the jealousy of Glen was double-addered by the extraordinary malice
of the apparent circumstances under which Lucy had spurned Glen's arms,
and fled to his always successful and now married rival, as if wantonly
and shamelessly to nestle there;--remembering all these intense
incitements of both those foes of his, Pierre could not but look forward
to wild work very soon to come. Nor was the storm of passion in his soul
unratified by the decision of his coolest possible hour. Storm and calm
both said to him,--Look to thyself, oh Pierre!

Murders are done by maniacs; but the earnest thoughts of murder, these
are the collected desperadoes. Pierre was such; fate, or what you will,
had made him such. But such he was. And when these things now swam
before him; when he thought of all the ambiguities which hemmed him in;
the stony walls all round that he could not overleap; the million
aggravations of his most malicious lot; the last lingering hope of
happiness licked up from him as by flames of fire, and his one only
prospect a black, bottomless gulf of guilt, upon whose verge he
imminently teetered every hour;--then the utmost hate of Glen and
Frederic were jubilantly welcome to him; and murder, done in the act of
warding off their ignominious public blow, seemed the one only congenial
sequel to such a desperate career.


III.

As a statue, planted on a revolving pedestal, shows now this limb, now
that; now front, now back, now side; continually changing, too, its
general profile; so does the pivoted, statued soul of man, when turned
by the hand of Truth. Lies only never vary; look for no invariableness
in Pierre. Nor does any canting showman here stand by to announce his
phases as he revolves. Catch his phases as your insight may.

Another day passed on; Glen and Frederic still absenting themselves, and
Pierre and Isabel and Lucy all dwelling together. The domestic presence
of Lucy had begun to produce a remarkable effect upon Pierre. Sometimes,
to the covertly watchful eye of Isabel, he would seem to look upon Lucy
with an expression illy befitting their singular and so-supposed merely
cousinly relation; and yet again, with another expression still more
unaccountable to her,--one of fear and awe, not unmixed with impatience.
But his general detailed manner toward Lucy was that of the most
delicate and affectionate considerateness--nothing more. He was never
alone with her; though, as before, at times alone with Isabel.

Lucy seemed entirely undesirous of usurping any place about him;
manifested no slightest unwelcome curiosity as to Pierre, and no painful
embarrassment as to Isabel. Nevertheless, more and more did she seem,
hour by hour, to be somehow inexplicably sliding between them, without
touching them. Pierre felt that some strange heavenly influence was near
him, to keep him from some uttermost harm; Isabel was alive to some
untraceable displacing agency. Though when all three were together, the
marvelous serenity, and sweetness, and utter unsuspectingness of Lucy
obviated any thing like a common embarrassment: yet if there was any
embarrassment at all beneath that roof, it was sometimes when Pierre was
alone with Isabel, after Lucy would innocently quit them.

Meantime Pierre was still going on with his book; every moment becoming
still the more sensible of the intensely inauspicious circumstances of
all sorts under which that labor was proceeding. And as the now
advancing and concentring enterprise demanded more and more compacted
vigor from him, he felt that he was having less and less to bring to it.
For not only was it the signal misery of Pierre, to be
invisibly--though but accidentally--goaded, in the hour of mental
immaturity, to the attempt at a mature work,--a circumstance
sufficiently lamentable in itself; but also, in the hour of his
clamorous pennilessness, he was additionally goaded into an enterprise
long and protracted in the execution, and of all things least calculated
for pecuniary profit in the end. How these things were so, whence they
originated, might be thoroughly and very beneficially explained; but
space and time here forbid.

At length, domestic matters--rent and bread--had come to such a pass
with him, that whether or no, the first pages must go to the printer;
and thus was added still another tribulation; because the printed pages
now dictated to the following manuscript, and said to all subsequent
thoughts and inventions of Pierre--_Thus and thus_; _so and so_; _else
an ill match_. Therefore, was his book already limited, bound over, and
committed to imperfection, even before it had come to any confirmed form
or conclusion at all. Oh, who shall reveal the horrors of poverty in
authorship that is high? While the silly Millthorpe was railing against
his delay of a few weeks and months; how bitterly did unreplying Pierre
feel in his heart, that to most of the great works of humanity, their
authors had given, not weeks and months, not years and years, but their
wholly surrendered and dedicated lives. On either hand clung to by a
girl who would have laid down her life for him; Pierre, nevertheless, in
his deepest, highest part, was utterly without sympathy from any thing
divine, human, brute, or vegetable. One in a city of hundreds of
thousands of human beings, Pierre was solitary as at the Pole.

And the great woe of all was this: that all these things were
unsuspected without, and undivulgible from within; the very daggers that
stabbed him were joked at by Imbecility, Ignorance, Blockheadedness,
Self-Complacency, and the universal Blearedness and Besottedness around
him. Now he began to feel that in him, the thews of a Titan were
forestallingly cut by the scissors of Fate. He felt as a moose,
hamstrung. All things that think, or move, or lie still, seemed as
created to mock and torment him. He seemed gifted with loftiness, merely
that it might be dragged down to the mud. Still, the profound
willfulness in him would not give up. Against the breaking heart, and
the bursting head; against all the dismal lassitude, and deathful
faintness and sleeplessness, and whirlingness, and craziness, still he
like a demigod bore up. His soul's ship foresaw the inevitable rocks,
but resolved to sail on, and make a courageous wreck. Now he gave jeer
for jeer, and taunted the apes that jibed him. With the soul of an
Atheist, he wrote down the godliest things; with the feeling of misery
and death in him, he created forms of gladness and life. For the pangs
in his heart, he put down hoots on the paper. And every thing else he
disguised under the so conveniently adjustable drapery of
all-stretchable Philosophy. For the more and the more that he wrote, and
the deeper and the deeper that he dived, Pierre saw the everlasting
elusiveness of Truth; the universal lurking insincerity of even the
greatest and purest written thoughts. Like knavish cards, the leaves of
all great books were covertly packed. He was but packing one set the
more; and that a very poor jaded set and pack indeed. So that there was
nothing he more spurned, than his own aspirations; nothing he more
abhorred than the loftiest part of himself. The brightest success, now
seemed intolerable to him, since he so plainly saw, that the brightest
success could not be the sole offspring of Merit; but of Merit for the
one thousandth part, and nine hundred and ninety-nine combining and
dove-tailing accidents for the rest. So beforehand he despised those
laurels which in the very nature of things, can never be impartially
bestowed. But while thus all the earth was depopulated of ambition for
him; still circumstances had put him in the attitude of an eager
contender for renown. So beforehand he felt the unrevealable sting of
receiving either plaudits or censures, equally unsought for, and
equally loathed ere given. So, beforehand he felt the pyramidical scorn
of the genuine loftiness for the whole infinite company of infinitesimal
critics. His was the scorn which thinks it not worth the while to be
scornful. Those he most scorned, never knew it. In that lonely little
closet of his, Pierre foretasted all that this world hath either of
praise or dispraise; and thus foretasting both goblets, anticipatingly
hurled them both in its teeth. All panegyric, all denunciation, all
criticism of any sort, would come too late for Pierre.

But man does never give himself up thus, a doorless and shutterless
house for the four loosened winds of heaven to howl through, without
still additional dilapidations. Much oftener than before, Pierre laid
back in his chair with the deadly feeling of faintness. Much oftener
than before, came staggering home from his evening walk, and from sheer
bodily exhaustion economized the breath that answered the anxious
inquiries as to what might be done for him. And as if all the leagued
spiritual inveteracies and malices, combined with his general bodily
exhaustion, were not enough, a special corporeal affliction now
descended like a sky-hawk upon him. His incessant application told upon
his eyes. They became so affected, that some days he wrote with the lids
nearly closed, fearful of opening them wide to the light. Through the
lashes he peered upon the paper, which so seemed fretted with wires.
Sometimes he blindly wrote with his eyes turned away from the
paper;--thus unconsciously symbolizing the hostile necessity and
distaste, the former whereof made of him this most unwilling
states-prisoner of letters.

As every evening, after his day's writing was done, the proofs of the
beginning of his work came home for correction, Isabel would read them
to him. They were replete with errors; but preoccupied by the thronging,
and undiluted, pure imaginings of things, he became impatient of such
minute, gnat-like torments; he randomly corrected the worst, and let
the rest go; jeering with himself at the rich harvest thus furnished to
the entomological critics.

But at last he received a tremendous interior intimation, to hold
off--to be still from his unnatural struggle.

In the earlier progress of his book, he had found some relief in making
his regular evening walk through the greatest thoroughfare of the city;
that so, the utter isolation of his soul, might feel itself the more
intensely from the incessant jogglings of his body against the bodies of
the hurrying thousands. Then he began to be sensible of more fancying
stormy nights, than pleasant ones; for then, the great thoroughfares
were less thronged, and the innumerable shop-awnings flapped and beat
like schooners' broad sails in a gale, and the shutters banged like
lashed bulwarks; and the slates fell hurtling like displaced ship's
blocks from aloft. Stemming such tempests through the deserted streets,
Pierre felt a dark, triumphant joy; that while others had crawled in
fear to their kennels, he alone defied the storm-admiral, whose most
vindictive peltings of hail-stones,--striking his iron-framed fiery
furnace of a body,--melted into soft dew, and so, harmlessly trickled
from off him.

By-and-by, of such howling, pelting nights, he began to bend his steps
down the dark, narrow side-streets, in quest of the more secluded and
mysterious tap-rooms. There he would feel a singular satisfaction, in
sitting down all dripping in a chair, ordering his half-pint of ale
before him, and drawing over his cap to protect his eyes from the light,
eye the varied faces of the social castaways, who here had their haunts
from the bitterest midnights.

But at last he began to feel a distaste for even these; and now nothing
but the utter night-desolation of the obscurest warehousing lanes would
content him, or be at all sufferable to him. Among these he had now been
accustomed to wind in and out every evening; till one night as he paused
a moment previous to turning about for home, a sudden, unwonted, and
all-pervading sensation seized him. He knew not where he was; he did not
have any ordinary life-feeling at all. He could not see; though
instinctively putting his hand to his eyes, he seemed to feel that the
lids were open. Then he was sensible of a combined blindness, and
vertigo, and staggering; before his eyes a million green meteors danced;
he felt his foot tottering upon the curb, he put out his hands, and knew
no more for the time. When he came to himself he found that he was lying
crosswise in the gutter, dabbled with mud and slime. He raised himself
to try if he could stand; but the fit was entirely gone. Immediately he
quickened his steps homeward, forbearing to rest or pause at all on the
way, lest that rush of blood to his head, consequent upon his sudden
cessation from walking, should again smite him down. This circumstance
warned him away from those desolate streets, lest the repetition of the
fit should leave him there to perish by night in unknown and unsuspected
loneliness. But if that terrible vertigo had been also intended for
another and deeper warning, he regarded such added warning not at all;
but again plied heart and brain as before.

But now at last since the very blood in his body had in vain rebelled
against his Titanic soul; now the only visible outward symbols of that
soul--his eyes--did also turn downright traitors to him, and with more
success than the rebellious blood. He had abused them so recklessly,
that now they absolutely refused to look on paper. He turned them on
paper, and they blinked and shut. The pupils of his eyes rolled away
from him in their own orbits. He put his hand up to them, and sat back
in his seat. Then, without saying one word, he continued there for his
usual term, suspended, motionless, blank.

But next morning--it was some few days after the arrival of Lucy--still
feeling that a certain downright infatuation, and no less, is both
unavoidable and indispensable in the composition of any great, deep
book, or even any wholly unsuccessful attempt at any great, deep book;
next morning he returned to the charge. But again the pupils of his eyes
rolled away from him in their orbits: and now a general and nameless
torpor--some horrible foretaste of death itself--seemed stealing upon
him.


IV.

During this state of semi-unconsciousness, or rather trance, a
remarkable dream or vision came to him. The actual artificial objects
around him slid from him, and were replaced by a baseless yet most
imposing spectacle of natural scenery. But though a baseless vision in
itself, this airy spectacle assumed very familiar features to Pierre. It
was the phantasmagoria of the Mount of the Titans, a singular height
standing quite detached in a wide solitude not far from the grand range
of dark blue hills encircling his ancestral manor.

Say what some poets will, Nature is not so much her own ever-sweet
interpreter, as the mere supplier of that cunning alphabet, whereby
selecting and combining as he pleases, each man reads his own peculiar
lesson according to his own peculiar mind and mood. Thus a
high-aspiring, but most moody, disappointed bard, chancing once to visit
the Meadows and beholding that fine eminence, christened it by the name
it ever after bore; completely extinguishing its former title--The
Delectable Mountain--one long ago bestowed by an old Baptist farmer, an
hereditary admirer of Bunyan and his most marvelous book. From the spell
of that name the mountain never afterward escaped; for now, gazing upon
it by the light of those suggestive syllables, no poetical observer
could resist the apparent felicity of the title. For as if indeed the
immemorial mount would fain adapt itself to its so recent name, some
people said that it had insensibly changed its pervading aspect within a
score or two of winters. Nor was this strange conceit entirely without
foundation, seeing that the annual displacements of huge rocks and
gigantic trees were continually modifying its whole front and general
contour.

On the north side, where it fronted the old Manor-house, some fifteen
miles distant, the height, viewed from the piazza of a soft
haze-canopied summer's noon, presented a long and beautiful, but not
entirely inaccessible-looking purple precipice, some two thousand feet
in air, and on each hand sideways sloping down to lofty terraces of
pastures.

Those hill-side pastures, be it said, were thickly sown with a small
white amaranthine flower, which, being irreconcilably distasteful to the
cattle, and wholly rejected by them, and yet, continually multiplying on
every hand, did by no means contribute to the agricultural value of
those elevated lands. Insomuch, that for this cause, the disheartened
dairy tenants of that part of the Manor, had petitioned their
lady-landlord for some abatement in their annual tribute of upland
grasses, in the Juny-load; rolls of butter in the October crock; and
steers and heifers on the October hoof; with turkeys in the Christmas
sleigh.

"The small white flower, it is our bane!" the imploring tenants cried.
"The aspiring amaranth, every year it climbs and adds new terraces to
its sway! The immortal amaranth, it will not die, but last year's
flowers survive to this! The terraced pastures grow glittering white,
and in warm June still show like banks of snow:--fit token of the
sterileness the amaranth begets! Then free us from the amaranth, good
lady, or be pleased to abate our rent!"

Now, on a somewhat nearer approach, the precipice did not belie its
purple promise from the manorial piazza--that sweet imposing purple
promise, which seemed fully to vindicate the Bunyanish old title
originally bestowed;--but showed the profuse aerial foliage of a hanging
forest. Nevertheless, coming still more nigh, long and frequent rents
among the mass of leaves revealed horrible glimpses of dark-dripping
rocks, and mysterious mouths of wolfish caves. Struck by this most
unanticipated view, the tourist now quickened his impulsive steps to
verify the change by coming into direct contact with so chameleon a
height. As he would now speed on, the lower ground, which from the
manor-house piazza seemed all a grassy level, suddenly merged into a
very long and weary acclivity, slowly rising close up to the precipice's
base; so that the efflorescent grasses rippled against it, as the
efflorescent waves of some great swell or long rolling billow ripple
against the water-line of a steep gigantic war-ship on the sea. And, as
among the rolling sea-like sands of Egypt, disordered rows of broken
Sphinxes lead to the Cheopian pyramid itself; so this long acclivity was
thickly strewn with enormous rocky masses, grotesque in shape, and with
wonderful features on them, which seemed to express that slumbering
intelligence visible in some recumbent beasts--beasts whose intelligence
seems struck dumb in them by some sorrowful and inexplicable spell.
Nevertheless, round and round those still enchanted rocks, hard by their
utmost rims, and in among their cunning crevices, the misanthropic
hill-scaling goat nibbled his sweetest food; for the rocks, so barren in
themselves, distilled a subtile moisture, which fed with greenness all
things that grew about their igneous marge.

Quitting those recumbent rocks, you still ascended toward the hanging
forest, and piercing within its lowermost fringe, then suddenly you
stood transfixed, as a marching soldier confounded at the sight of an
impregnable redoubt, where he had fancied it a practicable vault to his
courageous thews. Cunningly masked hitherto, by the green tapestry of
the interlacing leaves, a terrific towering palisade of dark mossy
massiness confronted you; and, trickling with unevaporable moisture,
distilled upon you from its beetling brow slow thunder-showers of
water-drops, chill as the last dews of death. Now you stood and shivered
in that twilight, though it were high noon and burning August down the
meads. All round and round, the grim scarred rocks rallied and
re-rallied themselves; shot up, protruded, stretched, swelled, and
eagerly reached forth; on every side bristlingly radiating with a
hideous repellingness. Tossed, and piled, and indiscriminate among
these, like bridging rifts of logs up-jammed in alluvial-rushing streams
of far Arkansas: or, like great masts and yards of overwhelmed fleets
hurled high and dashed amain, all splintering together, on hovering
ridges of the Atlantic sea,--you saw the melancholy trophies which the
North Wind, championing the unquenchable quarrel of the Winter, had
wrested from the forests, and dismembered them on their own chosen
battle-ground, in barbarous disdain. 'Mid this spectacle of wide and
wanton spoil, insular noises of falling rocks would boomingly explode
upon the silence and fright all the echoes, which ran shrieking in and
out among the caves, as wailing women and children in some assaulted
town.

Stark desolation; ruin, merciless and ceaseless; chills and gloom,--all
here lived a hidden life, curtained by that cunning purpleness, which,
from the piazza of the manor house, so beautifully invested the mountain
once called Delectable, but now styled Titanic.

Beaten off by such undreamed-of glooms and steeps, you now sadly
retraced your steps, and, mayhap, went skirting the inferior sideway
terraces of pastures; where the multiple and most sterile inodorous
immortalness of the small, white flower furnished no aliment for the
mild cow's meditative cud. But here and there you still might smell from
far the sweet aromaticness of clumps of catnip, that dear farm-house
herb. Soon you would see the modest verdure of the plant itself; and
wheresoever you saw that sight, old foundation stones and rotting
timbers of log-houses long extinct would also meet your eye; their
desolation illy hid by the green solicitudes of the unemigrating herb.
Most fitly named the catnip; since, like the unrunagate cat, though all
that's human forsake the place, that plant will long abide, long bask
and bloom on the abandoned hearth. Illy hid; for every spring the
amaranthine and celestial flower gained on the mortal household herb;
for every autumn the catnip died, but never an autumn made the amaranth
to wane. The catnip and the amaranth!--man's earthly household peace,
and the ever-encroaching appetite for God.

No more now you sideways followed the sad pasture's skirt, but took your
way adown the long declivity, fronting the mystic height. In mid field
again you paused among the recumbent sphinx-like shapes thrown off from
the rocky steep. You paused; fixed by a form defiant, a form of
awfulness. You saw Enceladus the Titan, the most potent of all the
giants, writhing from out the imprisoning earth;--turbaned with upborn
moss he writhed; still, though armless, resisting with his whole
striving trunk, the Pelion and the Ossa hurled back at him;--turbaned
with upborn moss he writhed; still turning his unconquerable front
toward that majestic mount eternally in vain assailed by him, and which,
when it had stormed him off, had heaved his undoffable incubus upon him,
and deridingly left him there to bay out his ineffectual howl.

To Pierre this wondrous shape had always been a thing of interest,
though hitherto all its latent significance had never fully and
intelligibly smitten him. In his earlier boyhood a strolling company of
young collegian pedestrians had chanced to light upon the rock; and,
struck with its remarkableness, had brought a score of picks and spades,
and dug round it to unearth it, and find whether indeed it were a
demoniac freak of nature, or some stern thing of antediluvian art.
Accompanying this eager party, Pierre first beheld that deathless son of
Terra. At that time, in its untouched natural state, the statue
presented nothing but the turbaned head of igneous rock rising from out
the soil, with its unabasable face turned upward toward the mountain,
and the bull-like neck clearly defined. With distorted features, scarred
and broken, and a black brow mocked by the upborn moss, Enceladus there
subterraneously stood, fast frozen into the earth at the junction of the
neck. Spades and picks soon heaved part of his Ossa from him, till at
last a circular well was opened round him to the depth of some thirteen
feet. At that point the wearied young collegians gave over their
enterprise in despair. With all their toil, they had not yet come to the
girdle of Enceladus. But they had bared good part of his mighty chest,
and exposed his mutilated shoulders, and the stumps of his once
audacious arms. Thus far uncovering his shame, in that cruel plight they
had abandoned him, leaving stark naked his in vain indignant chest to
the defilements of the birds, which for untold ages had cast their
foulness on his vanquished crest.

Not unworthy to be compared with that leaden Titan, wherewith the art of
Marsy and the broad-flung pride of Bourbon enriched the enchanted
gardens of Versailles;--and from whose still twisted mouth for sixty
feet the waters yet upgush, in elemental rivalry with those Etna flames,
of old asserted to be the malicious breath of the borne-down giant;--not
unworthy to be compared with that leaden demi-god--piled with costly
rocks, and with one bent wrenching knee protruding from the broken
bronze;--not unworthy to be compared with that bold trophy of high art,
this American Enceladus, wrought by the vigorous hand of Nature's self,
it did go further than compare;--it did far surpass that fine figure
molded by the inferior skill of man. Marsy gave arms to the eternally
defenseless; but Nature, more truthful, performed an amputation, and
left the impotent Titan without one serviceable ball-and-socket above
the thigh.

Such was the wild scenery--the Mount of Titans, and the repulsed group
of heaven-assaulters, with Enceladus in their midst shamefully recumbent
at its base;--such was the wild scenery, which now to Pierre, in his
strange vision, displaced the four blank walls, the desk, and camp-bed,
and domineered upon his trance. But no longer petrified in all their
ignominious attitudes, the herded Titans now sprung to their feet; flung
themselves up the slope; and anew battered at the precipice's
unresounding wall. Foremost among them all, he saw a moss-turbaned,
armless giant, who despairing of any other mode of wreaking his
immitigable hate, turned his vast trunk into a battering-ram, and hurled
his own arched-out ribs again and yet again against the invulnerable
steep.

"Enceladus! it is Enceladus!"--Pierre cried out in his sleep. That
moment the phantom faced him; and Pierre saw Enceladus no more; but on
the Titan's armless trunk, his own duplicate face and features
magnifiedly gleamed upon him with prophetic discomfiture and woe. With
trembling frame he started from his chair, and woke from that ideal
horror to all his actual grief.


V.

Nor did Pierre's random knowledge of the ancient fables fail still
further to elucidate the vision which so strangely had supplied a tongue
to muteness. But that elucidation was most repulsively fateful and
foreboding; possibly because Pierre did not leap the final barrier of
gloom; possibly because Pierre did not willfully wrest some final
comfort from the fable; did not flog this stubborn rock as Moses his,
and force even aridity itself to quench his painful thirst.

Thus smitten, the Mount of Titans seems to yield this following
stream:--

Old Titan's self was the son of incestuous Coelus and Terra, the son
of incestuous Heaven and Earth. And Titan married his mother Terra,
another and accumulatively incestuous match. And thereof Enceladus was
one issue. So Enceladus was both the son and grandson of an incest; and
even thus, there had been born from the organic blended heavenliness and
earthliness of Pierre, another mixed, uncertain, heaven-aspiring, but
still not wholly earth-emancipated mood; which again, by its terrestrial
taint held down to its terrestrial mother, generated there the present
doubly incestuous Enceladus within him; so that the present mood of
Pierre--that reckless sky-assaulting mood of his, was nevertheless on
one side the grandson of the sky. For it is according to eternal
fitness, that the precipitated Titan should still seek to regain his
paternal birthright even by fierce escalade. Wherefore whoso storms the
sky gives best proof he came from thither! But whatso crawls contented
in the moat before that crystal fort, shows it was born within that
slime, and there forever will abide.

Recovered somewhat from the after-spell of this wild vision folded in
his trance, Pierre composed his front as best he might, and straightway
left his fatal closet. Concentrating all the remaining stuff in him, he
resolved by an entire and violent change, and by a willful act against
his own most habitual inclinations, to wrestle with the strange malady
of his eyes, this new death-fiend of the trance, and this Inferno of his
Titanic vision.

And now, just as he crossed the threshold of the closet, he writhingly
strove to assume an expression intended to be not uncheerful--though how
indeed his countenance at all looked, he could not tell; for dreading
some insupportably dark revealments in his glass, he had of late wholly
abstained from appealing to it--and in his mind he rapidly conned over,
what indifferent, disguising, or light-hearted gamesome things he
should say, when proposing to his companions the little design he
cherished.

And even so, to grim Enceladus, the world the gods had chained for a
ball to drag at his o'erfreighted feet;--even so that globe put forth a
thousand flowers, whose fragile smiles disguised his ponderous load.




BOOK XXVI.

A WALK: A FOREIGN PORTRAIT: A SAIL: AND THE END.


I.

"Come, Isabel, come, Lucy; we have not had a single walk together yet.
It is cold, but clear; and once out of the city, we shall find it sunny.
Come: get ready now, and away for a stroll down to the wharf, and then
for some of the steamers on the bay. No doubt, Lucy, you will find in
the bay scenery some hints for that secret sketch you are so busily
occupied with--ere real living sitters do come--and which you so
devotedly work at, all alone and behind closed doors."

Upon this, Lucy's original look of pale-rippling pleasantness and
surprise--evoked by Pierre's unforeseen proposition to give himself some
relaxation--changed into one of infinite, mute, but unrenderable
meaning, while her swimming eyes gently, yet all-bewildered, fell to the
floor.

"It is finished, then," cried Isabel,--not unmindful of this by-scene,
and passionately stepping forward so as to intercept Pierre's momentary
rapt glance at the agitated Lucy,--"That vile book, it is
finished!--Thank Heaven!"

"Not so," said Pierre; and, displacing all disguisements, a hectic
unsummoned expression suddenly came to his face;--"but ere that vile
book be finished, I must get on some other element than earth. I have
sat on earth's saddle till I am weary; I must now vault over to the
other saddle awhile. Oh, seems to me, there should be two ceaseless
steeds for a bold man to ride,--the Land and the Sea; and like
circus-men we should never dismount, but only be steadied and rested by
leaping from one to the other, while still, side by side, they both race
round the sun. I have been on the Land steed so long, oh I am dizzy!"

"Thou wilt never listen to me, Pierre," said Lucy lowly; "there is no
need of this incessant straining. See, Isabel and I have both offered to
be thy amanuenses;--not in mere copying, but in the original writing; I
am sure that would greatly assist thee."

"Impossible! I fight a duel in which all seconds are forbid."

"Ah Pierre! Pierre!" cried Lucy, dropping the shawl in her hand, and
gazing at him with unspeakable longings of some unfathomable emotion.

Namelessly glancing at Lucy, Isabel slid near to him, seized his hand
and spoke.

"I would go blind for thee, Pierre; here, take out these eyes, and use
them for glasses." So saying, she looked with a strange momentary
haughtiness and defiance at Lucy.

A general half involuntary movement was now made, as if they were about
to depart.

"Ye are ready; go ye before"--said Lucy meekly; "I will follow."

"Nay, one on each arm"--said Pierre--"come!"

As they passed through the low arched vestibule into the street, a
cheek-burnt, gamesome sailor passing, exclaimed--"Steer small, my lad;
'tis a narrow strait thou art in!"

"What says he?"--said Lucy gently. "Yes, it is a narrow strait of a
street indeed."

But Pierre felt a sudden tremble transferred to him from Isabel, who
whispered something inarticulate in his ear.

Gaining one of the thoroughfares, they drew near to a conspicuous
placard over a door, announcing that above stairs was a gallery of
paintings, recently imported from Europe, and now on free exhibition
preparatory to their sale by auction. Though this encounter had been
entirely unforeseen by Pierre, yet yielding to the sudden impulse, he at
once proposed their visiting the pictures. The girls assented, and they
ascended the stairs.

In the anteroom, a catalogue was put into his hand. He paused to give
one hurried, comprehensive glance at it. Among long columns of such
names as Rubens, Raphael, Angelo, Domenichino, Da Vinci, all shamelessly
prefaced with the words "undoubted," or "testified," Pierre met the
following brief line:--"_No. 99. A stranger's head, by an unknown
hand._"

It seemed plain that the whole must be a collection of those wretched
imported daubs, which with the incredible effrontery peculiar to some of
the foreign picture-dealers in America, were christened by the loftiest
names known to Art. But as the most mutilated torsoes of the perfections
of antiquity are not unworthy the student's attention, neither are the
most bungling modern incompletenesses: for both are torsoes; one of
perished perfections in the past; the other, by anticipation, of yet
unfulfilled perfections in the future. Still, as Pierre walked along by
the thickly hung walls, and seemed to detect the infatuated vanity which
must have prompted many of these utterly unknown artists in the
attempted execution by feeble hand of vigorous themes; he could not
repress the most melancholy foreboding concerning himself. All the walls
of the world seemed thickly hung with the empty and impotent scope of
pictures, grandly outlined, but miserably filled. The smaller and
humbler pictures, representing little familiar things, were by far the
best executed; but these, though touching him not unpleasingly, in one
restricted sense, awoke no dormant majesties in his soul, and therefore,
upon the whole, were contemptibly inadequate and unsatisfactory.

At last Pierre and Isabel came to that painting of which Pierre was
capriciously in search--No. 99.

"My God! see! see!" cried Isabel, under strong excitement, "only my
mirror has ever shown me that look before! See! see!"

By some mere hocus-pocus of chance, or subtly designing knavery, a real
Italian gem of art had found its way into this most hybrid collection of
impostures.

No one who has passed through the great galleries of Europe,
unbewildered by their wonderful multitudinousness of surpassing
excellence--a redundancy which neutralizes all discrimination or
individualizing capacity in most ordinary minds--no calm, penetrative
person can have victoriously run that painted gauntlet of the gods,
without certain very special emotions, called forth by some one or more
individual paintings, to which, however, both the catalogues and the
criticisms of the greatest connoisseurs deny any all-transcending merit,
at all answering to the effect thus casually produced. There is no time
now to show fully how this is; suffice it, that in such instances, it is
not the abstract excellence always, but often the accidental
congeniality, which occasions this wonderful emotion. Still, the
individual himself is apt to impute it to a different cause; hence, the
headlong enthusiastic admiration of some one or two men for things not
at all praised by--or at most, which are indifferent to--the rest of the
world;--a matter so often considered inexplicable.

But in this Stranger's Head by the Unknown Hand, the abstract general
excellence united with the all-surprising, accidental congeniality in
producing an accumulated impression of power upon both Pierre and
Isabel. Nor was the strangeness of this at all impaired by the apparent
uninterestedness of Lucy concerning that very picture. Indeed,
Lucy--who, owing to the occasional jolting of the crowd, had loosened
her arm from Pierre's, and so, gradually, had gone on along the pictured
hall in advance--Lucy had thus passed the strange painting, without the
least special pause, and had now wandered round to the precisely
opposite side of the hall; where, at this present time, she was standing
motionless before a very tolerable copy (the only other good thing in
the collection) of that sweetest, most touching, but most awful of all
feminine heads--The Cenci of Guido. The wonderfulness of which head
consists chiefly, perhaps, in a striking, suggested contrast,
half-identical with, and half-analogous to, that almost supernatural
one--sometimes visible in the maidens of tropical nations--namely, soft
and light blue eyes, with an extremely fair complexion; vailed by
funereally jetty hair. But with blue eyes and fair complexion, the
Cenci's hair is golden--physically, therefore, all is in strict, natural
keeping; which, nevertheless, still the more intensifies the suggested
fanciful anomaly of so sweetly and seraphically _blonde_ a being, being
double-hooded, as it were, by the black crape of the two most horrible
crimes (of one of which she is the object, and of the other the agent)
possible to civilized humanity--incest and parricide.

Now, this Cenci and "the Stranger" were hung at a good elevation in one
of the upper tiers; and, from the opposite walls, exactly faced each
other; so that in secret they seemed pantomimically talking over and
across the heads of the living spectators below.

With the aspect of the Cenci every one is familiar. "The Stranger" was a
dark, comely, youthful man's head, portentously looking out of a dark,
shaded ground, and ambiguously smiling. There was no discoverable
drapery; the dark head, with its crisp, curly, jetty hair, seemed just
disentangling itself from out of curtains and clouds. But to Isabel, in
the eye and on the brow, were certain shadowy traces of her own
unmistakable likeness; while to Pierre, this face was in part as the
resurrection of the one he had burnt at the Inn. Not that the separate
features were the same; but the pervading look of it, the subtler
interior keeping of the entirety, was almost identical; still, for all
this, there was an unequivocal aspect of foreignness, of Europeanism,
about both the face itself and the general painting.

"Is it? Is it? Can it be?" whispered Isabel, intensely.

Now, Isabel knew nothing of the painting which Pierre had destroyed. But
she solely referred to the living being who--under the designation of
her father--had visited her at the cheerful house to which she had been
removed during childhood from the large and unnamable one by the
pleasant woman in the coach. Without doubt--though indeed she might not
have been at all conscious of it in her own mystic mind--she must have
somehow vaguely fancied, that this being had always through life worn
the same aspect to every body else which he had to her, for so very
brief an interval of his possible existence. Solely knowing him--or
dreaming of him, it may have been--under that one aspect, she could not
conceive of him under any other. Whether or not these considerations
touching Isabel's ideas occurred to Pierre at this moment is very
improbable. At any rate, he said nothing to her, either to deceive or
undeceive, either to enlighten or obscure. For, indeed, he was too much
riveted by his own far-interior emotions to analyze now the cotemporary
ones of Isabel. So that there here came to pass a not unremarkable
thing: for though both were intensely excited by one object, yet their
two minds and memories were thereby directed to entirely different
contemplations; while still each, for the time--however
unreasonably--might have vaguely supposed the other occupied by one and
the same contemplation. Pierre was thinking of the chair-portrait:
Isabel, of the living face. Yet Isabel's fervid exclamations having
reference to the living face, were now, as it were, mechanically
responded to by Pierre, in syllables having reference to the
chair-portrait. Nevertheless, so subtile and spontaneous was it all,
that neither perhaps ever afterward discovered this contradiction; for,
events whirled them so rapidly and peremptorily after this, that they
had no time for those calm retrospective reveries indispensable perhaps
to such a discovery.

"Is it? is it? can it be?" was the intense whisper of Isabel.

"No, it can not be, it is not," replied Pierre; "one of the wonderful
coincidences, nothing more."

"Oh, by that word, Pierre, we but vainly seek to explain the
inexplicable. Tell me: it is! it must be! it is wonderful!"

"Let us begone; and let us keep eternal silence," said Pierre, quickly;
and, seeking Lucy, they abruptly left the place; as before, Pierre,
seemingly unwilling to be accosted by any one he knew, or who knew his
companions, unconsciously accelerating their steps while forced for a
space to tread the thoroughfares.


II.

As they hurried on, Pierre was silent; but wild thoughts were hurrying
and shouting in his heart. The most tremendous displacing and
revolutionizing thoughts were upheaving in him, with reference to
Isabel; nor--though at the time he was hardly conscious of such a
thing--were these thoughts wholly unwelcome to him.

How did he know that Isabel was his sister? Setting aside Aunt
Dorothea's nebulous legend, to which, in some shadowy points, here and
there Isabel's still more nebulous story seemed to fit on,--though but
uncertainly enough--and both of which thus blurredly conjoining
narrations, regarded in the unscrupulous light of real naked reason,
were any thing but legitimately conclusive; and setting aside his own
dim reminiscences of his wandering father's death-bed; (for though, in
one point of view, those reminiscences might have afforded some degree
of presumption as to his father's having been the parent of an
unacknowledged daughter, yet were they entirely inconclusive as to that
presumed daughter's identity; and the grand point now with Pierre was,
not the general question whether his father had had a daughter, but
whether, assuming that he had had, _Isabel_, rather than any other
living being, _was that daughter_;)--and setting aside all his own
manifold and inter-enfolding mystic and transcendental
persuasions,--originally born, as he now seemed to feel, purely of an
intense procreative enthusiasm:--an enthusiasm no longer so
all-potential with him as of yore; setting all these aside, and coming
to the plain, palpable facts,--how did he _know_ that Isabel was his
sister? Nothing that he saw in her face could he remember as having seen
in his father's. The chair-portrait, _that_ was the entire sum and
substance of all possible, rakable, downright presumptive evidence,
which peculiarly appealed to his own separate self. Yet here was another
portrait of a complete stranger--a European; a portrait imported from
across the seas, and to be sold at public auction, which was just as
strong an evidence as the other. Then, the original of this second
portrait was as much the father of Isabel as the original of the
chair-portrait. But perhaps there was no original at all to this second
portrait; it might have been a pure fancy piece; to which conceit,
indeed, the uncharacterizing style of the filling-up seemed to furnish
no small testimony.

With such bewildering meditations as these in him, running up like
clasping waves upon the strand of the most latent secrecies of his soul,
and with both Isabel and Lucy bodily touching his sides as he walked;
the feelings of Pierre were entirely untranslatable into any words that
can be used.

Of late to Pierre, much more vividly than ever before, the whole story
of Isabel had seemed an enigma, a mystery, an imaginative delirium;
especially since he had got so deep into the inventional mysteries of
his book. For he who is most practically and deeply conversant with
mysticisms and mysteries; he who professionally deals in mysticisms and
mysteries himself; often that man, more than any body else, is disposed
to regard such things in others as very deceptively bejuggling; and
likewise is apt to be rather materialistic in all his own merely
personal notions (as in their practical lives, with priests of
Eleusinian religions), and more than any other man, is often inclined,
at the bottom of his soul, to be uncompromisingly skeptical on all novel
visionary hypotheses of any kind. It is only the no-mystics, or the
half-mystics, who, properly speaking, are credulous. So that in Pierre,
was presented the apparent anomaly of a mind, which by becoming really
profound in itself, grew skeptical of all tendered profundities;
whereas, the contrary is generally supposed.

By some strange arts Isabel's wonderful story might have been, someway,
and for some cause, forged for her, in her childhood, and craftily
impressed upon her youthful mind; which so--like a slight mark in a
young tree--had now enlargingly grown with her growth, till it had
become this immense staring marvel. Tested by any thing real, practical,
and reasonable, what less probable, for instance, than that fancied
crossing of the sea in her childhood, when upon Pierre's subsequent
questioning of her, she did not even know that the sea was salt.


III.

In the midst of all these mental confusions they arrived at the wharf;
and selecting the most inviting of the various boats which lay about
them in three or four adjacent ferry-slips, and one which was bound for
a half-hour's sail across the wide beauty of that glorious bay; they
soon found themselves afloat and in swift gliding motion.

They stood leaning on the rail of the guard, as the sharp craft darted
out from among the lofty pine-forests of ships'-masts, and the tangled
underbrush and cane-brakes of the dwarfed sticks of sloops and scows.
Soon, the spires of stone on the land, blent with the masts of wood on
the water; the crotch of the twin-rivers pressed the great wedged city
almost out of sight. They swept by two little islets distant from the
shore; they wholly curved away from the domes of free-stone and marble,
and gained the great sublime dome of the bay's wide-open waters.

Small breeze had been felt in the pent city that day, but the fair
breeze of naked nature now blew in their faces. The waves began to
gather and roll; and just as they gained a point, where--still
beyond--between high promontories of fortresses, the wide bay visibly
sluiced into the Atlantic, Isabel convulsively grasped the arm of Pierre
and convulsively spoke.

"I feel it! I feel it! It is! It is!"

"What feelest thou?--what is it?"

"The motion! the motion!"

"Dost thou not understand, Pierre?" said Lucy, eying with concern and
wonder his pale, staring aspect--"The waves: it is the motion of the
waves that Isabel speaks of. Look, they are rolling, direct from the sea
now."

Again Pierre lapsed into a still stranger silence and revery.

It was impossible altogether to resist the force of this striking
corroboration of by far the most surprising and improbable thing in the
whole surprising and improbable story of Isabel. Well did he remember
her vague reminiscence of the teetering sea, that did not slope exactly
as the floors of the unknown, abandoned, old house among the French-like
mountains.

While plunged in these mutually neutralizing thoughts of the strange
picture and the last exclamations of Isabel, the boat arrived at its
destination--a little hamlet on the beach, not very far from the great
blue sluice-way into the ocean, which was now yet more distinctly
visible than before.

"Don't let us stop here"--cried Isabel. "Look, let us go through there!
Bell must go through there! See! see! out there upon the blue! yonder,
yonder! far away--out, out!--far, far away, and away, and away, out
there! where the two blues meet, and are nothing--Bell must go!"

"Why, Isabel," murmured Lucy, "that would be to go to far England or
France; thou wouldst find but few friends in far France, Isabel."

"Friends in far France? And what friends have I here?--Art thou my
friend? In thy secret heart dost thou wish me well? And for thee,
Pierre, what am I but a vile clog to thee; dragging thee back from all
thy felicity? Yes, I will go yonder--yonder; out there! I will, I will!
Unhand me! Let me plunge!"

For an instant, Lucy looked incoherently from one to the other. But both
she and Pierre now mechanically again seized Isabel's frantic arms, as
they were again thrown over the outer rail of the boat. They dragged her
back; they spoke to her; they soothed her; but though less vehement,
Isabel still looked deeply distrustfully at Lucy, and deeply
reproachfully at Pierre.

They did not leave the boat as intended; too glad were they all, when it
unloosed from its fastenings, and turned about upon the backward trip.

Stepping to shore, Pierre once more hurried his companions through the
unavoidable publicity of the thoroughfares; but less rapidly proceeded,
soon as they gained the more secluded streets.


IV.

Gaining the Apostles', and leaving his two companions to the privacy of
their chambers, Pierre sat silent and intent by the stove in the
dining-room for a time, and then was on the point of entering his closet
from the corridor, when Delly, suddenly following him, said to him, that
she had forgotten to mention it before, but he would find two letters in
his room, which had been separately left at the door during the absence
of the party.

He passed into the closet, and slowly shooting the bolt--which, for want
of something better, happened to be an old blunted dagger--walked, with
his cap yet unmoved, slowly up to the table, and beheld the letters.
They were lying with their sealed sides up; one in either hand, he
lifted them; and held them straight out sideways from him.

"I see not the writing; know not yet, by mine own eye, that they are
meant for me; yet, in these hands I feel that I now hold the final
poniards that shall stab me; and by stabbing me, make _me_ too a most
swift stabber in the recoil. Which point first?--this!"

He tore open the left-hand letter:--

     "SIR:--You are a swindler. Upon the pretense of writing a popular
     novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances from us, while
     passing through our press the sheets of a blasphemous rhapsody,
     filched from the vile Atheists, Lucian and Voltaire. Our great
     press of publication has hitherto prevented our slightest
     inspection of our reader's proofs of your book. Send not another
     sheet to us. Our bill for printing thus far, and also for our cash
     advances, swindled out of us by you, is now in the hands of our
     lawyer, who is instructed to proceed with instant rigor.

      (_Signed_)       STEEL, FLINT & ASBESTOS."

He folded the left-hand letter, and put it beneath his left heel, and
stood upon it so; and then opened the right-hand letter.

     "Thou, Pierre Glendinning, art a villainous and perjured liar. It
     is the sole object of this letter imprintedly to convey the point
     blank lie to thee; that taken in at thy heart, it may be thence
     pulsed with thy blood, throughout thy system. We have let some
     interval pass inactive, to confirm and solidify our hate.
     Separately, and together, we brand thee, in thy every lung-cell, a
     liar;--liar, because that is the scornfullest and loathsomest title
     for a man; which in itself is the compend of all infamous things.

     (_Signed_)       GLENDINNING STANLY,
                      FREDERIC TARTAN."

He folded the right-hand letter, and put it beneath his right heel; then
folding his two arms, stood upon both the letters.

"These are most small circumstances; but happening just now to me,
become indices to all immensities. For now am I hate-shod! On these I
will skate to my acquittal! No longer do I hold terms with aught.
World's bread of life, and world's breath of honor, both are snatched
from me; but I defy all world's bread and breath. Here I step out before
the drawn-up worlds in widest space, and challenge one and all of them
to battle! Oh, Glen! oh, Fred! most fraternally do I leap to your
rib-crushing hugs! Oh, how I love ye two, that yet can make me lively
hate, in a world which elsewise only merits stagnant scorn!--Now, then,
where is this swindler's, this coiner's book? Here, on this vile
counter, over which the coiner thought to pass it to the world, here
will I nail it fast, for a detected cheat! And thus nailed fast now, do
I spit upon it, and so get the start of the wise world's worst abuse of
it! Now I go out to meet my fate, walking toward me in the street."

As with hat on, and Glen and Frederic's letter invisibly crumpled in his
hand, he--as it were somnambulously--passed into the room of Isabel, she
gave loose to a thin, long shriek, at his wondrous white and haggard
plight; and then, without the power to stir toward him, sat petrified
in her chair, as one embalmed and glazed with icy varnish.

He heeded her not, but passed straight on through both intervening
rooms, and without a knock unpremeditatedly entered Lucy's chamber. He
would have passed out of that, also, into the corridor, without one
word; but something stayed him.

The marble girl sat before her easel; a small box of pointed charcoal,
and some pencils by her side; her painter's wand held out against the
frame; the charcoal-pencil suspended in two fingers, while with the same
hand, holding a crust of bread, she was lightly brushing the
portrait-paper, to efface some ill-considered stroke. The floor was
scattered with the bread-crumbs and charcoal-dust; he looked behind the
easel, and saw his own portrait, in the skeleton.

At the first glimpse of him, Lucy started not, nor stirred; but as if
her own wand had there enchanted her, sat tranced.

"Dead embers of departed fires lie by thee, thou pale girl; with dead
embers thou seekest to relume the flame of all extinguished love! Waste
not so that bread; eat it--in bitterness!"

He turned, and entered the corridor, and then, with outstretched arms,
paused between the two outer doors of Isabel and Lucy.

"For ye two, my most undiluted prayer is now, that from your here unseen
and frozen chairs ye may never stir alive;--the fool of Truth, the fool
of Virtue, the fool of Fate, now quits ye forever!"

As he now sped down the long winding passage, some one eagerly hailed
him from a stair.

"What, what, my boy? where now in such a squally hurry? Hallo, I say!"

But without heeding him at all, Pierre drove on. Millthorpe looked
anxiously and alarmedly after him a moment, then made a movement in
pursuit, but paused again.

"There was ever a black vein in this Glendinning; and now that vein is
swelled, as if it were just one peg above a tourniquet drawn over-tight.
I scarce durst dog him now; yet my heart misgives me that I
should.--Shall I go to his rooms and ask what black thing this is that
hath befallen him?--No; not yet;--might be thought officious--they say
I'm given to that. I'll wait; something may turn up soon. I'll into the
front street, and saunter some; and then--we'll see."


V.

Pierre passed on to a remote quarter of the building, and abruptly
entered the room of one of the Apostles whom he knew. There was no one
in it. He hesitated an instant; then walked up to a book-case, with a
chest of drawers in the lower part.

"Here I saw him put them:--this,--no--here--ay--we'll try this."

Wrenching open the locked drawer, a brace of pistols, a powder flask, a
bullet-bag, and a round green box of percussion-caps lay before him.

"Ha! what wondrous tools Prometheus used, who knows? but more wondrous
these, that in an instant, can unmake the topmost
three-score-years-and-ten of all Prometheus' makings. Come: here's two
tubes that'll outroar the thousand pipes of Harlem.--Is the music in
'em?--No?--Well then, here's powder for the shrill treble; and wadding
for the tenor; and a lead bullet for the concluding bass!
And,--and,--and,--ay; for the top-wadding, I'll send 'em back their lie,
and plant it scorching in their brains!"

He tore off that part of Glen and Fred's letter, which more
particularly gave the lie; and halving it, rammed it home upon the
bullets.

He thrust a pistol into either breast of his coat; and taking the
rearward passages, went down into the back street; directing his rapid
steps toward the grand central thoroughfare of the city.

It was a cold, but clear, quiet, and slantingly sunny day; it was
between four and five of the afternoon; that hour, when the great
glaring avenue was most thronged with haughty-rolling carriages, and
proud-rustling promenaders, both men and women. But these last were
mostly confined to the one wide pavement to the West; the other pavement
was well nigh deserted, save by porters, waiters, and parcel-carriers of
the shops. On the west pave, up and down, for three long miles, two
streams of glossy, shawled, or broadcloth life unceasingly brushed by
each other, as long, resplendent, drooping trains of rival peacocks
brush.

Mixing with neither of these, Pierre stalked midway between. From his
wild and fatal aspect, one way the people took the wall, the other way
they took the curb. Unentangledly Pierre threaded all their host, though
in its inmost heart. Bent he was, on a straightforward, mathematical
intent. His eyes were all about him as he went; especially he glanced
over to the deserted pavement opposite; for that emptiness did not
deceive him; he himself had often walked that side, the better to scan
the pouring throng upon the other.

Just as he gained a large, open, triangular space, built round with the
stateliest public erections;--the very proscenium of the town;--he saw
Glen and Fred advancing, in the distance, on the other side. He
continued on; and soon he saw them crossing over to him obliquely, so as
to take him face-and-face. He continued on; when suddenly running ahead
of Fred, who now chafingly stood still (because Fred would not make two,
in the direct personal assault upon one) and shouting "Liar! Villain!"
Glen leaped toward Pierre from front, and with such lightning-like
ferocity, that the simultaneous blow of his cowhide smote Pierre across
the cheek, and left a half-livid and half-bloody brand.

For that one moment, the people fell back on all sides from them; and
left them--momentarily recoiled from each other--in a ring of panics.

But clapping both hands to his two breasts, Pierre, on both sides
shaking off the sudden white grasp of two rushing girls, tore out both
pistols, and rushed headlong upon Glen.

"For thy one blow, take here two deaths! 'Tis speechless sweet to murder
thee!"

Spatterings of his own kindred blood were upon the pavement; his own
hand had extinguished his house in slaughtering the only unoutlawed
human being by the name of Glendinning;--and Pierre was seized by a
hundred contending hands.


VI.

That sundown, Pierre stood solitary in a low dungeon of the city prison.
The cumbersome stone ceiling almost rested on his brow; so that the long
tiers of massive cell-galleries above seemed partly piled on him. His
immortal, immovable, bleached cheek was dry; but the stone cheeks of the
walls were trickling. The pent twilight of the contracted yard, coming
through the barred arrow-slit, fell in dim bars upon the granite floor.

"Here, then, is the untimely, timely end;--Life's last chapter well
stitched into the middle! Nor book, nor author of the book, hath any
sequel, though each hath its last lettering!--It is ambiguous still. Had
I been heartless now, disowned, and spurningly portioned off the girl
at Saddle Meadows, then had I been happy through a long life on earth,
and perchance through a long eternity in heaven! Now, 'tis merely hell
in both worlds. Well, be it hell. I will mold a trumpet of the flames,
and, with my breath of flame, breathe back my defiance! But give me
first another body! I long and long to die, to be rid of this dishonored
cheek. _Hung by the neck till thou be dead._--Not if I forestall you,
though!--Oh now to live is death, and now to die is life; now, to my
soul, were a sword my midwife!--Hark!--the hangman?--who comes?"

"Thy wife and cousin--so they say;--hope they may be; they may stay till
twelve;" wheezingly answered a turnkey, pushing the tottering girls into
the cell, and locking the door upon them.

"Ye two pale ghosts, were this the other world, ye were not welcome.
Away!--Good Angel and Bad Angel both!--For Pierre is neuter now!"

"Oh, ye stony roofs, and seven-fold stony skies!--not thou art the
murderer, but thy sister hath murdered thee, my brother, oh my brother!"

At these wailed words from Isabel, Lucy shrunk up like a scroll, and
noiselessly fell at the feet of Pierre.

He touched her heart.--"Dead!--Girl! wife or sister, saint or
fiend!"--seizing Isabel in his grasp--"in thy breasts, life for infants
lodgeth not, but death-milk for thee and me!--The drug!" and tearing her
bosom loose, he seized the secret vial nesting there.


VII.

At night the squat-framed, asthmatic turnkey tramped the dim-lit iron
gallery before one of the long honey-combed rows of cells.

"Mighty still there, in that hole, them two mice I let in;--humph!"

Suddenly, at the further end of the gallery, he discerned a shadowy
figure emerging from the archway there, and running on before an
officer, and impetuously approaching where the turnkey stood.

"More relations coming. These wind-broken chaps are always in before the
second death, seeing they always miss the first.--Humph! What a froth
the fellow's in?--Wheezes worse than me!"

"Where is she?" cried Fred Tartan, fiercely, to him; "she's not at the
murderer's rooms! I sought the sweet girl there, instant upon the blow;
but the lone dumb thing I found there only wrung her speechless hands
and pointed to the door;--both birds were flown! Where is she, turnkey?
I've searched all lengths and breadths but this. Hath any angel swept
adown and lighted in your granite hell?"

"Broken his wind, and broken loose, too, aint he?" wheezed the turnkey
to the officer who now came up.

"This gentleman seeks a young lady, his sister, someway innocently
connected with the prisoner last brought in. Have any females been here
to see him?"

"Oh, ay,--two of 'em in there now;" jerking his stumped thumb behind
him.

Fred darted toward the designated cell.

"Oh, easy, easy, young gentleman"--jingling at his huge bunch of
keys--"easy, easy, till I get the picks--I'm housewife here.--Hallo,
here comes another."

Hurrying through the same archway toward them, there now rapidly
advanced a second impetuous figure, running on in advance of a second
officer.

"Where is the cell?" demanded Millthorpe.

"He seeks an interview with the last prisoner," explained the second
officer.

"Kill 'em both with one stone, then," wheezed the turnkey, gratingly
throwing open the door of the cell. "There's his pretty parlor,
gentlemen; step in. Reg'lar mouse-hole, arn't it?--Might hear a rabbit
burrow on the world's t'other side;--are they all 'sleep?"

"I stumble!" cried Fred, from within; "Lucy! A light! a light!--Lucy!"
And he wildly groped about the cell, and blindly caught Millthorpe, who
was also wildly groping.

"Blister me not! take off thy bloody touch!--Ho, ho, the light!--Lucy!
Lucy!--she's fainted!"

Then both stumbled again, and fell from each other in the cell: and for
a moment all seemed still, as though all breaths were held.

As the light was now thrust in, Fred was seen on the floor holding his
sister in his arms; and Millthorpe kneeling by the side of Pierre, the
unresponsive hand in his; while Isabel, feebly moving, reclined between,
against the wall.

"Yes! Yes!--Dead! Dead! Dead!--without one visible wound--her sweet
plumage hides it.--Thou hellish carrion, this is thy hellish work! Thy
juggler's rifle brought down this heavenly bird! Oh, my God, my God!
Thou scalpest me with this sight!"

"The dark vein's burst, and here's the deluge-wreck--all stranded here!
Ah, Pierre! my old companion,
Pierre;--school-mate--play-mate--friend!--Our sweet boy's walks within
the woods!--Oh, I would have rallied thee, and banteringly warned thee
from thy too moody ways, but thou wouldst never heed! What scornful
innocence rests on thy lips, my friend!--Hand scorched with murderer's
powder, yet how woman-soft!--By heaven, these fingers move!--one
speechless clasp!--all's o'er!"

"All's o'er, and ye know him not!" came gasping from the wall; and from
the fingers of Isabel dropped an empty vial--as it had been a run-out
sand-glass--and shivered upon the floor; and her whole form sloped
sideways, and she fell upon Pierre's heart, and her long hair ran over
him, and arbored him in ebon vines.


FINIS.


5xxxxxxxxx


TYPEE

A ROMANCE OF THE SOUTH SEAS


By Herman Melville


PREFACE

MORE than three years have elapsed since the occurrence of the events
recorded in this volume. The interval, with the exception of the last
few months, has been chiefly spent by the author tossing about on
the wide ocean. Sailors are the only class of men who now-a-days see
anything like stirring adventure; and many things which to fire-side
people appear strange and romantic, to them seem as common-place as a
jacket out at elbows. Yet, notwithstanding the familiarity of sailors
with all sorts of curious adventure, the incidents recorded in the
following pages have often served, when ‘spun as a yarn,’ not only to
relieve the weariness of many a night-watch at sea, but to excite the
warmest sympathies of the author’s shipmates. He has been, therefore,
led to think that his story could scarcely fail to interest those who
are less familiar than the sailor with a life of adventure.

In his account of the singular and interesting people among whom he was
thrown, it will be observed that he chiefly treats of their more obvious
peculiarities; and, in describing their customs, refrains in most cases
from entering into explanations concerning their origin and purposes.
As writers of travels among barbarous communities are generally very
diffuse on these subjects, he deems it right to advert to what may be
considered a culpable omission. No one can be more sensible than the
author of his deficiencies in this and many other respects; but when the
very peculiar circumstances in which he was placed are understood, he
feels assured that all these omissions will be excused.

In very many published narratives no little degree of attention is
bestowed upon dates; but as the author lost all knowledge of the days of
the week, during the occurrence of the scenes herein related, he hopes
that the reader will charitably pass over his shortcomings in this
particular.

In the Polynesian words used in this volume,--except in those cases
where the spelling has been previously determined by others,--that form
of orthography has been employed, which might be supposed most easily
to convey their sound to a stranger. In several works descriptive of the
islands in the Pacific, many of the most beautiful combinations of
vocal sounds have been altogether lost to the ear of the reader by an
over-attention to the ordinary rules of spelling.

There are a few passages in the ensuing chapters which may be thought
to bear rather hard upon a reverend order of men, the account of whose
proceedings in different quarters of the globe--transmitted to us
through their own hands--very generally, and often very deservedly,
receives high commendation. Such passages will be found, however, to
be based upon facts admitting of no contradiction, and which have come
immediately under the writer’s cognizance. The conclusions deduced from
these facts are unavoidable, and in stating them the author has been
influenced by no feeling of animosity, either to the individuals
themselves, or to that glorious cause which has not always been served
by the proceedings of some of its advocates.

The great interest with which the important events lately occurring
at the Sandwich, Marquesas, and Society Islands, have been regarded in
America and England, and indeed throughout the world, will, he trusts,
justify a few otherwise unwarrantable digressions.

There are some things related in the narrative which will be sure to
appear strange, or perhaps entirely incomprehensible, to the reader;
but they cannot appear more so to him than they did to the author at the
time. He has stated such matters just as they occurred, and leaves every
one to form his own opinion concerning them; trusting that his anxious
desire to speak the unvarnished truth will gain for him the confidence
of his readers. 1846.

TYPEE



CHAPTER ONE

THE SEA--LONGINGS FOR SHORE--A LAND-SICK SHIP--DESTINATION OF THE
VOYAGERS--THE MARQUESAS--ADVENTURE OF A MISSIONARY’S WIFE AMONG THE
SAVAGES--CHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTE OF THE QUEEN OF NUKUHEVA

Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of sight of
land; cruising after the sperm-whale beneath the scorching sun of the
Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling Pacific--the sky
above, the sea around, and nothing else! Weeks and weeks ago our fresh
provisions were all exhausted. There is not a sweet potato left; not a
single yam. Those glorious bunches of bananas, which once decorated
our stern and quarter-deck, have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious
oranges which hung suspended from our tops and stays--they, too, are
gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us but
salt-horse and sea-biscuit. Oh! ye state-room sailors, who make so
much ado about a fourteen-days’ passage across the Atlantic; who so
pathetically relate the privations and hardships of the sea, where,
after a day of breakfasting, lunching, dining off five courses,
chatting, playing whist, and drinking champagne-punch, it was your hard
lot to be shut up in little cabinets of mahogany and maple, and sleep
for ten hours, with nothing to disturb you but ‘those good-for-nothing
tars, shouting and tramping overhead’,--what would ye say to our six
months out of sight of land?

Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass--for a snuff at the
fragrance of a handful of the loamy earth! Is there nothing fresh around
us? Is there no green thing to be seen? Yes, the inside of our bulwarks
is painted green; but what a vile and sickly hue it is, as if nothing
bearing even the semblance of verdure could flourish this weary way from
land. Even the bark that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been
gnawed off and devoured by the captain’s pig; and so long ago, too, that
the pig himself has in turn been devoured.

There is but one solitary tenant in the chicken-coop, once a gay and
dapper young cock, bearing him so bravely among the coy hens.

But look at him now; there he stands, moping all the day long on that
everlasting one leg of his. He turns with disgust from the mouldy corn
before him, and the brackish water in his little trough. He mourns no
doubt his lost companions, literally snatched from him one by one, and
never seen again. But his days of mourning will be few for Mungo, our
black cook, told me yesterday that the word had at last gone forth, and
poor Pedro’s fate was sealed. His attenuated body will be laid out upon
the captain’s table next Sunday, and long before night will be buried
with all the usual ceremonies beneath that worthy individual’s vest. Who
would believe that there could be any one so cruel as to long for the
decapitation of the luckless Pedro; yet the sailors pray every minute,
selfish fellows, that the miserable fowl may be brought to his end. They
say the captain will never point the ship for the land so long as he
has in anticipation a mess of fresh meat. This unhappy bird can alone
furnish it; and when he is once devoured, the captain will come to his
senses. I wish thee no harm, Pedro; but as thou art doomed, sooner or
later, to meet the fate of all thy race; and if putting a period to
thy existence is to be the signal for our deliverance, why--truth to
speak--I wish thy throat cut this very moment; for, oh! how I wish to
see the living earth again! The old ship herself longs to look out upon
the land from her hawse-holes once more, and Jack Lewis said right the
other day when the captain found fault with his steering.

‘Why d’ye see, Captain Vangs,’ says bold Jack, ‘I’m as good a helmsman
as ever put hand to spoke; but none of us can steer the old lady now. We
can’t keep her full and bye, sir; watch her ever so close, she will fall
off and then, sir, when I put the helm down so gently, and try like to
coax her to the work, she won’t take it kindly, but will fall round off
again; and it’s all because she knows the land is under the lee, sir,
and she won’t go any more to windward.’ Aye, and why should she, Jack?
didn’t every one of her stout timbers grow on shore, and hasn’t she
sensibilities; as well as we?

Poor old ship! Her very looks denote her desires! how deplorably she
appears! The paint on her sides, burnt up by the scorching sun, is
puffed out and cracked. See the weeds she trails along with her, and
what an unsightly bunch of those horrid barnacles has formed about her
stern-piece; and every time she rises on a sea, she shows her copper
torn away, or hanging in jagged strips.

Poor old ship! I say again: for six months she has been rolling and
pitching about, never for one moment at rest. But courage, old lass, I
hope to see thee soon within a biscuit’s toss of the merry land, riding
snugly at anchor in some green cove, and sheltered from the boisterous
winds.

        . . . . . .

‘Hurra, my lads! It’s a settled thing; next week we shape our course to
the Marquesas!’ The Marquesas! What strange visions of outlandish things
does the very name spirit up! Naked houris--cannibal banquets--groves
of cocoanut--coral reefs--tattooed chiefs--and bamboo temples; sunny
valleys planted with bread-fruit-trees--carved canoes dancing on
the flashing blue waters--savage woodlands guarded by horrible
idols--HEATHENISH RITES AND HUMAN SACRIFICES.

Such were the strangely jumbled anticipations that haunted me during our
passage from the cruising ground. I felt an irresistible curiosity to
see those islands which the olden voyagers had so glowingly described.

The group for which we were now steering (although among the earliest of
European discoveries in the South Seas, having been first visited in
the year 1595) still continues to be tenanted by beings as strange
and barbarous as ever. The missionaries sent on a heavenly errand, had
sailed by their lovely shores, and had abandoned them to their idols of
wood and stone. How interesting the circumstances under which they were
discovered! In the watery path of Mendanna, cruising in quest of some
region of gold, these isles had sprung up like a scene of enchantment,
and for a moment the Spaniard believed his bright dream was realized.

In honour of the Marquess de Mendoza, then viceroy of Peru--under whose
auspices the navigator sailed--he bestowed upon them the name which
denoted the rank of his patron, and gave to the world on his return
a vague and magnificent account of their beauty. But these islands,
undisturbed for years, relapsed into their previous obscurity; and it is
only recently that anything has been known concerning them. Once in the
course of a half century, to be sure, some adventurous rover would break
in upon their peaceful repose, and astonished at the unusual scene,
would be almost tempted to claim the merit of a new discovery.

Of this interesting group, but little account has ever been given, if
we except the slight mention made of them in the sketches of South-Sea
voyages. Cook, in his repeated circumnavigations of the globe, barely
touched at their shores; and all that we know about them is from a few
general narratives.

Among these, there are two that claim particular notice. Porter’s
‘Journal of the Cruise of the U.S. frigate Essex, in the Pacific,
during the late War’, is said to contain some interesting particulars
concerning the islanders. This is a work, however, which I have never
happened to meet with; and Stewart, the chaplain of the American sloop
of war Vincennes, has likewise devoted a portion of his book, entitled
‘A Visit to the South Seas’, to the same subject.

Within the last few, years American and English vessels engaged in the
extensive whale fisheries of the Pacific have occasionally, when short
of provisions, put into the commodious harbour which there is in one of
the islands; but a fear of the natives, founded on the recollection of
the dreadful fate which many white men have received at their hands, has
deterred their crews from intermixing with the population sufficiently
to gain any insight into their peculiar customs and manners.

The Protestant Missions appear to have despaired of reclaiming these
islands from heathenism. The usage they have in every case received from
the natives has been such as to intimidate the boldest of their number.
Ellis, in his ‘Polynesian Researches’, gives some interesting accounts
of the abortive attempts made by the ‘’Tahiti Mission’’ to establish a
branch Mission upon certain islands of the group. A short time before
my visit to the Marquesas, a somewhat amusing incident took place in
connection with these efforts, which I cannot avoid relating.

An intrepid missionary, undaunted by the ill-success that had attended
all previous endeavours to conciliate the savages, and believing much
in the efficacy of female influence, introduced among them his young and
beautiful wife, the first white woman who had ever visited their shores.
The islanders at first gazed in mute admiration at so unusual a prodigy,
and seemed inclined to regard it as some new divinity. But after a short
time, becoming familiar with its charming aspect, and jealous of the
folds which encircled its form, they sought to pierce the sacred veil
of calico in which it was enshrined, and in the gratification of their
curiosity so far overstepped the limits of good breeding, as deeply
to offend the lady’s sense of decorum. Her sex once ascertained, their
idolatry was changed into contempt and there was no end to the contumely
showered upon her by the savages, who were exasperated at the deception
which they conceived had been practised upon them. To the horror of
her affectionate spouse, she was stripped of her garments, and given to
understand that she could no longer carry on her deceits with impunity.
The gentle dame was not sufficiently evangelical to endure this, and,
fearful of further improprieties, she forced her husband to relinquish
his undertaking, and together they returned to Tahiti.

Not thus shy of exhibiting her charms was the Island Queen herself, the
beauteous wife of Movianna, the king of Nukuheva. Between two and three
years after the adventures recorded in this volume, I chanced, while
aboard of a man-of-war to touch at these islands. The French had
then held possession of the Marquesas some time, and already prided
themselves upon the beneficial effects of their jurisdiction, as
discernible in the deportment of the natives. To be sure, in one of
their efforts at reform they had slaughtered about a hundred and fifty
of them at Whitihoo--but let that pass. At the time I mention, the
French squadron was rendezvousing in the bay of Nukuheva, and during an
interview between one of their captains and our worthy Commodore, it
was suggested by the former, that we, as the flag-ship of the American
squadron, should receive, in state, a visit from the royal pair. The
French officer likewise represented, with evident satisfaction, that
under their tuition the king and queen had imbibed proper notions of
their elevated station, and on all ceremonious occasions conducted
themselves with suitable dignity. Accordingly, preparations were made to
give their majesties a reception on board in a style corresponding with
their rank.

One bright afternoon, a gig, gaily bedizened with streamers, was
observed to shove off from the side of one of the French frigates, and
pull directly for our gangway. In the stern sheets reclined Mowanna and
his consort. As they approached, we paid them all the honours due to
royalty;--manning our yards, firing a salute, and making a prodigious
hubbub.

They ascended the accommodation ladder, were greeted by the Commodore,
hat in hand, and passing along the quarter-deck, the marine guard
presented arms, while the band struck up ‘The King of the Cannibal
Islands’. So far all went well. The French officers grimaced and smiled
in exceedingly high spirits, wonderfully pleased with the discreet
manner in which these distinguished personages behaved themselves.

Their appearance was certainly calculated to produce an effect. His
majesty was arrayed in a magnificent military uniform, stiff with gold
lace and embroidery, while his shaven crown was concealed by a huge
chapeau bras, waving with ostrich plumes. There was one slight blemish,
however, in his appearance. A broad patch of tattooing stretched
completely across his face, in a line with his eyes, making him look as
if he wore a huge pair of goggles; and royalty in goggles suggested some
ludicrous ideas. But it was in the adornment of the fair person of his
dark-complexioned spouse that the tailors of the fleet had evinced the
gaiety of their national taste. She was habited in a gaudy tissue of
scarlet cloth, trimmed with yellow silk, which, descending a little
below the knees, exposed to view her bare legs, embellished with spiral
tattooing, and somewhat resembling two miniature Trajan’s columns. Upon
her head was a fanciful turban of purple velvet, figured with silver
sprigs, and surmounted by a tuft of variegated feathers.

The ship’s company, crowding into the gangway to view the sight, soon
arrested her majesty’s attention. She singled out from their number an
old salt, whose bare arms and feet, and exposed breast, were covered
with as many inscriptions in India ink as the lid of an Egyptian
sarcophagus. Notwithstanding all the sly hints and remonstrances of the
French officers, she immediately approached the man, and pulling further
open the bosom of his duck frock, and rolling up the leg of his wide
trousers, she gazed with admiration at the bright blue and vermilion
pricking thus disclosed to view. She hung over the fellow, caressing
him, and expressing her delight in a variety of wild exclamations and
gestures. The embarrassment of the polite Gauls at such an unlooked-for
occurrence may be easily imagined, but picture their consternation, when
all at once the royal lady, eager to display the hieroglyphics on her
own sweet form, bent forward for a moment, and turning sharply round,
threw up the skirt of her mantle and revealed a sight from which the
aghast Frenchmen retreated precipitately, and tumbling into their boats,
fled the scene of so shocking a catastrophe.



CHAPTER TWO

PASSAGE FROM THE CRUISING GROUND TO THE MARQUESAS--SLEEPY TIMES ABOARD
SHIP--SOUTH SEA SCENERY--LAND HO--THE FRENCH SQUADRON DISCOVERED AT
ANCHOR IN THE BAY OF NUKUHEVA--STRANGE PILOT--ESCORT OF CANOES--A
FLOTILLA OF COCOANUTS--SWIMMING VISITORS--THE DOLLY BOARDED BY
THEM--STATE OF AFFAIRS THAT ENSUE

I CAN never forget the eighteen or twenty days during which the light
trade-winds were silently sweeping us towards the islands. In pursuit of
the sperm whale, we had been cruising on the line some twenty degrees
to the westward of the Gallipagos; and all that we had to do, when our
course was determined on, was to square in the yards and keep the vessel
before the breeze, and then the good ship and the steady gale did the
rest between them. The man at the wheel never vexed the old lady with
any superfluous steering, but comfortably adjusting his limbs at the
tiller, would doze away by the hour. True to her work, the Dolly headed
to her course, and like one of those characters who always do best when
let alone, she jogged on her way like a veteran old sea-pacer as she
was.

What a delightful, lazy, languid time we had whilst we were thus gliding
along! There was nothing to be done; a circumstance that happily
suited our disinclination to do anything. We abandoned the fore-peak
altogether, and spreading an awning over the forecastle, slept, ate,
and lounged under it the live-long day. Every one seemed to be under the
influence of some narcotic. Even the officers aft, whose duty required
them never to be seated while keeping a deck watch, vainly endeavoured
to keep on their pins; and were obliged invariably to compromise the
matter by leaning up against the bulwarks, and gazing abstractedly over
the side. Reading was out of the question; take a book in your hand, and
you were asleep in an instant.

Although I could not avoid yielding in a great measure to the general
languor, still at times I contrived to shake off the spell, and to
appreciate the beauty of the scene around me. The sky presented a
clear expanse of the most delicate blue, except along the skirts of the
horizon, where you might see a thin drapery of pale clouds which never
varied their form or colour. The long, measured, dirge-like well of
the Pacific came rolling along, with its surface broken by little tiny
waves, sparkling in the sunshine. Every now and then a shoal of flying
fish, scared from the water under the bows, would leap into the air,
and fall the next moment like a shower of silver into the sea. Then you
would see the superb albicore, with his glittering sides, sailing aloft,
and often describing an arc in his descent, disappear on the surface of
the water. Far off, the lofty jet of the whale might be seen, and nearer
at hand the prowling shark, that villainous footpad of the seas, would
come skulking along, and, at a wary distance, regard us with his evil
eye. At times, some shapeless monster of the deep, floating on the
surface, would, as we approached, sink slowly into the blue waters, and
fade away from the sight. But the most impressive feature of the
scene was the almost unbroken silence that reigned over sky and water.
Scarcely a sound could be heard but the occasional breathing of the
grampus, and the rippling at the cut-water.

As we drew nearer the land, I hailed with delight the appearance of
innumerable sea-fowl. Screaming and whirling in spiral tracks, they
would accompany the vessel, and at times alight on our yards and
stays. That piratical-looking fellow, appropriately named the
man-of-war’s-hawk, with his blood-red bill and raven plumage, would
come sweeping round us in gradually diminishing circles, till you
could distinctly mark the strange flashings of his eye; and then, as if
satisfied with his observation, would sail up into the air and disappear
from the view. Soon, other evidences of our vicinity to the land were
apparent, and it was not long before the glad announcement of its being
in sight was heard from aloft,--given with that peculiar prolongation of
sound that a sailor loves--‘Land ho!’

The captain, darting on deck from the cabin, bawled lustily for his
spy-glass; the mate in still louder accents hailed the masthead with a
tremendous ‘where-away?’ The black cook thrust his woolly head from the
galley, and Boatswain, the dog, leaped up between the knight-heads, and
barked most furiously. Land ho! Aye, there it was. A hardly perceptible
blue irregular outline, indicating the bold contour of the lofty heights
of Nukuheva.

This island, although generally called one of the Marquesas, is by some
navigators considered as forming one of a distinct cluster, comprising
the islands of Ruhooka, Ropo, and Nukuheva; upon which three the
appellation of the Washington Group has been bestowed. They form a
triangle, and lie within the parallels of 8 degrees 38” and 9 degrees
32” South latitude and 139 degrees 20” and 140 degrees 10” West
longitude from Greenwich. With how little propriety they are to be
regarded as forming a separate group will be at once apparent, when
it is considered that they lie in the immediate vicinity of the other
islands, that is to say, less than a degree to the northwest of them;
that their inhabitants speak the Marquesan dialect, and that their laws,
religion, and general customs are identical. The only reason why they
were ever thus arbitrarily distinguished may be attributed to the
singular fact, that their existence was altogether unknown to the world
until the year 1791, when they were discovered by Captain Ingraham, of
Boston, Massachusetts, nearly two centuries after the discovery of the
adjacent islands by the agent of the Spanish Viceroy. Notwithstanding
this, I shall follow the example of most voyagers, and treat of them as
forming part and parcel of Marquesas.

Nukuheva is the most important of these islands, being the only one
at which ships are much in the habit of touching, and is celebrated as
being the place where the adventurous Captain Porter refitted his ships
during the late war between England and the United States, and whence he
sallied out upon the large whaling fleet then sailing under the enemy’s
flag in the surrounding seas. This island is about twenty miles in
length and nearly as many in breadth. It has three good harbours on its
coast; the largest and best of which is called by the people living
in its vicinity ‘Taiohae’, and by Captain Porter was denominated
Massachusetts Bay. Among the adverse tribes dwelling about the shores of
the other bays, and by all voyagers, it is generally known by the name
bestowed upon the island itself--Nukuheva. Its inhabitants have become
somewhat corrupted, owing to their recent commerce with Europeans, but
so far as regards their peculiar customs and general mode of life, they
retain their original primitive character, remaining very nearly in the
same state of nature in which they were first beheld by white men. The
hostile clans, residing in the more remote sections of the island, and
very seldom holding any communication with foreigners, are in every
respect unchanged from their earliest known condition.

In the bay of Nukuheva was the anchorage we desired to reach. We had
perceived the loom of the mountains about sunset; so that after running
all night with a very light breeze, we found ourselves close in with
the island the next morning, but as the bay we sought lay on its farther
side, we were obliged to sail some distance along the shore, catching,
as we proceeded, short glimpses of blooming valleys, deep glens,
waterfalls, and waving groves hidden here and there by projecting and
rocky headlands, every moment opening to the view some new and startling
scene of beauty.

Those who for the first time visit the South Sea, generally are
surprised at the appearance of the islands when beheld from the sea.
From the vague accounts we sometimes have of their beauty, many people
are apt to picture to themselves enamelled and softly swelling plains,
shaded over with delicious groves, and watered by purling brooks, and
the entire country but little elevated above the surrounding ocean. The
reality is very different; bold rock-bound coasts, with the surf beating
high against the lofty cliffs, and broken here and there into deep
inlets, which open to the view thickly-wooded valleys, separated by the
spurs of mountains clothed with tufted grass, and sweeping down towards
the sea from an elevated and furrowed interior, form the principal
features of these islands.

Towards noon we drew abreast the entrance go the harbour, and at last
we slowly swept by the intervening promontory, and entered the bay of
Nukuheva. No description can do justice to its beauty; but that beauty
was lost to me then, and I saw nothing but the tri-coloured flag of
France trailing over the stern of six vessels, whose black hulls and
bristling broadsides proclaimed their warlike character. There they
were, floating in that lovely bay, the green eminences of the shore
looking down so tranquilly upon them, as if rebuking the sternness of
their aspect. To my eye nothing could be more out of keeping than the
presence of these vessels; but we soon learnt what brought them
there. The whole group of islands had just been taken possession of
by Rear-Admiral Du Petit Thouars, in the name of the invincible French
nation.

This item of information was imparted to us by a most extraordinary
individual, a genuine South-Sea vagabond, who came alongside of us in
a whale-boat as soon as we entered the bay, and, by the aid of some
benevolent persons at the gangway, was assisted on board, for our
visitor was in that interesting stage of intoxication when a man is
amiable and helpless. Although he was utterly unable to stand erect or
to navigate his body across the deck, he still magnanimously proffered
his services to pilot the ship to a good and secure anchorage. Our
captain, however, rather distrusted his ability in this respect, and
refused to recognize his claim to the character he assumed; but
our gentleman was determined to play his part, for, by dint of much
scrambling, he succeeded in getting into the weather-quarter boat,
where he steadied himself by holding on to a shroud, and then commenced
issuing his commands with amazing volubility and very peculiar gestures.
Of course no one obeyed his orders; but as it was impossible to quiet
him, we swept by the ships of the squadron with this strange fellow
performing his antics in full view of all the French officers.

We afterwards learned that our eccentric friend had been a lieutenant in
the English navy; but having disgraced his flag by some criminal conduct
in one of the principal ports on the main, he had deserted his ship,
and spent many years wandering among the islands of the Pacific, until
accidentally being at Nukuheva when the French took possession of
the place, he had been appointed pilot of the harbour by the newly
constituted authorities.

As we slowly advanced up the bay, numerous canoes pushed off from the
surrounding shores, and we were soon in the midst of quite a flotilla
of them, their savage occupants struggling to get aboard of us, and
jostling one another in their ineffectual attempts. Occasionally the
projecting out-riggers of their slight shallops running foul of one
another, would become entangled beneath the water, threatening to
capsize the canoes, when a scene of confusion would ensue that baffles
description. Such strange outcries and passionate gesticulations I never
certainly heard or saw before. You would have thought the islanders were
on the point of flying at each other’s throats, whereas they were only
amicably engaged in disentangling their boats.

Scattered here and there among the canoes might be seen numbers of
cocoanuts floating closely together in circular groups, and bobbing up
and down with every wave. By some inexplicable means these cocoanuts
were all steadily approaching towards the ship. As I leaned curiously
over the side, endeavouring to solve their mysterious movements, one
mass far in advance of the rest attracted my attention. In its centre
was something I could take for nothing else than a cocoanut, but which
I certainly considered one of the most extraordinary specimens of the
fruit I had ever seen. It kept twirling and dancing about among the rest
in the most singular manner, and as it drew nearer I thought it bore a
remarkable resemblance to the brown shaven skull of one of the savages.
Presently it betrayed a pair of eyes, and soon I became aware that what
I had supposed to have been one of the fruit was nothing else than the
head of an islander, who had adopted this singular method of bringing
his produce to market. The cocoanuts were all attached to one another
by strips of the husk, partly torn from the shell and rudely fastened
together. Their proprietor inserting his head into the midst of them,
impelled his necklace of cocoanuts through the water by striking out
beneath the surface with his feet.

I was somewhat astonished to perceive that among the number of natives
that surrounded us, not a single female was to be seen. At that time I
was ignorant of the fact that by the operation of the ‘taboo’ the use of
canoes in all parts of the island is rigorously prohibited to the entire
sex, for whom it is death even to be seen entering one when hauled on
shore; consequently, whenever a Marquesan lady voyages by water, she
puts in requisition the paddles of her own fair body.

We had approached within a mile and a half perhaps of this foot of
the bay, when some of the islanders, who by this time had managed to
scramble aboard of us at the risk of swamping their canoes, directed our
attention to a singular commotion in the water ahead of the vessel. At
first I imagined it to be produced by a shoal of fish sporting on the
surface, but our savage friends assured us that it was caused by a shoal
of ‘whinhenies’ (young girls), who in this manner were coming off from
the shore to welcome is. As they drew nearer, and I watched the rising
and sinking of their forms, and beheld the uplifted right arm bearing
above the water the girdle of tappa, and their long dark hair trailing
beside them as they swam, I almost fancied they could be nothing else
than so many mermaids--and very like mermaids they behaved too.

We were still some distance from the beach, and under slow headway,
when we sailed right into the midst of these swimming nymphs, and they
boarded us at every quarter; many seizing hold of the chain-plates and
springing into the chains; others, at the peril of being run over by
the vessel in her course, catching at the bob-stays, and wreathing their
slender forms about the ropes, hung suspended in the air. All of them
at length succeeded in getting up the ship’s side, where they clung
dripping with the brine and glowing from the bath, their jet-black
tresses streaming over their shoulders, and half enveloping their
otherwise naked forms. There they hung, sparkling with savage vivacity,
laughing gaily at one another, and chattering away with infinite glee.
Nor were they idle the while, for each one performed the simple offices
of the toilette for the other. Their luxuriant locks, wound up and
twisted into the smallest possible compass, were freed from the briny
element; the whole person carefully dried, and from a little round
shell that passed from hand to hand, anointed with a fragrant oil: their
adornments were completed by passing a few loose folds of white tappa,
in a modest cincture, around the waist. Thus arrayed they no longer
hesitated, but flung themselves lightly over the bulwarks, and were
quickly frolicking about the decks. Many of them went forward, perching
upon the headrails or running out upon the bowsprit, while others seated
themselves upon the taffrail, or reclined at full length upon the boats.
What a sight for us bachelor sailors! How avoid so dire a temptation?
For who could think of tumbling these artless creatures overboard, when
they had swum miles to welcome us?

Their appearance perfectly amazed me; their extreme youth, the
light clear brown of their complexions, their delicate features, and
inexpressibly graceful figures, their softly moulded limbs, and free
unstudied action, seemed as strange as beautiful.

The Dolly was fairly captured; and never I will say was vessel carried
before by such a dashing and irresistible party of boarders! The ship
taken, we could not do otherwise than yield ourselves prisoners, and for
the whole period that she remained in the bay, the Dolly, as well as her
crew, were completely in the hands of the mermaids.

In the evening after we had come to an anchor the deck was illuminated
with lanterns, and this picturesque band of sylphs, tricked out with
flowers, and dressed in robes of variegated tappa, got up a ball in
great style. These females are passionately fond of dancing, and in the
wild grace and spirit of the style excel everything I have ever seen.
The varied dances of the Marquesan girls are beautiful in the extreme,
but there is an abandoned voluptuousness in their character which I dare
not attempt to describe.



CHAPTER THREE

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE OPERATIONS OF THE FRENCH AT THE
MARQUESAS--PRUDENT CONDUCT OF THE ADMIRAL--SENSATION PRODUCED BY
THE ARRIVAL OF THE STRANGERS--THE FIRST HORSE SEEN BY THE
ISLANDERS--REFLECTIONS--MISERABLE SUBTERFUGE OF THE FRENCH--DIGRESSION
CONCERNING TAHITI--SEIZURE OF THE ISLAND BY THE ADMIRAL--SPIRITED
CONDUCT OF AN ENGLISH LADY

IT was in the summer of 1842 that we arrived at the islands; the French
had then held possession of them for several weeks. During this time
they had visited some of the principal places in the group, and had
disembarked at various points about five hundred troops. These were
employed in constructing works of defence, and otherwise providing
against the attacks of the natives, who at any moment might be expected
to break out in open hostility. The islanders looked upon the people who
made this cavalier appropriation of their shores with mingled feelings
of fear and detestation. They cordially hated them; but the impulses
of their resentment were neutralized by their dread of the floating
batteries, which lay with their fatal tubes ostentatiously pointed,
not at fortifications and redoubts, but at a handful of bamboo sheds,
sheltered in a grove of cocoanuts! A valiant warrior doubtless, but
a prudent one too, was this same Rear-Admiral Du Petit Thouars. Four
heavy, doublebanked frigates and three corvettes to frighten a parcel of
naked heathen into subjection! Sixty-eight pounders to demolish huts of
cocoanut boughs, and Congreve rockets to set on fire a few canoe sheds!

At Nukuheva, there were about one hundred soldiers ashore. They were
encamped in tents, constructed of the old sails and spare spars of
the squadron, within the limits of a redoubt mounted with a few
nine-pounders, and surrounded with a fosse. Every other day, these
troops were marched out in martial array, to a level piece of ground
in the vicinity, and there for hours went through all sorts of military
evolutions, surrounded by flocks of the natives, who looked on with
savage admiration at the show, and as savage a hatred of the actors.
A regiment of the Old Guard, reviewed on a summer’s day in the Champs
Elysees, could not have made a more critically correct appearance. The
officers’ regimentals, resplendent with gold lace and embroidery as if
purposely calculated to dazzle the islanders, looked as if just unpacked
from their Parisian cases.

The sensation produced by the presence of the strangers had not in the
least subsided at the period of our arrival at the islands. The natives
still flocked in numbers about the encampment, and watched with the
liveliest curiosity everything that was going forward. A blacksmith’s
forge, which had been set up in the shelter of a grove near the beach,
attracted so great a crowd, that it required the utmost efforts of the
sentries posted around to keep the inquisitive multitude at a sufficient
distance to allow the workmen to ply their vocation. But nothing gained
so large a share of admiration as a horse, which had been brought from
Valparaiso by the Achille, one of the vessels of the squadron. The
animal, a remarkably fine one, had been taken ashore, and stabled in a
hut of cocoanut boughs within the fortified enclosure. Occasionally it
was brought out, and, being gaily caparisoned, was ridden by one of the
officers at full speed over the hard sand beach. This performance was
sure to be hailed with loud plaudits, and the ‘puarkee nuee’ (big hog)
was unanimously pronounced by the islanders to be the most extraordinary
specimen of zoology that had ever come under their observation.

The expedition for the occupation of the Marquesas had sailed from Brest
in the spring of 1842, and the secret of its destination was solely in
the possession of its commander. No wonder that those who contemplated
such a signal infraction of the rights of humanity should have sought to
veil the enormity from the eyes of the world. And yet, notwithstanding
their iniquitous conduct in this and in other matters, the French
have ever plumed themselves upon being the most humane and polished of
nations. A high degree of refinement, however, does not seem to subdue
our wicked propensities so much after all; and were civilization itself
to be estimated by some of its results, it would seem perhaps better for
what we call the barbarous part of the world to remain unchanged.

One example of the shameless subterfuges under which the French stand
prepared to defend whatever cruelties they may hereafter think fit to
commit in bringing the Marquesan natives into subjection is well worthy
of being recorded. On some flimsy pretext or other Mowanna, the king of
Nukuheva, whom the invaders by extravagant presents had cajoled over to
their interests, and moved about like a mere puppet, has been set up
as the rightful sovereign of the entire island--the alleged ruler by
prescription of various clans, who for ages perhaps have treated with
each other as separate nations. To reinstate this much-injured prince in
the assumed dignities of his ancestors, the disinterested strangers have
come all the way from France: they are determined that his title shall
be acknowledged. If any tribe shall refuse to recognize the authority
of the French, by bowing down to the laced chapeau of Mowanna, let them
abide the consequences of their obstinacy. Under cover of a similar
pretence, have the outrages and massacres at Tahiti the beautiful, the
queen of the South Seas, been perpetrated.

On this buccaneering expedition, Rear Admiral Du Petit Thouars, leaving
the rest of his squadron at the Marquesas,--which had then been occupied
by his forces about five months--set sail for the doomed island in
the Reine Blanche frigate. On his arrival, as an indemnity for alleged
insults offered to the flag of his country, he demanded some twenty
or thirty thousand dollars to be placed in his hands forthwith, and in
default of payment, threatened to land and take possession of the place.

The frigate, immediately upon coming to an anchor, got springs on her
cables, and with her guns cast loose and her men at their quarters, lay
in the circular basin of Papeete, with her broadside bearing upon the
devoted town; while her numerous cutters, hauled in order alongside,
were ready to effect a landing, under cover of her batteries. She
maintained this belligerent attitude for several days, during which time
a series of informal negotiations were pending, and wide alarm spread
over the island. Many of the Tahitians were at first disposed to resort
to arms, and drive the invaders from their shores; but more pacific and
feebler counsels ultimately prevailed. The unfortunate queen Pomare,
incapable of averting the impending calamity, terrified at the arrogance
of the insolent Frenchman, and driven at last to despair, fled by night
in a canoe to Emio.

During the continuance of the panic there occurred an instance of
feminine heroism that I cannot omit to record.

In the grounds of the famous missionary consul, Pritchard, then absent
in London, the consular flag of Britain waved as usual during the day,
from a lofty staff planted within a few yards of the beach, and in full
view of the frigate. One morning an officer, at the head of a party
of men, presented himself at the verandah of Mr Pritchard’s house, and
inquired in broken English for the lady his wife. The matron soon made
her appearance; and the polite Frenchman, making one of his best bows,
and playing gracefully with the aiguillettes that danced upon his
breast, proceeded in courteous accents to deliver his mission. ‘The
admiral desired the flag to be hauled down--hoped it would be perfectly
agreeable--and his men stood ready to perform the duty.’ ‘Tell the
Pirate your master,’ replied the spirited Englishwoman, pointing to
the staff, ‘that if he wishes to strike these colours, he must come and
perform the act himself; I will suffer no one else to do it.’ The lady
then bowed haughtily and withdrew into the house. As the discomfited
officer slowly walked away, he looked up to the flag, and perceived that
the cord by which it was elevated to its place, led from the top of the
staff, across the lawn, to an open upper window of the mansion, where
sat the lady from whom he had just parted, tranquilly engaged in
knitting. Was that flag hauled down? Mrs Pritchard thinks not; and
Rear-Admiral Du Petit Thouars is believed to be of the same opinion.



CHAPTER FOUR

STATE OF AFFAIRS ABOARD THE SHIP--CONTENTS OF HER LARDER--LENGTH OF
SOUTH SEAMEN’S VOYAGES--ACCOUNT OF A FLYING WHALE-MAN--DETERMINATION
TO LEAVE THE VESSEL--THE BAY OF NUKUHEVA--THE TYPEES--INVASION OF THEIR
VALLEY BY PORTER--REFLECTIONS--GLEN OF TIOR--INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE OLD
KING AND THE FRENCH ADMIRAL

OUR ship had not been many days in the harbour of Nukuheva before I came
to the determination of leaving her. That my reasons for resolving to
take this step were numerous and weighty, may be inferred from the fact
that I chose rather to risk my fortunes among the savages of the island
than to endure another voyage on board the Dolly. To use the concise,
pointblank phrase of the sailors. I had made up my mind to ‘run away’.
Now as a meaning is generally attached to these two words no way
flattering to the individual to whom they are applied, it behoves
me, for the sake of my own character, to offer some explanation of my
conduct.

When I entered on board the Dolly, I signed as a matter of course the
ship’s articles, thereby voluntarily engaging and legally binding
myself to serve in a certain capacity for the period of the voyage;
and, special considerations apart, I was of course bound to fulfill the
agreement. But in all contracts, if one party fail to perform his share
of the compact, is not the other virtually absolved from his liability?
Who is there who will not answer in the affirmative?

Having settled the principle, then, let me apply it to the particular
case in question. In numberless instances had not only the implied but
the specified conditions of the articles been violated on the part of
the ship in which I served. The usage on board of her was tyrannical;
the sick had been inhumanly neglected; the provisions had been doled out
in scanty allowance; and her cruises were unreasonably protracted. The
captain was the author of the abuses; it was in vain to think that he
would either remedy them, or alter his conduct, which was arbitrary
and violent in the extreme. His prompt reply to all complaints and
remonstrances was--the butt-end of a handspike, so convincingly
administered as effectually to silence the aggrieved party.

To whom could we apply for redress? We had left both law and equity
on the other side of the Cape; and unfortunately, with a very few
exceptions, our crew was composed of a parcel of dastardly and
meanspirited wretches, divided among themselves, and only united in
enduring without resistance the unmitigated tyranny of the captain.
It would have been mere madness for any two or three of the number,
unassisted by the rest, to attempt making a stand against his ill
usage. They would only have called down upon themselves the particular
vengeance of this ‘Lord of the Plank’, and subjected their shipmates to
additional hardships.

But, after all, these things could have been endured awhile, had we
entertained the hope of being speedily delivered from them by the due
completion of the term of our servitude. But what a dismal prospect
awaited us in this quarter! The longevity of Cape Horn whaling voyages
is proverbial, frequently extending over a period of four or five years.

Some long-haired, bare-necked youths, who, forced by the united
influences of Captain Marryatt and hard times, embark at Nantucket for
a pleasure excursion to the Pacific, and whose anxious mothers provide
them, with bottled milk for the occasion, oftentimes return very
respectable middle-aged gentlemen.

The very preparations made for one of these expeditions are enough to
frighten one. As the vessel carries out no cargo, her hold is filled
with provisions for her own consumption. The owners, who officiate
as caterers for the voyage, supply the larder with an abundance
of dainties. Delicate morsels of beef and pork, cut on scientific
principles from every part of the animal, and of all conceivable shapes
and sizes, are carefully packed in salt, and stored away in barrels;
affording a never-ending variety in their different degrees of
toughness, and in the peculiarities of their saline properties. Choice
old water too, decanted into stout six-barrel-casks, and two pints of
which is allowed every day to each soul on board; together with ample
store of sea-bread, previously reduced to a state of petrifaction, with
a view to preserve it either from decay or consumption in the ordinary
mode, are likewise provided for the nourishment and gastronomic
enjoyment of the crew.

But not to speak of the quality of these articles of sailors’ fare,
the abundance in which they are put onboard a whaling vessel is almost
incredible. Oftentimes, when we had occasion to break out in the hold,
and I beheld the successive tiers of casks and barrels, whose contents
were all destined to be consumed in due course by the ship’s company, my
heart has sunk within me.

Although, as a general case, a ship unlucky in falling in with
whales continues to cruise after them until she has barely sufficient
provisions remaining to take her home, turning round then quietly and
making the best of her way to her friends, yet there are instances when
even this natural obstacle to the further prosecution of the voyage
is overcome by headstrong captains, who, bartering the fruits of their
hard-earned toils for a new supply of provisions in some of the ports
of Chili or Peru, begin the voyage afresh with unabated zeal and
perseverance. It is in vain that the owners write urgent letters to him
to sail for home, and for their sake to bring back the ship, since it
appears he can put nothing in her. Not he. He has registered a vow: he
will fill his vessel with good sperm oil, or failing to do so, never
again strike Yankee soundings.

I heard of one whaler, which after many years’ absence was given up for
lost. The last that had been heard of her was a shadowy report of her
having touched at some of those unstable islands in the far Pacific,
whose eccentric wanderings are carefully noted in each new edition
of the South-Sea charts. After a long interval, however, ‘The
Perseverance’--for that was her name--was spoken somewhere in the
vicinity of the ends of the earth, cruising along as leisurely as ever,
her sails all bepatched and be quilted with rope-yarns, her spars fished
with old pipe staves, and her rigging knotted and spliced in every
possible direction. Her crew was composed of some twenty venerable
Greenwich-pensioner-looking old salts, who just managed to hobble about
deck. The ends of all the running ropes, with the exception of the
signal halyards and poop-down-haul, were rove through snatch-blocks, and
led to the capstan or windlass, so that not a yard was braced or a sail
set without the assistance of machinery.

Her hull was encrusted with barnacles, which completely encased her.
Three pet sharks followed in her wake, and every day came alongside to
regale themselves from the contents of the cook’s bucket, which were
pitched over to them. A vast shoal of bonetas and albicores always kept
her company.

Such was the account I heard of this vessel and the remembrance of it
always haunted me; what eventually became of her I never learned; at
any rate: he never reached home, and I suppose she is still regularly
tacking twice in the twenty-four hours somewhere off Desolate Island, or
the Devil’s-Tail Peak.

Having said thus much touching the usual length of these voyages, when I
inform the reader that ours had as it were just commenced, we being only
fifteen months out, and even at that time hailed as a late arrival and
boarded for news, he will readily perceive that there was little to
encourage one in looking forward to the future, especially as I had
always had a presentiment that we should make an unfortunate voyage, and
our experience so far had justified the expectation.

I may here state, and on my faith as an honest man, that though more
than three years have elapsed since I left this same identical vessel,
she still continues; in the Pacific, and but a few days since I saw
her reported in the papers as having touched at the Sandwich Islands
previous to going on the coast of Japan.

But to return to my narrative. Placed in these circumstances then, with
no prospect of matters mending if I remained aboard the Dolly, I at once
made up my mind to leave her: to be sure it was rather an inglorious
thing to steal away privily from those at whose hands I had received
wrongs and outrages that I could not resent; but how was such a course
to be avoided when it was the only alternative left me? Having made
up my mind, I proceeded to acquire all the information I could obtain
relating to the island and its inhabitants, with a view of shaping my
plans of escape accordingly. The result of these inquiries I will now
state, in order that the ensuing narrative may be the better understood.

The bay of Nukuheva in which we were then lying is an expanse of
water not unlike in figure the space included within the limits of a
horse-shoe. It is, perhaps, nine miles in circumference. You approach
it from the sea by a narrow entrance, flanked on each side by two small
twin islets which soar conically to the height of some five hundred
feet. From these the shore recedes on both hands, and describes a deep
semicircle.

From the verge of the water the land rises uniformly on all sides, with
green and sloping acclivities, until from gently rolling hill-sides
and moderate elevations it insensibly swells into lofty and majestic
heights, whose blue outlines, ranged all around, close in the view. The
beautiful aspect of the shore is heightened by deep and romantic
glens, which come down to it at almost equal distances, all apparently
radiating from a common centre, and the upper extremities of which are
lost to the eye beneath the shadow of the mountains. Down each of these
little valleys flows a clear stream, here and there assuming the form
of a slender cascade, then stealing invisibly along until it bursts
upon the sight again in larger and more noisy waterfalls, and at last
demurely wanders along to the sea.

The houses of the natives, constructed of the yellow bamboo, tastefully
twisted together in a kind of wicker-work, and thatched with the long
tapering leaves of the palmetto, are scattered irregularly along these
valleys beneath the shady branches of the cocoanut trees.

Nothing can exceed the imposing scenery of this bay. Viewed from our
ship as she lay at anchor in the middle of the harbour, it presented the
appearance of a vast natural amphitheatre in decay, and overgrown with
vines, the deep glens that furrowed it’s sides appearing like enormous
fissures caused by the ravages of time. Very often when lost in
admiration at its beauty, I have experienced a pang of regret that a
scene so enchanting should be hidden from the world in these remote
seas, and seldom meet the eyes of devoted lovers of nature.

Besides this bay the shores of the island are indented by several other
extensive inlets, into which descend broad and verdant valleys. These
are inhabited by as many distinct tribes of savages, who, although
speaking kindred dialects of a common language, and having the same
religion and laws, have from time immemorial waged hereditary warfare
against each other. The intervening mountains generally two or three
thousand feet above the level of the sea geographically define the
territories of each of these hostile tribes, who never cross them, save
on some expedition of war or plunder. Immediately adjacent to Nukuheva,
and only separated from it by the mountains seen from the harbour, lies
the lovely valley of Happar, whose inmates cherish the most friendly
relations with the inhabitants of Nukuheva. On the other side of Happar,
and closely adjoining it, is the magnificent valley of the dreaded
Typees, the unappeasable enemies of both these tribes.

These celebrated warriors appear to inspire the other islanders with
unspeakable terrors. Their very name is a frightful one; for the word
‘Typee’ in the Marquesan dialect signifies a lover of human flesh. It
is rather singular that the title should have been bestowed upon them
exclusively, inasmuch as the natives of all this group are irreclaimable
cannibals. The name may, perhaps, have been given to denote the peculiar
ferocity of this clan, and to convey a special stigma along with it.

These same Typees enjoy a prodigious notoriety all over the islands. The
natives of Nukuheva would frequently recount in pantomime to our ship’s
company their terrible feats, and would show the marks of wounds they
had received in desperate encounters with them. When ashore they would
try to frighten us by pointing, to one of their own number, and calling
him a Typee, manifesting no little surprise that we did not take to our
heels at so terrible an announcement. It was quite amusing, too, to see
with what earnestness they disclaimed all cannibal propensities on their
own part, while they denounced their enemies--the Typees--as inveterate
gourmandizers of human flesh; but this is a peculiarity to which I shall
hereafter have occasion to allude.

Although I was convinced that the inhabitants of our bay were as arrant
cannibals as any of the other tribes on the island, still I could not
but feel a particular and most unqualified repugnance to the aforesaid
Typees. Even before visiting the Marquesas, I had heard from men who
had touched at the group on former voyages some revolting stories in
connection with these savages; and fresh in my remembrance was the
adventure of the master of the Katherine, who only a few months
previous, imprudently venturing into this bay in an armed boat for the
purpose of barter, was seized by the natives, carried back a little
distance into their valley, and was only saved from a cruel death by the
intervention of a young girl, who facilitated his escape by night along
the beach to Nukuheva.

I had heard too of an English vessel that many years ago, after a weary
cruise, sought to enter the bay of Nukuheva, and arriving within two or
three miles of the land, was met by a large canoe filled with natives,
who offered to lead the way to the place of their destination. The
captain, unacquainted with the localities of the island, joyfully
acceded to the proposition--the canoe paddled on, the ship followed. She
was soon conducted to a beautiful inlet, and dropped her anchor in
its waters beneath the shadows of the lofty shore. That same night the
perfidious Typees, who had thus inveigled her into their fatal bay,
flocked aboard the doomed vessel by hundreds, and at a given signal
murdered every soul on board.

I shall never forget the observation of one of our crew as we were
passing slowly by the entrance of the bay in our way to Nukuheva. As we
stood gazing over the side at the verdant headlands, Ned, pointing
with his hand in the direction of the treacherous valley, exclaimed,
‘There--there’s Typee. Oh, the bloody cannibals, what a meal they’d make
of us if we were to take it into our heads to land! but they say they
don’t like sailor’s flesh, it’s too salt. I say, maty, how should you
like to be shoved ashore there, eh?’ I little thought, as I shuddered
at the question, that in the space of a few weeks I should actually be a
captive in that self-same valley.

The French, although they had gone through the ceremony of hoisting
their colours for a few hours at all the principal places of the
group, had not as yet visited the bay of Typee, anticipating a fierce
resistance on the part of the savages there, which for the present at
least they wished to avoid. Perhaps they were not a little influenced in
the adoption of this unusual policy from a recollection of the warlike
reception given by the Typees to the forces of Captain Porter, about
the year 1814, when that brave and accomplished officer endeavoured to
subjugate the clan merely to gratify the mortal hatred of his allies the
Nukuhevas and Happars.

On that occasion I have been told that a considerable detachment of
sailors and marines from the frigate Essex, accompanied by at least two
thousand warriors of Happar and Nukuheva, landed in boats and canoes at
the head of the bay, and after penetrating a little distance into the
valley, met with the stoutest resistance from its inmates. Valiantly,
although with much loss, the Typees disputed every inch of ground, and
after some hard fighting obliged their assailants to retreat and abandon
their design of conquest.

The invaders, on their march back to the sea, consoled themselves for
their repulse by setting fire to every house and temple in their route;
and a long line of smoking ruins defaced the once-smiling bosom of the
valley, and proclaimed to its pagan inhabitants the spirit that reigned
in the breasts of Christian soldiers. Who can wonder at the deadly
hatred of the Typees to all foreigners after such unprovoked atrocities?

Thus it is that they whom we denominate ‘savages’ are made to deserve
the title. When the inhabitants of some sequestered island first descry
the ‘big canoe’ of the European rolling through the blue waters towards
their shores, they rush down to the beach in crowds, and with open arms
stand ready to embrace the strangers. Fatal embrace! They fold to their
bosom the vipers whose sting is destined to poison all their joys; and
the instinctive feeling of love within their breast is soon converted
into the bitterest hate.

The enormities perpetrated in the South Seas upon some of the
inoffensive islanders will nigh pass belief. These things are seldom
proclaimed at home; they happen at the very ends of the earth; they
are done in a corner, and there are none to reveal them. But there is,
nevertheless, many a petty trader that has navigated the Pacific whose
course from island to island might be traced by a series of cold-blooded
robberies, kidnappings, and murders, the iniquity of which might be
considered almost sufficient to sink her guilty timbers to the bottom of
the sea.

Sometimes vague accounts of such thing’s reach our firesides, and
we coolly censure them as wrong, impolitic, needlessly severe, and
dangerous to the crews of other vessels. How different is our tone when
we read the highly-wrought description of the massacre of the crew of
the Hobomak by the Feejees; how we sympathize for the unhappy victims,
and with what horror do we regard the diabolical heathens, who, after
all, have but avenged the unprovoked injuries which they have received.
We breathe nothing but vengeance, and equip armed vessels to traverse
thousands of miles of ocean in order to execute summary punishment upon
the offenders. On arriving at their destination, they burn, slaughter,
and destroy, according to the tenor of written instructions, and sailing
away from the scene of devastation, call upon all Christendom to applaud
their courage and their justice.

How often is the term ‘savages’ incorrectly applied! None really
deserving of it were ever yet discovered by voyagers or by travellers.
They have discovered heathens and barbarians whom by horrible cruelties
they have exasperated into savages. It may be asserted without fear
of contradictions that in all the cases of outrages committed by
Polynesians, Europeans have at some time or other been the aggressors,
and that the cruel and bloodthirsty disposition of some of the islanders
is mainly to be ascribed to the influence of such examples.

But to return. Owing to the mutual hostilities of the different tribes
I have mentioned, the mountainous tracts which separate their respective
territories remain altogether uninhabited; the natives invariably
dwelling in the depths of the valleys, with a view of securing
themselves from the predatory incursions of their enemies, who often
lurk along their borders, ready to cut off any imprudent straggler,
or make a descent upon the inmates of some sequestered habitation. I
several times met with very aged men, who from this cause had never
passed the confines of their native vale, some of them having never even
ascended midway up the mountains in the whole course of their lives, and
who, accordingly had little idea of the appearance of any other part of
the island, the whole of which is not perhaps more than sixty miles in
circuit. The little space in which some of these clans pass away their
days would seem almost incredible.

The glen of the Tior will furnish a curious illustration of this.

The inhabited part is not more than four miles in length, and varies
in breadth from half a mile to less than a quarter. The rocky vine-clad
cliffs on one side tower almost perpendicularly from their base to
the height of at least fifteen hundred feet; while across the vale--in
striking contrast to the scenery opposite--grass-grown elevations rise
one above another in blooming terraces. Hemmed in by these stupendous
barriers, the valley would be altogether shut out from the rest of the
world, were it not that it is accessible from the sea at one end, and by
a narrow defile at the other.

The impression produced upon the mind, when I first visited this
beautiful glen, will never be obliterated.

I had come from Nukuheva by water in the ship’s boat, and when we
entered the bay of Tior it was high noon. The heat had been intense, as
we had been floating upon the long smooth swell of the ocean, for there
was but little wind. The sun’s rays had expended all their fury upon us;
and to add to our discomfort, we had omitted to supply ourselves with
water previous to starting. What with heat and thirst together, I became
so impatient to get ashore, that when at last we glided towards it,
I stood up in the bow of the boat ready for a spring. As she shot
two-thirds of her length high upon the beach, propelled by three or four
strong strokes of the oars, I leaped among a parcel of juvenile savages,
who stood prepared to give us a kind reception; and with them at my
heels, yelling like so many imps, I rushed forward across the open
ground in the vicinity of the sea, and plunged, diver fashion, into the
recesses of the first grove that offered.

What a delightful sensation did I experience! I felt as if floating in
some new element, while all sort of gurgling, trickling, liquid sounds
fell upon my ear. People may say what they will about the refreshing
influences of a coldwater bath, but commend me when in a perspiration to
the shade baths of Tior, beneath the cocoanut trees, and amidst the cool
delightful atmosphere which surrounds them.

How shall I describe the scenery that met my eye, as I looked out
from this verdant recess! The narrow valley, with its steep and close
adjoining sides draperied with vines, and arched overhead with a
fret-work of interlacing boughs, nearly hidden from view by masses
of leafy verdure, seemed from where I stood like an immense arbour
disclosing its vista to the eye, whilst as I advanced it insensibly
widened into the loveliest vale eye ever beheld.

It so happened that the very day I was in Tior the French admiral,
attended by all the boats of his squadron, came down in state from
Nukuheva to take formal possession of the place. He remained in the
valley about two hours, during which time he had a ceremonious interview
with the king. The patriarch-sovereign of Tior was a man very far
advanced in years; but though age had bowed his form and rendered him
almost decrepid, his gigantic frame retained its original magnitude and
grandeur of appearance.

He advanced slowly and with evident pain, assisting his tottering steps
with the heavy warspear he held in his hand, and attended by a group of
grey-bearded chiefs, on one of whom he occasionally leaned for support.
The admiral came forward with head uncovered and extended hand, while
the old king saluted him by a stately flourish of his weapon. The
next moment they stood side by side, these two extremes of the social
scale,--the polished, splendid Frenchman, and the poor tattooed savage.
They were both tall and noble-looking men; but in other respects how
strikingly contrasted! Du Petit Thouars exhibited upon his person
all the paraphernalia of his naval rank. He wore a richly decorated
admiral’s frock-coat, a laced chapeau bras, and upon his breast were
a variety of ribbons and orders; while the simple islander, with the
exception of a slight cincture about his loins, appeared in all the
nakedness of nature.

At what an immeasurable distance, thought I, are these two beings
removed from each other. In the one is shown the result of long
centuries of progressive Civilization and refinement, which have
gradually converted the mere creature into the semblance of all that is
elevated and grand; while the other, after the lapse of the same period,
has not advanced one step in the career of improvement, ‘Yet, after
all,’ quoth I to myself, ‘insensible as he is to a thousand wants, and
removed from harassing cares, may not the savage be the happier man of
the two?’ Such were the thoughts that arose in my mind as I gazed upon
the novel spectacle before me. In truth it was an impressive one,
and little likely to be effaced. I can recall even now with vivid
distinctness every feature of the scene. The umbrageous shades where
the interview took place--the glorious tropical vegetation around--the
picturesque grouping of the mingled throng of soldiery and natives--and
even the golden-hued bunch of bananas that I held in my hand at the
time, and of which I occasionally partook while making the aforesaid
philosophical reflections.



CHAPTER FIVE

THOUGHTS PREVIOUS TO ATTEMPTING AN ESCAPE--TOBY, A FELLOW SAILOR, AGREES
TO SHARE THE ADVENTURE--LAST NIGHT ABOARD THE SHIP

HAVING fully resolved to leave the vessel clandestinely, and having
acquired all the knowledge concerning the bay that I could obtain under
the circumstances in which I was placed, I now deliberately turned over
in my mind every plan to escape that suggested itself, being determined
to act with all possible prudence in an attempt where failure would be
attended with so many disagreeable consequences. The idea of being
taken and brought back ignominiously to the ship was so inexpressibly
repulsive to me, that I was determined by no hasty and imprudent
measures to render such an event probable.

I knew that our worthy captain, who felt, such a paternal solicitude
for the welfare of his crew, would not willingly consent that one of his
best hands should encounter the perils of a sojourn among the natives
of a barbarous island; and I was certain that in the event of my
disappearance, his fatherly anxiety would prompt him to offer, by way of
a reward, yard upon yard of gaily printed calico for my apprehension.
He might even have appreciated my services at the value of a musket, in
which case I felt perfectly certain that the whole population of the
bay would be immediately upon my track, incited by the prospect of so
magnificent a bounty.

Having ascertained the fact before alluded to, that the islanders,--from
motives of precaution, dwelt altogether in the depths of the valleys,
and avoided wandering about the more elevated portions of the shore,
unless bound on some expedition of war or plunder, I concluded that if
I could effect unperceived a passage to the mountain, I might easily
remain among them, supporting myself by such fruits as came in my way
until the sailing of the ship, an event of which I could not fail to be
immediately apprised, as from my lofty position I should command a view
of the entire harbour.

The idea pleased me greatly. It seemed to combine a great deal of
practicability with no inconsiderable enjoyment in a quiet way; for how
delightful it would be to look down upon the detested old vessel from
the height of some thousand feet, and contrast the verdant scenery about
me with the recollection of her narrow decks and gloomy forecastle! Why,
it was really refreshing even to think of it; and so I straightway fell
to picturing myself seated beneath a cocoanut tree on the brow of the
mountain, with a cluster of plantains within easy reach, criticizing her
nautical evolutions as she was working her way out of the harbour.

To be sure there was one rather unpleasant drawback to these agreeable
anticipations--the possibility of falling in with a foraging party of
these same bloody-minded Typees, whose appetites, edged perhaps by the
air of so elevated a region, might prompt them to devour one. This, I
must confess, was a most disagreeable view of the matter.

Just to think of a party of these unnatural gourmands taking it into
their heads to make a convivial meal of a poor devil, who would have
no means of escape or defence: however, there was no help for it. I was
willing to encounter some risks in order to accomplish my object, and
counted much upon my ability to elude these prowling cannibals amongst
the many coverts which the mountains afforded. Besides, the chances
were ten to one in my favour that they would none of them quit their own
fastnesses.

I had determined not to communicate my design of withdrawing from the
vessel to any of my shipmates, and least of all to solicit any one to
accompany me in my flight. But it so happened one night, that being upon
deck, revolving over in my mind various plans of escape, I perceived one
of the ship’s company leaning over the bulwarks, apparently plunged in a
profound reverie. He was a young fellow about my own age, for whom I
had all along entertained a great regard; and Toby, such was the name
by which he went among us, for his real name he would never tell us, was
every way worthy of it. He was active, ready and obliging, of dauntless
courage, and singularly open and fearless in the expression of his
feelings. I had on more than one occasion got him out of scrapes into
which this had led him; and I know not whether it was from this cause,
or a certain congeniality of sentiment between us, that he had always
shown a partiality for my society. We had battled out many a long watch
together, beguiling the weary hours with chat, song, and story, mingled
with a good many imprecations upon the hard destiny it seemed our common
fortune to encounter.

Toby, like myself, had evidently moved in a different sphere of life,
and his conversation at times betrayed this, although he was anxious
to conceal it. He was one of that class of rovers you sometimes meet
at sea, who never reveal their origin, never allude to home, and go
rambling over the world as if pursued by some mysterious fate they
cannot possibly elude.

There was much even in the appearance of Toby calculated to draw me
towards him, for while the greater part of the crew were as coarse in
person as in mind, Toby was endowed with a remarkably prepossessing
exterior. Arrayed in his blue frock and duck trousers, he was as smart a
looking sailor as ever stepped upon a deck; he was singularly small
and slightly made, with great flexibility of limb. His naturally dark
complexion had been deepened by exposure to the tropical sun, and a mass
of jetty locks clustered about his temples, and threw a darker shade
into his large black eyes. He was a strange wayward being, moody,
fitful, and melancholy--at times almost morose. He had a quick and fiery
temper too, which, when thoroughly roused, transported him into a state
bordering on delirium.

It is strange the power that a mind of deep passion has over feebler
natures. I have seen a brawny, fellow, with no lack of ordinary courage,
fairly quail before this slender stripling, when in one of his curious
fits. But these paroxysms seldom occurred, and in them my big-hearted
shipmate vented the bile which more calm-tempered individuals get rid of
by a continual pettishness at trivial annoyances.

No one ever saw Toby laugh. I mean in the hearty abandonment of
broad-mouthed mirth. He did smile sometimes, it is true; and there was
a good deal of dry, sarcastic humour about him, which told the more from
the imperturbable gravity of his tone and manner.

Latterly I had observed that Toby’s melancholy had greatly increased,
and I had frequently seen him since our arrival at the island gazing
wistfully upon the shore, when the remainder of the crew would be
rioting below. I was aware that he entertained a cordial detestation
of the ship, and believed that, should a fair chance of escape present
itself, he would embrace it willingly.

But the attempt was so perilous in the place where we then lay, that
I supposed myself the only individual on board the ship who was
sufficiently reckless to think of it. In this, however, I was mistaken.

When I perceived Toby leaning, as I have mentioned, against the bulwarks
and buried in thought, it struck me at once that the subject of his
meditations might be the same as my own. And if it be so, thought I,
is he not the very one of all my shipmates whom I would choose: for the
partner of my adventure? and why should I not have some comrade with me
to divide its dangers and alleviate its hardships? Perhaps I might be
obliged to lie concealed among the mountains for weeks. In such an event
what a solace would a companion be?

These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and I wondered why I had
not before considered the matter in this light. But it was not too late.
A tap upon the shoulder served to rouse Toby from his reverie; I found
him ripe for the enterprise, and a very few words sufficed for a mutual
understanding between us. In an hour’s time we had arranged all the
preliminaries, and decided upon our plan of action. We then ratified our
engagement with an affectionate wedding of palms, and to elude suspicion
repaired each to his hammock, to spend the last night on board the
Dolly.

The next day the starboard watch, to which we both belonged, was to be
sent ashore on liberty; and, availing ourselves of this opportunity,
we determined, as soon after landing as possible, to separate ourselves
from the rest of the men without exciting their suspicions, and strike
back at once for the mountains. Seen from the ship, their summits
appeared inaccessible, but here and there sloping spurs extended from
them almost into the sea, buttressing the lofty elevations with which
they were connected, and forming those radiating valleys I have before
described. One of these ridges, which appeared more practicable than the
rest, we determined to climb, convinced that it would conduct us to
the heights beyond. Accordingly, we carefully observed its bearings and
locality from the ship, so that when ashore we should run no chance of
missing it.

In all this the leading object we had in view was to seclude ourselves
from sight until the departure of the vessel; then to take our chance as
to the reception the Nukuheva natives might give us; and after remaining
upon the island as long as we found our stay agreeable, to leave it the
first favourable opportunity that offered.



CHAPTER SIX

A SPECIMEN OF NAUTICAL ORATORY--CRITICISMS OF THE SAILORS--THE STARBOARD
WATCH ARE GIVEN A HOLIDAY--THE ESCAPE TO THE MOUNTAINS

EARLY the next morning the starboard watch were mustered upon the
quarter-deck, and our worthy captain, standing in the cabin gangway,
harangued us as follows:--

‘Now, men, as we are just off a six months’ cruise, and have got through
most all our work in port here, I suppose you want to go ashore. Well, I
mean to give your watch liberty today, so you may get ready as soon all
you please, and go; but understand this, I am going to give you liberty
because I suppose you would growl like so many old quarter gunners if I
didn’t; at the same time, if you’ll take my advice, every mother’s son
of you will stay aboard and keep out of the way of the bloody cannibals
altogether. Ten to one, men, if you go ashore, you will get into some
infernal row, and that will be the end of you; for if those tattooed
scoundrels get you a little ways back into their valleys, they’ll nab
you--that you may be certain of. Plenty of white men have gone ashore
here and never been seen any more. There was the old Dido, she put in
here about two years ago, and sent one watch off on liberty; they never
were heard of again for a week--the natives swore they didn’t know where
they were--and only three of them ever got back to the ship again, and
one with his face damaged for life, for the cursed heathens tattooed a
broad patch clean across his figure-head. But it will be no use talking
to you, for go you will, that I see plainly; so all I have to say is,
that you need not blame me if the islanders make a meal of you. You may
stand some chance of escaping them though, if you keep close about the
French encampment,--and are back to the ship again before sunset. Keep
that much in your mind, if you forget all the rest I’ve been saying to
you. There, go forward: bear a hand and rig yourselves, and stand by for
a call. At two bells the boat will be manned to take you off, and the
Lord have mercy on you!’

Various were the emotions depicted upon the countenances of the
starboard watch whilst listening to this address; but on its conclusion
there was a general move towards the forecastle, and we soon were
all busily engaged in getting ready for the holiday so auspiciously
announced by the skipper. During these preparations his harangue was
commented upon in no very measured terms; and one of the party, after
denouncing him as a lying old son of a seacook who begrudged a fellow a
few hours’ liberty, exclaimed with an oath, ‘But you don’t bounce me out
of my liberty, old chap, for all your yarns; for I would go ashore if
every pebble on the beach was a live coal, and every stick a gridiron,
and the cannibals stood ready to broil me on landing.’

The spirit of this sentiment was responded to by all hands, and we
resolved that in spite of the captain’s croakings we would make a
glorious day of it.

But Toby and I had our own game to play, and we availed ourselves of
the confusion which always reigns among a ship’s company preparatory to
going ashore, to confer together and complete our arrangements. As our
object was to effect as rapid a flight as possible to the mountains, we
determined not to encumber ourselves with any superfluous apparel; and
accordingly, while the rest were rigging themselves out with some idea
of making a display, we were content to put on new stout duck trousers,
serviceable pumps, and heavy Havre-frocks, which with a Payta hat
completed our equipment.

When our shipmates wondered at this, Toby exclaimed in his odd grave way
that the rest might do, as they liked, but that he for one preserved
his go-ashore traps for the Spanish main, where the tie of a sailor’s
neckerchief might make some difference; but as for a parcel of
unbreeched heathen, he wouldn’t go to the bottom of his chest for any
of them, and was half disposed to appear among them in buff himself. The
men laughed at what they thought was one of his strange conceits, and so
we escaped suspicion.

It may appear singular that we should have been thus on our guard with
our own shipmates; but there were some among us who, had they possessed
the least inkling of our project, would, for a paltry hope of reward,
have immediately communicated it to the captain.

As soon as two bells were struck, the word was passed for the
liberty-men to get into the boat. I lingered behind in the forecastle a
moment to take a parting glance at its familiar features, and just as
I was about to ascend to the deck my eye happened to light on the
bread-barge and beef-kid, which contained the remnants of our last hasty
meal. Although I had never before thought of providing anything in the
way of food for our expedition, as I fully relied upon the fruits of the
island to sustain us wherever we might wander, yet I could not resist
the inclination I felt to provide luncheon from the relics before me.
Accordingly I took a double handful of those small, broken, flinty bits
of biscuit which generally go by the name of ‘midshipmen’s nuts’, and
thrust them into the bosom of my frock in which same simple receptacle I
had previously stowed away several pounds of tobacco and a few yards of
cotton cloth--articles with which I intended to purchase the good-will
of the natives, as soon as we should appear among them after the
departure of our vessel.

This last addition to my stock caused a considerable protuberance in
front, which I abated in a measure by shaking the bits of bread around
my waist, and distributing the plugs of tobacco among the folds of the
garment.

Hardly had I completed these arrangements when my name was sung out by a
dozen voices, and I sprung upon the deck, where I found all the party in
the boat, and impatient to shove off. I dropped over the side and seated
myself with the rest of the watch in the stern sheets, while the poor
larboarders shipped their oars, and commenced pulling us ashore.

This happened to be the rainy season at the islands, and the heavens
had nearly the whole morning betokened one of those heavy showers which
during this period so frequently occur. The large drops fell bubbling
into the water shortly after our leaving the ship, and by the time we
had affected a landing it poured down in torrents. We fled for shelter
under cover of an immense canoe-house which stood hard by the beach, and
waited for the first fury of the storm to pass.

It continued, however, without cessation; and the monotonous beating of
the rain over head began to exert a drowsy influence upon the men, who,
throwing themselves here and there upon the large war-canoes, after
chatting awhile, all fell asleep.

This was the opportunity we desired, and Toby and I availed ourselves
of it at once by stealing out of the canoe-house and plunging into the
depths of an extensive grove that was in its rear. After ten minutes’
rapid progress we gained an open space from which we could just descry
the ridge we intended to mount looming dimly through the mists of the
tropical shower, and distant from us, as we estimated, something more
than a mile. Our direct course towards it lay through a rather populous
part of the bay; but desirous as we were of evading the natives and
securing an unmolested retreat to the mountains, we determined, by
taking a circuit through some extensive thickets, to avoid their
vicinity altogether.

The heavy rain that still continued to fall without intermission
favoured our enterprise, as it drove the islanders into their houses,
and prevented any casual meeting with them. Our heavy frocks soon became
completely saturated with water, and by their weight, and that of
the articles we had concealed beneath them, not a little impeded our
progress. But it was no time to pause when at any moment we might be
surprised by a body of the savages, and forced at the very outset to
relinquish our undertaking.

Since leaving the canoe-house we had scarcely exchanged a single
syllable with one another; but when we entered a second narrow opening
in the wood, and again caught sight of the ridge before us, I took Toby
by the arm, and pointing along its sloping outline to the lofty heights
at its extremity, said in a low tone, ‘Now, Toby, not a word, nor a
glance backward, till we stand on the summit of yonder mountain--so no
more lingering but let us shove ahead while we can, and in a few hours’
time we may laugh aloud. You are the lightest and the nimblest, so lead
on, and I will follow.’

‘All right, brother,’ said Toby, ‘quick’s our play; only lets keep close
together, that’s all;’ and so saying with a bound like a young roe, he
cleared a brook which ran across our path, and rushed forward with a
quick step.

When we arrived within a short distance of the ridge, we were stopped by
a mass of tall yellow reeds, growing together as thickly as they could
stand, and as tough and stubborn as so many rods of steel; and we
perceived, to our chagrin, that they extended midway up the elevation we
proposed to ascend.

For a moment we gazed about us in quest of a more practicable route; it
was, however, at once apparent that there was no resource but to pierce
this thicket of canes at all hazards. We now reversed our order of
march, I, being the heaviest, taking the lead, with a view of breaking a
path through the obstruction, while Toby fell into the rear.

Two or three times I endeavoured to insinuate myself between the canes,
and by dint of coaxing and bending them to make some progress; but a
bull-frog might as well have tried to work a passage through the teeth
of a comb, and I gave up the attempt in despair.

Half wild with meeting an obstacle we had so little anticipated, I threw
myself desperately against it, crushing to the ground the canes with
which I came in contact, and, rising to my feet again, repeated the
action with like effect. Twenty minutes of this violent exercise almost
exhausted me, but it carried us some way into the thicket; when Toby,
who had been reaping the benefit of my labours by following close at my
heels, proposed to become pioneer in turn, and accordingly passed ahead
with a view of affording me a respite from my exertions. As however
with his slight frame he made but bad work of it, I was soon obliged to
resume my old place again. On we toiled, the perspiration starting from
our bodies in floods, our limbs torn and lacerated with the splintered
fragments of the broken canes, until we had proceeded perhaps as far
as the middle of the brake, when suddenly it ceased raining, and the
atmosphere around us became close and sultry beyond expression. The
elasticity of the reeds quickly recovering from the temporary pressure
of our bodies, caused them to spring back to their original position;
so that they closed in upon us as we advanced, and prevented the
circulation of little air which might otherwise have reached us.
Besides this, their great height completely shut us out from the view of
surrounding objects, and we were not certain but that we might have been
going all the time in a wrong direction.

Fatigued with my long-continued efforts, and panting for breath, I felt
myself completely incapacitated for any further exertion. I rolled up
the sleeve of my frock, and squeezed the moisture it contained into
my parched mouth. But the few drops I managed to obtain gave me little
relief, and I sank down for a moment with a sort of dogged apathy, from
which I was aroused by Toby, who had devised a plan to free us from the
net in which we had become entangled.

He was laying about him lustily with his sheath-knive, lopping the canes
right and left, like a reaper, and soon made quite a clearing around us.
This sight reanimated me; and seizing my own knife, I hacked and hewed
away without mercy. But alas! the farther we advanced the thicker and
taller, and apparently the more interminable, the reeds became.

I began to think we were fairly snared, and had almost made up my mind
that without a pair of wings we should never be able to escape from the
toils; when all at once I discerned a peep of daylight through the canes
on my right, and, communicating the joyful tidings to Toby, we both fell
to with fresh spirit, and speedily opening the passage towards it we
found ourselves clear of perplexities, and in the near vicinity of the
ridge. After resting for a few moments we began the ascent, and after
a little vigorous climbing found ourselves close to its summit. Instead
however of walking along its ridge, where we should have been in full
view of the natives in the vales beneath, and at a point where they
could easily intercept us were they so inclined, we cautiously advanced
on one side, crawling on our hands and knees, and screened from
observation by the grass through which we glided, much in the fashion of
a couple of serpents. After an hour employed in this unpleasant kind
of locomotion, we started to our feet again and pursued our way boldly
along the crest of the ridge.

This salient spur of the lofty elevations that encompassed the bay rose
with a sharp angle from the valleys at its base, and presented, with the
exception of a few steep acclivities, the appearance of a vast inclined
plane, sweeping down towards the sea from the heights in the distance.
We had ascended it near the place of its termination and at its lowest
point, and now saw our route to the mountains distinctly defined along
its narrow crest, which was covered with a soft carpet of verdure, and
was in many parts only a few feet wide.

Elated with the success which had so far attended our enterprise, and
invigorated by the refreshing atmosphere we now inhaled, Toby and I in
high spirits were making our way rapidly along the ridge, when suddenly
from the valleys below which lay on either side of us we heard the
distant shouts of the natives, who had just descried us, and to whom our
figures, brought in bold relief against the sky, were plainly revealed.

Glancing our eyes into these valleys, we perceived their savage
inhabitants hurrying to and fro, seemingly under the influence of some
sudden alarm, and appearing to the eye scarcely bigger than so many
pigmies; while their white thatched dwellings, dwarfed by the distance,
looked like baby-houses. As we looked down upon the islanders from our
lofty elevation, we experienced a sense of security; feeling confident
that, should they undertake a pursuit, it would, from the start we
now had, prove entirely fruitless, unless they followed us into the
mountains, where we knew they cared not to venture.

However, we thought it as well to make the most of our time; and
accordingly, where the ground would admit of it, we ran swiftly along
the summit of the ridge, until we were brought to a stand by a steep
cliff, which at first seemed to interpose an effectual barrier to our
farther advance. By dint of much hard scrambling however, and at some
risk to our necks, we at last surmounted it, and continued our fight
with unabated celerity.

We had left the beach early in the morning, and after an uninterrupted,
though at times difficult and dangerous ascent, during which we had
never once turned our faces to the sea, we found ourselves, about
three hours before sunset, standing on the top of what seemed to be the
highest land on the island, an immense overhanging cliff composed of
basaltic rocks, hung round with parasitical plants. We must have been
more than three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and the
scenery viewed from this height was magnificent.

The lonely bay of Nukuheva, dotted here and there with the black hulls
of the vessels composing the French squadron, lay reposing at the base
of a circular range of elevations, whose verdant sides, perforated with
deep glens or diversified with smiling valleys, formed altogether the
loveliest view I ever beheld, and were I to live a hundred years, I
shall never forget the feeling of admiration which I then experienced.



CHAPTER SEVEN

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN--DISAPPOINTMENT--INVENTORY OF ARTICLES
BROUGHT FROM THE SHIP--DIVISION OF THE STOCK OF BREAD--APPEARANCE OF
THE INTERIOR OF THE ISLAND--A DISCOVERY--A RAVINE AND WATERFALLS--A
SLEEPLESS NIGHT--FURTHER DISCOVERIES--MY ILLNESS--A MARQUESAN LANDSCAPE

MY curiosity had been not a little raised with regard to the description
of country we should meet on the other side of the mountains; and I had
supposed, with Toby, that immediately on gaining the heights we should
be enabled to view the large bays of Happar and Typee reposing at our
feet on one side, in the same way that Nukuheva lay spread out below
on the other. But here we were disappointed. Instead of finding the
mountain we had ascended sweeping down in the opposite direction into
broad and capacious valleys, the land appeared to retain its general
elevation, only broken into a series of ridges and inter-vales which
so far as the eye could reach stretched away from us, with their
precipitous sides covered with the brightest verdure, and waving here
and there with the foliage of clumps of woodland; among which, however,
we perceived none of those trees upon whose fruit we had relied with
such certainty.

This was a most unlooked-for discovery, and one that promised to defeat
our plans altogether, for we could not think of descending the mountain
on the Nukuheva side in quest of food. Should we for this purpose
be induced to retrace our steps, we should run no small chance of
encountering the natives, who in that case, if they did nothing worse to
us, would be certain to convey us back to the ship for the sake of the
reward in calico and trinkets, which we had no doubt our skipper would
hold out to them as an inducement to our capture.

What was to be done? The Dolly would not sail perhaps for ten days, and
how were we to sustain life during this period? I bitterly repented our
improvidence in not providing ourselves, as we easily might have done,
with a supply of biscuits. With a rueful visage I now bethought me of
the scanty handful of bread I had stuffed into the bosom of my frock,
and felt somewhat desirous to ascertain what part of it had weathered
the rather rough usage it had experienced in ascending the mountain.
I accordingly proposed to Toby that we should enter into a joint
examination of the various articles we had brought from the ship.

With this intent we seated ourselves upon the grass; and a little
curious to see with what kind of judgement my companion had filled
his frock--which I remarked seemed about as well lined as my own--I
requested him to commence operations by spreading out its contents.

Thrusting his hand, then, into the bosom of this capacious receptacle,
he first brought to light about a pound of tobacco, whose component
parts still adhered together, the whole outside being covered with
soft particles of sea-bread. Wet and dripping, it had the appearance of
having been just recovered from the bottom of the sea. But I paid
slight attention to a substance of so little value to us in our present
situation, as soon as I perceived the indications it gave of Toby’s
foresight in laying in a supply of food for the expedition.

I eagerly inquired what quantity he had brought with him, when rummaging
once more beneath his garment, he produced a small handful of something
so soft, pulpy, and discoloured, that for a few moments he was as
much puzzled as myself to tell by what possible instrumentality such
a villainous compound had become engendered in his bosom. I can only
describe it as a hash of soaked bread and bits of tobacco, brought to
a doughy consistency by the united agency of perspiration and rain.
But repulsive as it might otherwise have been, I now regarded it as
an invaluable treasure, and proceeded with great care to transfer this
paste-like mass to a large leaf which I had plucked from a bush beside
me. Toby informed me that in the morning he had placed two whole
biscuits in his bosom, with a view of munching them, should he feel so
inclined, during our flight. These were now reduced to the equivocal
substance which I had just placed on the leaf.

Another dive into the frock brought to view some four or five yards of
calico print, whose tasteful pattern was rather disfigured by the yellow
stains of the tobacco with which it had been brought in contact. In
drawing this calico slowly from his bosom inch by inch, Toby reminded
me of a juggler performing the feat of the endless ribbon. The next
cast was a small one, being a sailor’s little ‘ditty bag’, containing
needles, thread, and other sewing utensils, then came a razor-case,
followed by two or three separate plugs of negro-head, which were fished
up from the bottom of the now empty receptacle. These various matters,
being inspected, I produced the few things which I had myself brought.

As might have been anticipated from the state of my companion’s edible
supplies, I found my own in a deplorable condition, and diminished to a
quantity that would not have formed half a dozen mouthfuls for a hungry
man who was partial enough to tobacco not to mind swallowing it. A
few morsels of bread, with a fathom or two of white cotton cloth, and
several pounds of choice pigtail, composed the extent of my possessions.

Our joint stock of miscellaneous articles were now made up into a
compact bundle, which it was agreed we should carry alternately. But the
sorry remains of the biscuit were not to be disposed of so summarily:
the precarious circumstances in which we were placed made us regard them
as something on which very probably, depended the fate of our adventure.
After a brief discussion, in which we both of us expressed our
resolution of not descending into the bay until the ship’s departure,
I suggested to my companion that little of it as there was, we should
divide the bread into six equal portions, each of which should be a
day’s allowance for both of us. This proposition he assented to; so I
took the silk kerchief from my neck, and cutting it with my knife into
half a dozen equal pieces, proceeded to make an exact division.

At first, Toby with a degree of fastidiousness that seemed to me
ill-timed, was for picking out the minute particles of tobacco
with which the spongy mass was mixed; but against this proceeding I
protested, as by such an operation we must have greatly diminished its
quantity.

When the division was accomplished, we found that a day’s allowance for
the two was not a great deal more than what a table-spoon might hold.
Each separate portion we immediately rolled up in the bit of silk
prepared for it, and joining them all together into a small package, I
committed them, with solemn injunctions of fidelity, to the custody of
Toby. For the remainder of that day we resolved to fast, as we had been
fortified by a breakfast in the morning; and now starting again to our
feet, we looked about us for a shelter during the night, which, from the
appearance of the heavens, promised to be a dark and tempestuous one.

There was no place near us which would in any way answer our purpose,
so turning our backs upon Nukuheva, we commenced exploring the unknown
regions which lay upon the other side of the mountain.

In this direction, as far as our vision extended, not a sign of life,
nor anything that denoted even the transient residence of man, could be
seen. The whole landscape seemed one unbroken solitude, the interior of
the island having apparently been untenanted since the morning of the
creation; and as we advanced through this wilderness, our voices
sounded strangely in our ears, as though human accents had never before
disturbed the fearful silence of the place, interrupted only by the low
murmurings of distant waterfalls.

Our disappointment, however, in not finding the various fruits with
which we had intended to regale ourselves during our stay in these
wilds, was a good deal lessened by the consideration that from this very
circumstance we should be much less exposed to a casual meeting with the
savage tribes about us, who we knew always dwelt beneath the shadows of
those trees which supplied them with food.

We wandered along, casting eager glances into every bush we passed,
until just as we had succeeded in mounting one of the many ridges that
intersected the ground, I saw in the grass before me something like an
indistinctly traced footpath, which appeared to lead along the top of
the ridge, and to descend--with it into a deep ravine about half a mile
in advance of us.

Robinson Crusoe could not have been more startled at the footprint in
the sand than we were at this unwelcome discovery. My first impulse was
to make as rapid a retreat as possible, and bend our steps in some
other direction; but our curiosity to see whither this path might lead,
prompted us to pursue it. So on we went, the track becoming more and
more visible the farther we proceeded, until it conducted us to the
verge of the ravine, where it abruptly terminated.

‘And so,’ said Toby, peering down into the chasm, ‘everyone that travels
this path takes a jump here, eh?’

‘Not so,’ said I, ‘for I think they might manage to descend without it;
what say you,--shall we attempt the feat?’

‘And what, in the name of caves and coal-holes, do you expect to find at
the bottom of that gulf but a broken neck--why it looks blacker than our
ship’s hold, and the roar of those waterfalls down there would batter
one’s brains to pieces.’

‘Oh, no, Toby,’ I exclaimed, laughing; ‘but there’s something to be seen
here, that’s plain, or there would have been no path, and I am resolved
to find out what it is.’

‘I will tell you what, my pleasant fellow,’ rejoined Toby quickly, ‘if
you are going to pry into everything you meet with here that excites
your curiosity, you will marvellously soon get knocked on the head; to
a dead certainty you will come bang upon a party of these savages in the
midst of your discovery-makings, and I doubt whether such an event would
particularly delight you, just take my advice for once, and let us ‘bout
ship and steer in some other direction; besides, it’s getting late and
we ought to be mooring ourselves for the night.’

‘That is just the thing I have been driving at,’ replied I; ‘and I am
thinking that this ravine will exactly answer our purpose, for it is
roomy, secluded, well watered, and may shelter us from the weather.’

‘Aye, and from sleep too, and by the same token will give us sore
throats, and rheumatisms into the bargain,’ cried Toby, with evident
dislike at the idea.

‘Oh, very well then, my lad,’ said I, ‘since you will not accompany me,
here I go alone. You will see me in the morning;’ and advancing to the
edge of the cliff upon which we had been standing, I proceeded to lower
myself down by the tangled roots which clustered about all the crevices
of the rock. As I had anticipated, Toby, in spite of his previous
remonstrances, followed my example, and dropping himself with the
activity of a squirrel from point to point, he quickly outstripped
me and effected a landing at the bottom before I had accomplished
two-thirds of the descent.

The sight that now greeted us was one that will ever be vividly
impressed upon my mind. Five foaming streams, rushing through as many
gorges, and swelled and turbid by the recent rains, united together in
one mad plunge of nearly eighty feet, and fell with wild uproar into a
deep black pool scooped out of the gloomy looking rocks that lay piled
around, and thence in one collected body dashed down a narrow sloping
channel which seemed to penetrate into the very bowels of the earth.
Overhead, vast roots of trees hung down from the sides of the ravine
dripping with moisture, and trembling with the concussions produced by
the fall. It was now sunset, and the feeble uncertain light that found
its way into these caverns and woody depths heightened their strange
appearance, and reminded us that in a short time we should find
ourselves in utter darkness.

As soon as I had satisfied my curiosity by gazing at this scene, I fell
to wondering how it was that what we had taken for a path should have
conducted us to so singular a place, and began to suspect that after all
I might have been deceived in supposing it to have been a trick
formed by the islanders. This was rather an agreeable reflection than
otherwise, for it diminished our dread of accidentally meeting with any
of them, and I came to the conclusion that perhaps we could not have
selected a more secure hiding-place than this very spot we had so
accidentally hit upon.

Toby agreed with me in this view of the matter, and we immediately began
gathering together the limbs of trees which lay scattered about, with
the view of constructing a temporary hut for the night. This we were
obliged to build close to the foot of the cataract, for the current of
water extended very nearly to the sides of the gorge. The few moments
of light that remained we employed in covering our hut with a species of
broad-bladed grass that grew in every fissure of the ravine. Our hut,
if it deserved to be called one, consisted of six or eight of the
straightest branches we could find laid obliquely against the steep wall
of rock, with their lower ends within a foot of the stream. Into the
space thus covered over we managed to crawl, and dispose our wearied
bodies as best we could.

Shall I ever forget that horrid night! As for poor Toby, I could
scarcely get a word out of him. It would have been some consolation to
have heard his voice, but he lay shivering the live-long night like a
man afflicted with the palsy, with his knees drawn up to his head, while
his back was supported against the dripping side of the rock. During
this wretched night there seemed nothing wanting to complete the perfect
misery of our condition. The rain descended in such torrents that our
poor shelter proved a mere mockery. In vain did I try to elude the
incessant streams that poured upon me; by protecting one part I only
exposed another, and the water was continually finding some new opening
through which to drench us.

I have had many a ducking in the course of my life, and in general
cared little about it; but the accumulated horrors of that night, the
deathlike coldness of the place, the appalling darkness and the dismal
sense of our forlorn condition, almost unmanned me.

It will not be doubted that the next morning we were early risers, and
as soon as I could catch the faintest glimpse of anything like daylight
I shook my companion by the arm, and told him it was sunrise. Poor Toby
lifted up his head, and after a moment’s pause said, in a husky voice,
‘Then, shipmate, my toplights have gone out, for it appears darker now
with my eyes open that it did when they were shut.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed I; ‘You are not awake yet.’

‘Awake!’ roared Toby in a rage, ‘awake! You mean to insinuate I’ve been
asleep, do you? It is an insult to a man to suppose he could sleep in
such an infernal place as this.’

By the time I had apologized to my friend for having misconstrued his
silence, it had become somewhat more light, and we crawled out of our
lair. The rain had ceased, but everything around us was dripping with
moisture. We stripped off our saturated garments, and wrung them as dry
as we could. We contrived to make the blood circulate in our benumbed
limbs by rubbing them vigorously with our hands; and after performing
our ablutions in the stream, and putting on our still wet clothes,
we began to think it advisable to break our long fast, it being now
twenty-four hours since we had tasted food.

Accordingly our day’s ration was brought out, and seating ourselves on a
detached fragment of rock, we proceeded to discuss it. First we divided
it into two equal portions, and carefully rolling one of them up for our
evening’s repast, divided the remainder again as equally as possible,
and then drew lots for the first choice. I could have placed the morsel
that fell to my share upon the tip of my finger; but notwithstanding
this I took care that it should be full ten minutes before I had
swallowed the last crumb. What a true saying it is that ‘appetite
furnishes the best sauce.’ There was a flavour and a relish to this
small particle of food that under other circumstances it would have
been impossible for the most delicate viands to have imparted. A copious
draught of the pure water which flowed at our feet served to complete
the meal, and after it we rose sensibly refreshed, and prepared for
whatever might befall us.

We now carefully examined the chasm in which we had passed the night.
We crossed the stream, and gaining the further side of the pool I have
mentioned, discovered proofs that the spot must have been visited by
some one but a short time previous to our arrival. Further observation
convinced us that it had been regularly frequented, and, as we
afterwards conjectured from particular indications, for the purpose
of obtaining a certain root, from which the natives obtained a kind of
ointment.

These discoveries immediately determined us to abandon a place which
had presented no inducement for us to remain, except the promise of
security; and as we looked about us for the means of ascending again
into the upper regions, we at last found a practicable part of the rock,
and half an hour’s toil carried us to the summit of the same cliff from
which the preceding evening we had descended.

I now proposed to Toby that instead of rambling about the island,
exposing ourselves to discovery at every turn, we should select some
place as our fixed abode for as long a period as our food should
hold out, build ourselves a comfortable hut, and be as prudent and
circumspect as possible. To all this my companion assented, and we at
once set about carrying the plan into execution.

With this view, after exploring without success a little glen near us,
we crossed several of the ridges of which I have before spoken; and
about noon found ourselves ascending a long and gradually rising slope,
but still without having discovered any place adapted to our purpose.
Low and heavy clouds betokened an approaching storm, and we hurried on
to gain a covert in a clump of thick bushes, which appeared to terminate
the long ascent. We threw ourselves under the lee of these bushes, and
pulling up the long grass that grew around, covered ourselves completely
with it, and awaited the shower.

But it did not come as soon as we had expected, and before many minutes
my companion was fast asleep, and I was rapidly falling into the same
state of happy forgetfulness. Just at this juncture, however, down came
the rain with the violence that put all thoughts of slumber to flight.
Although in some measure sheltered, our clothes soon became as wet
as ever; this, after all the trouble we had taken to dry them, was
provoking enough: but there was no help for it; and I recommend all
adventurous youths who abandon vessels in romantic islands during the
rainy season to provide themselves with umbrellas.

After an hour or so the shower passed away. My companion slept through
it all, or at least appeared so to do; and now that it was over I had
not the heart to awaken him. As I lay on my back completely shrouded
with verdure, the leafy branches drooping over me, my limbs buried
in grass, I could not avoid comparing our situation with that of the
interesting babes in the wood. Poor little sufferers!--no wonder their
constitutions broke down under the hardships to which they were exposed.

During the hour or two spent under the shelter of these bushes, I began
to feel symptoms which I at once attributed to the exposure of the
preceding night. Cold shiverings and a burning fever succeeded one
another at intervals, while one of my legs was swelled to such a degree,
and pained me so acutely, that I half suspected I had been bitten by
some venomous reptile, the congenial inhabitant of the chasm from which
we had lately emerged. I may here remark by the way--what I subsequently
gleamed--that all the islands of Polynesia enjoy the reputation, in
common with the Hibernian isle, of being free from the presence of any
vipers; though whether Saint Patrick ever visited them, is a question I
shall not attempt to decide.

As the feverish sensation increased upon me I tossed about, still
unwilling to disturb my slumbering companion, from whose side I removed
two or three yards. I chanced to push aside a branch, and by so doing
suddenly disclosed to my view a scene which even now I can recall with
all the vividness of the first impression. Had a glimpse of the gardens
of Paradise been revealed to me, I could scarcely have been more
ravished with the sight.

From the spot where I lay transfixed with surprise and delight, I looked
straight down into the bosom of a valley, which swept away in long wavy
undulations to the blue waters in the distance. Midway towards the
sea, and peering here and there amidst the foliage, might be seen the
palmetto-thatched houses of its inhabitants glistening in the sun that
had bleached them to a dazzling whiteness. The vale was more than three
leagues in length, and about a mile across at its greatest width.

On either side it appeared hemmed in by steep and green acclivities,
which, uniting near the spot where I lay, formed an abrupt and
semicircular termination of grassy cliffs and precipices hundreds of
feet in height, over which flowed numberless small cascades. But the
crowning beauty of the prospect was its universal verdure; and in this
indeed consists, I believe, the peculiar charm of every Polynesian
landscape. Everywhere below me, from the base of the precipice upon
whose very verge I had been unconsciously reposing, the surface of the
vale presented a mass of foliage, spread with such rich profusion
that it was impossible to determine of what description of trees it
consisted.

But perhaps there was nothing about the scenery I beheld more impressive
than those silent cascades, whose slender threads of water, after
leaping down the steep cliffs, were lost amidst the rich herbage of the
valley.

Over all the landscape there reigned the most hushed repose, which I
almost feared to break, lest, like the enchanted gardens in the fairy
tale, a single syllable might dissolve the spell. For a long time,
forgetful alike of my own situation, and the vicinity of my still
slumbering companion, I remained gazing around me, hardly able to
comprehend by what means I had thus suddenly been made a spectator of
such a scene.



CHAPTER EIGHT

THE IMPORTANT QUESTION, TYPEE OR HAPPAR?--A WILD GOOSE CHASE--MY
SUFFERINGS--DISHEARTENING SITUATION--A NIGHT IN A RAVINE--MORNING
MEAL--HAPPY IDEA OF TOBY--JOURNEY TOWARDS THE VALLEY

RECOVERING from my astonishment at the beautiful scene before me, I
quickly awakened Toby, and informed him of the discovery I had made.
Together we now repaired to the border of the precipice, and my
companion’s admiration was equal to my own. A little reflection,
however, abated our surprise at coming so unexpectedly upon this valley,
since the large vales of Happar and Typee, lying upon this side of
Nukuheva, and extending a considerable distance from the sea towards the
interior, must necessarily terminate somewhere about this point.

The question now was as to which of those two places we were looking
down upon. Toby insisted that it was the abode of the Happar, and I that
it was tenanted by their enemies the ferocious Typees. To be sure I was
not entirely convinced by my own arguments, but Toby’s proposition to
descend at once into the valley, and partake of the hospitality of its
inmates, seemed to me to be risking so much upon the strength of a mere
supposition, that I resolved to oppose it until we had more evidence to
proceed upon.

The point was one of vital importance, as the natives of Happar were
not only at peace with Nukuheva, but cultivated with its inhabitants the
most friendly relations, and enjoyed besides a reputation for gentleness
and humanity which led us to expect from them, if not a cordial
reception, at least a shelter during the short period we should remain
in their territory.

On the other hand, the very name of Typee struck a panic into my heart
which I did not attempt to disguise. The thought of voluntarily throwing
ourselves into the hands of these cruel savages, seemed to me an act
of mere madness; and almost equally so the idea of venturing into the
valley, uncertain by which of these two tribes it was inhabited. That
the vale at our feet was tenanted by one of them, was a point that
appeared to us past all doubt, since we knew that they resided in this
quarter, although our information did not enlighten us further.

My companion, however, incapable of resisting the tempting prospect
which the place held out of an abundant supply of food and other means
of enjoyment, still clung to his own inconsiderate view of the subject,
nor could all my reasoning shake it. When I reminded him that it was
impossible for either of us to know anything with certainty, and when
I dwelt upon the horrible fate we should encounter were we rashly
to descend into the valley, and discover too late the error we had
committed, he replied by detailing all the evils of our present
condition, and the sufferings we must undergo should we continue to
remain where we then were.

Anxious to draw him away from the subject, if possible--for I saw
that it would be in vain to attempt changing his mind--I directed his
attention to a long bright unwooded tract of land which, sweeping down
from the elevations in the interior, descended into the valley before
us. I then suggested to him that beyond this ridge might lie a capacious
and untenanted valley, abounding with all manner of delicious fruits;
for I had heard that there were several such upon the island, and
proposed that we should endeavour to reach it, and if we found our
expectations realized we should at once take refuge in it and remain
there as long as we pleased.

He acquiesced in the suggestion; and we immediately, therefore, began
surveying the country lying before us, with a view of determining upon
the best route for us to pursue; but it presented little choice, the
whole interval being broken into steep ridges, divided by dark ravines,
extending in parallel lines at right angles to our direct course. All
these we would be obliged to cross before we could hope to arrive at our
destination.

A weary journey! But we decided to undertake it, though, for my own
part, I felt little prepared to encounter its fatigues, shivering and
burning by turns with the ague and fever; for I know not how else to
describe the alternate sensations I experienced, and suffering not
a little from the lameness which afflicted me. Added to this was the
faintness consequent on our meagre diet--a calamity in which Toby
participated to the same extent as myself.

These circumstances, however, only augmented my anxiety to reach a place
which promised us plenty and repose, before I should be reduced to a
state which would render me altogether unable to perform the journey.
Accordingly we now commenced it by descending the almost perpendicular
side of a steep and narrow gorge, bristling with a thick growth of
reeds. Here there was but one mode for us to adopt. We seated ourselves
upon the ground, and guided our descent by catching at the canes in our
path. This velocity with which we thus slid down the side of the ravine
soon brought us to a point where we could use our feet, and in a short
time we arrived at the edge of the torrent, which rolled impetuously
along the bed of the chasm.

After taking a refreshing draught from the water of the stream, we
addressed ourselves to a much more difficult undertaking than the last.
Every foot of our late descent had to be regained in ascending the
opposite side of the gorge--an operation rendered the less agreeable
from the consideration that in these perpendicular episodes we did not
progress a hundred yards on our journey. But, ungrateful as the task
was, we set about it with exemplary patience, and after a snail-like
progress of an hour or more, had scaled perhaps one half of the
distance, when the fever which had left me for a while returned with
such violence, and accompanied by so raging a thirst, that it required
all the entreaties of Toby to prevent me from losing all the fruits of
my late exertion, by precipitating myself madly down the cliffs we had
just climbed, in quest of the water which flowed so temptingly at their
base. At the moment all my hopes and fears appeared to be merged in
this one desire, careless of the consequences that might result from its
gratification. I am aware of no feeling, either of pleasure or of pain,
that so completely deprives one of an power to resist its impulses, as
this same raging thirst.

Toby earnestly conjured me to continue the ascent, assuring me that a
little more exertion would bring us to the summit, and that then in less
than five minutes we should find ourselves at the brink of the stream,
which must necessarily flow on the other side of the ridge.

‘Do not,’ he exclaimed, ‘turn back, now that we have proceeded thus far;
for I tell you that neither of us will have the courage to repeat the
attempt, if once more we find ourselves looking up to where we now are
from the bottom of these rocks!’

I was not yet so perfectly beside myself as to be heedless of these
representations, and therefore toiled on, ineffectually endeavouring to
appease the thirst which consumed me, by thinking that in a short time I
should be able to gratify it to my heart’s content.

At last we gained the top of the second elevation, the loftiest of
those I have described as extending in parallel lines between us and the
valley we desired to reach. It commanded a view of the whole intervening
distance; and, discouraged as I was by other circumstances, this
prospect plunged me into the very depths of despair. Nothing but dark
and fearful chasms, separated by sharp-crested and perpendicular ridges
as far as the eye could reach. Could we have stepped from summit
to summit of these steep but narrow elevations we could easily have
accomplished the distance; but we must penetrate to the bottom of every
yawning gulf, and scale in succession every one of the eminences before
us. Even Toby, although not suffering as I did, was not proof against
the disheartening influences of the sight.

But we did not long stand to contemplate it, impatient as I was to reach
the waters of the torrent which flowed beneath us. With an insensibility
to danger which I cannot call to mind without shuddering, we threw
ourselves down the depths of the ravine, startling its savage solitudes
with the echoes produced by the falling fragments of rock we every
moment dislodged from their places, careless of the insecurity of our
footing, and reckless whether the slight roots and twigs we clutched at
sustained us for the while, or treacherously yielded to our grasp. For
my own part, I scarcely knew whether I was helplessly falling from the
heights above, or whether the fearful rapidity with which I descended
was an act of my own volition.

In a few minutes we reached the foot of the gorge, and kneeling upon
a small ledge of dripping rocks, I bent over to the stream. What a
delicious sensation was I now to experience! I paused for a second to
concentrate all my capabilities of enjoyment, and then immerged my lips
in the clear element before me. Had the apples of Sodom turned to ashes
in my mouth, I could not have felt a more startling revulsion. A single
drop of the cold fluid seemed to freeze every drop of blood in my body;
the fever that had been burning in my veins gave place on the instant to
death-like chills, which shook me one after another like so many shocks
of electricity, while the perspiration produced by my late violent
exertions congealed in icy beads upon my forehead. My thirst was gone,
and I fairly loathed the water. Starting to my feet, the sight of those
dank rocks, oozing forth moisture at every crevice, and the dark
stream shooting along its dismal channel, sent fresh chills through
my shivering frame, and I felt as uncontrollable a desire to climb up
towards the genial sunlight as I before had to descend the ravine.

After two hours’ perilous exertions we stood upon the summit of another
ridge, and it was with difficulty I could bring myself to believe that
we had ever penetrated the black and yawning chasm which then gaped at
our feet. Again we gazed upon the prospect which the height commanded,
but it was just as depressing as the one which had before met our eyes.
I now felt that in our present situation it was in vain for us to think
of ever overcoming the obstacles in our way, and I gave up all thoughts
of reaching the vale which lay beyond this series of impediments; while
at the same time I could not devise any scheme to extricate ourselves
from the difficulties in which we were involved.

The remotest idea of returning to Nukuheva, unless assured of our
vessel’s departure, never once entered my mind, and indeed it was
questionable whether we could have succeeded in reaching it, divided as
we were from the bay by a distance we could not compute, and perplexed
too in our remembrance of localities by our recent wanderings. Besides,
it was unendurable the thought of retracing our steps and rendering all
our painful exertions of no avail.

There is scarcely anything when a man is in difficulties that he is
more disposed to look upon with abhorrence than a rightabout retrograde
movement--a systematic going over of the already trodden ground:
and especially if he has a love of adventure, such a course appears
indescribably repulsive, so long as there remains the least hope to be
derived from braving untried difficulties.

It was this feeling that prompted us to descend the opposite side of the
elevation we had just scaled, although with what definite object in view
it would have been impossible for either of us to tell.

Without exchanging a syllable upon the subject, Toby and myself
simultaneously renounced the design which had lured us thus
far--perceiving in each other’s countenances that desponding expression
which speaks more eloquently than words.

Together we stood towards the close of this weary day in the cavity of
the third gorge we had entered, wholly incapacitated for any further
exertion, until restored to some degree of strength by food and repose.

We seated ourselves upon the least uncomfortable spot we could select,
and Toby produced from the bosom of his frock the sacred package. In
silence we partook of the small morsel of refreshment that had been left
from the morning’s repast, and without once proposing to violate the
sanctity of our engagement with respect to the remainder, we rose to
our feet, and proceeded to construct some sort of shelter under which we
might obtain the sleep we so greatly needed.

Fortunately the spot was better adapted to our purpose than the one in
which we had passed the last wretched night. We cleared away the tall
reeds from the small but almost level bit of ground, and twisted them
into a low basket-like hut, which we covered with a profusion of long
thick leaves, gathered from a tree near at hand. We disposed them
thickly all around, reserving only a slight opening that barely
permitted us to crawl under the shelter we had thus obtained.

These deep recesses, though protected from the winds that assail the
summits of their lofty sides, are damp and chill to a degree that one
would hardly anticipate in such a climate; and being unprovided with
anything but our woollen frocks and thin duck trousers to resist the
cold of the place, we were the more solicitous to render our habitation
for the night as comfortable as we could. Accordingly, in addition to
what we had already done, we plucked down all the leaves within our
reach and threw them in a heap over our little hut, into which we now
crept, raking after us a reserved supply to form our couch.

That night nothing but the pain I suffered prevented me from sleeping
most refreshingly. As it was, I caught two or three naps, while Toby
slept away at my side as soundly as though he had been sandwiched
between two Holland sheets. Luckily it did not rain, and we were
preserved from the misery which a heavy shower would have occasioned
us. In the morning I was awakened by the sonorous voice of my companion
ringing in my ears and bidding me rise. I crawled out from our heap of
leaves, and was astonished at the change which a good night’s rest had
wrought in his appearance. He was as blithe and joyous as a young bird,
and was staying the keenness of his morning’s appetite by chewing the
soft bark of a delicate branch he held in his hand, and he recommended
the like to me as an admirable antidote against the gnawings of hunger.

For my own part, though feeling materially better than I had done the
preceding evening, I could not look at the limb that had pained me
so violently at intervals during the last twenty-four hours, without
experiencing a sense of alarm that I strove in vain to shake off.
Unwilling to disturb the flow of my comrade’s spirits, I managed to
stifle the complaints to which I might otherwise have given vent, and
calling upon him good-humouredly to speed our banquet, I prepared myself
for it by washing in the stream. This operation concluded, we swallowed,
or rather absorbed, by a peculiar kind of slow sucking process, our
respective morsels of nourishment, and then entered into a discussion as
to the steps is was necessary for us to pursue.

‘What’s to be done now?’ inquired I, rather dolefully.

‘Descend into that same valley we descried yesterday.’ rejoined Toby,
with a rapidity and loudness of utterance that almost led me to suspect
he had been slyly devouring the broadside of an ox in some of the
adjoining thickets. ‘What else,’ he continued, ‘remains for us to do but
that, to be sure? Why, we shall both starve to a certainty if we remain
here; and as to your fears of those Typees--depend upon it, it is all
nonsense.’

‘It is impossible that the inhabitants of such a lovely place as we
saw can be anything else but good fellows; and if you choose rather to
perish with hunger in one of these soppy caverns, I for one prefer to
chance a bold descent into the valley, and risk the consequences’.

‘And who is to pilot us thither,’ I asked, ‘even if we should decide
upon the measure you propose? Are we to go again up and down those
precipices that we crossed yesterday, until we reach the place we
started from, and then take a flying leap from the cliffs to the
valley?’

‘Faith, I didn’t think of that,’ said Toby; ‘sure enough, both sides of
the valley appeared to be hemmed in by precipices, didn’t they?’

‘Yes,’ answered I, ‘as steep as the sides of a line-of-battle ship,
and about a hundred times as high.’ My companion sank his head upon his
breast, and remained for a while in deep thought. Suddenly he sprang to
his feet, while his eyes lighted up with that gleam of intelligence that
marks the presence of some bright idea.

‘Yes, yes,’ he exclaimed; ‘the streams all run in the same direction,
and must necessarily flow into the valley before they reach the sea; all
we have to do is just to follow this stream, and sooner or later it will
lead us into the vale.’

‘You are right, Toby,’ I exclaimed, ‘you are right; it must conduct us
thither, and quickly too; for, see with what a steep inclination the
water descends.’

‘It does, indeed,’ burst forth my companion, overjoyed at my
verification of his theory, ‘it does indeed; why, it is as plain as a
pike-staff. Let us proceed at once; come, throw away all those stupid
ideas about the Typees, and hurrah for the lovely valley of the
Happars.’

‘You will have it to be Happar, I see, my dear fellow; pray Heaven you
may not find yourself deceived,’ observed I, with a shake of my head.

‘Amen to all that, and much more,’ shouted Toby, rushing forward; ‘but
Happar it is, for nothing else than Happar can it be. So glorious a
valley--such forests of bread-fruit trees--such groves of cocoanut--such
wilderness of guava-bushes! Ah! shipmate! don’t linger behind: in the
name of all delightful fruits, I am dying to be at them. Come on, come
on; shove ahead, there’s a lively lad; never mind the rocks; kick them
out of the way, as I do; and tomorrow, old fellow, take my word for
it, we shall be in clover. Come on;’ and so saying, he dashed along the
ravine like a madman, forgetting my inability to keep up with him. In a
few minutes, however, the exuberance of his spirits abated, and, pausing
for a while, he permitted me to overtake him.



CHAPTER NINE

PERILOUS PASSAGE OF THE RAVINE--DESCENT INTO THE VALLEY

The fearless confidence of Toby was contagious, and I began to adopt the
Happar side of the question. I could not, however, overcome a certain
feeling of trepidation as we made our way along these gloomy solitudes.
Our progress, at first comparatively easy, became more and more
difficult. The bed of the watercourse was covered with fragments of
broken rocks, which had fallen from above, offering so many obstructions
to the course of the rapid stream, which vexed and fretted about
them,--forming at intervals small waterfalls, pouring over into deep
basins, or splashing wildly upon heaps of stones.

From the narrowness of the gorge, and the steepness of its sides, there
was no mode of advancing but by wading through the water; stumbling
every moment over the impediments which lay hidden under its surface,
or tripping against the huge roots of trees. But the most annoying
hindrance we encountered was from a multitude of crooked boughs, which,
shooting out almost horizontally from the sides of the chasm, twisted
themselves together in fantastic masses almost to the surface of the
stream, affording us no passage except under the low arches which they
formed. Under these we were obliged to crawl on our hands and feet,
sliding along the oozy surface of the rocks, or slipping into the deep
pools, and with scarce light enough to guide us. Occasionally we would
strike our heads against some projecting limb of a tree; and while
imprudently engaged in rubbing the injured part, would fall sprawling
amongst flinty fragments, cutting and bruising ourselves, whilst the
unpitying waters flowed over our prostrate bodies. Belzoni, worming
himself through the subterranean passages of the Egyptian catacombs,
could not have met with great impediments than those we here
encountered. But we struggled against them manfully, well knowing our
only hope lay in advancing.

Towards sunset we halted at a spot where we made preparations for
passing the night. Here we constructed a hut, in much the same way as
before, and crawling into it, endeavoured to forget our sufferings. My
companion, I believe, slept pretty soundly; but at day break, when we
rolled out of our dwelling, I felt nearly disqualified for any further
efforts. Toby prescribed as a remedy for my illness the contents of one
of our little silk packages, to be taken at once in a single dose. To
this species of medical treatment, however, I would by no means accede,
much as he insisted upon it; and so we partook of our usual morsel, and
silently resumed our journey. It was now the fourth day since we left
Nukuheva, and the gnawings of hunger became painfully acute. We were
fain to pacify them by chewing the tender bark of roots and twigs,
which, if they did not afford us nourishment, were at least sweet and
pleasant to the taste.

Our progress along the steep watercourse was necessarily slow, and by
noon we had not advanced more than a mile. It was somewhere near this
part of the day that the noise of falling waters, which we had faintly
caught in the early morning, became more distinct; and it was not long
before we were arrested by a rocky precipice of nearly a hundred feet
in depth, that extended all across the channel, and over which the wild
stream poured in an unbroken leap. On each hand the walls of the
ravine presented their overhanging sides both above and below the fall,
affording no means whatever of avoiding the cataract by taking a circuit
round it.

‘What’s to be done now, Toby?’ said I.

‘Why,’ rejoined he, ‘as we cannot retreat, I suppose we must keep
shoving along.’

‘Very true, my dear Toby; but how do you purpose accomplishing that
desirable object?’

‘By jumping from the top of the fall, if there be no other way,’
unhesitatingly replied my companion: ‘it will be much the quickest way
of descent; but as you are not quite as active as I am, we will try some
other way.’

And, so saying, he crept cautiously along and peered over into the
abyss, while I remained wondering by what possible means we could
overcome this apparently insuperable obstruction. As soon as my
companion had completed his survey, I eagerly inquired the result.

‘The result of my observations you wish to know, do you?’ began Toby,
deliberately, with one of his odd looks: ‘well, my lad, the result of my
observations is very quickly imparted. It is at present uncertain which
of our two necks will have the honour to be broken first; but about a
hundred to one would be a fair bet in favour of the man who takes the
first jump.’

‘Then it is an impossible thing, is it?’ inquired I gloomily.

‘No, shipmate; on the contrary, it is the easiest thing in life: the
only awkward point is the sort of usage which our unhappy limbs may
receive when we arrive at the bottom, and what sort of travelling trim
we shall be in afterwards. But follow me now, and I will show you the
only chance we have.’ With this he conducted me to the verge of the
cataract, and pointed along the side of the ravine to a number of
curious looking roots, some three or four inches in thickness, and
several feet long, which, after twisting among the fissures of the rock,
shot perpendicularly from it and ran tapering to a point in the air,
hanging over the gulf like so many dark icicles. They covered nearly
the entire surface of one side of the gorge, the lowest of them
reaching even to the water. Many were moss grown and decayed, with their
extremities snapped short off, and those in the immediate vicinity of
the fall were slippery with moisture.

Toby’s scheme, and it was a desperate one, was to entrust ourselves
to these treacherous-looking roots, and by slipping down from one to
another to gain the bottom.

‘Are you ready to venture it?’ asked Toby, looking at me earnestly but
without saying a word as to the practicability of the plan.

‘I am,’ was my reply; for I saw it was our only resource if we wished to
advance, and as for retreating, all thoughts of that sort had been long
abandoned.

After I had signified my assent, Toby, without uttering a a single word,
crawled along the dripping ledge until he gained a point from whence
he could just reach one of the largest of the pendant roots; he shook
it--it quivered in his grasp, and when he let it go it twanged in the
air like a strong, wire sharply struck. Satisfied by his scrutiny, my
light limbed companion swung himself nimbly upon it, and twisting his
legs round it in sailor fashion, slipped down eight or ten feet, where
his weight gave it a motion not un-like that of a pendulum. He could not
venture to descend any further; so holding on with one hand, he with the
other shook one by one all the slender roots around him, and at last,
finding one which he thought trustworthy, shifted him self to it and
continued his downward progress.

So far so well; but I could not avoid comparing my heavier frame and
disabled condition with his light figure and remarkable activity;
but there was no help for it, and in less than a minute’s time I was
swinging directly over his head. As soon as his upturned eyes caught a
glimpse of me, he exclaimed in his usual dry tone, for the danger did
not seem to daunt him in the least, ‘Mate, do me the kindness not to
fall until I get out of your way;’ and then swinging himself more on
one side, he continued his descent. In the mean time I cautiously
transferred myself from the limb down which I had been slipping to a
couple of others that were near it, deeming two strings to my bow better
than one, and taking care to test their strength before I trusted my
weight to them.

On arriving towards the end of the second stage in this vertical
journey, and shaking the long roots which were round me, to my
consternation they snapped off one after another like so many pipe
stems, and fell in fragments against the side of the gulf, splashing at
last into the waters beneath.

As one after another the treacherous roots yielded to my grasp, and fell
into the torrent, my heart sunk within me. The branches on which I was
suspended over the yawning chasm swang to and fro in the air, and I
expected them every moment to snap in twain. Appalled at the dreadful
fate that menaced me, I clutched frantically at the only large root
which remained near me, but in vain; I could not reach it, though my
fingers were within a few inches of it. Again and again I tried to reach
it, until at length, maddened with the thought of my situation, I swayed
myself violently by striking my foot against the side of the rock, and
at the instant that I approached the large root caught desperately at
it, and transferred myself to it. It vibrated violently under the sudden
weight, but fortunately did not give way.

My brain grew dizzy with the idea of the frightful risk I had just run,
and I involuntarily closed my eyes to shut out the view of the
depth beneath me. For the instant I was safe, and I uttered a devout
ejaculation of thanksgiving for my escape.

‘Pretty well done,’ shouted Toby underneath me; ‘you are nimbler than
I thought you to be--hopping about up there from root to root like any
young squirrel. As soon as you have diverted yourself sufficiently, I
would advise you to proceed.’

‘Aye, aye, Toby, all in good time: two or three more such famous roots
as this, and I shall be with you.’

The residue of my downward progress was comparatively easy; the roots
were in greater abundance, and in one or two places jutting out points
of rock assisted me greatly. In a few moments I was standing by the side
of my companion.

Substituting a stout stick for the one I had thrown aside at the top of
the precipice, we now continued our course along the bed of the ravine.
Soon we were saluted by a sound in advance, that grew by degrees
louder and louder, as the noise of the cataract we were leaving behind
gradually died on our ears.

‘Another precipice for us, Toby.’

‘Very good; we can descend them, you know--come on.’

Nothing indeed appeared to depress or intimidate this intrepid fellow.
Typees or Niagaras, he was as ready to engage one as the other, and I
could not avoid a thousand times congratulating myself upon having such
a companion in an enterprise like the present.

After an hour’s painful progress, we reached the verge of another fall,
still loftier than the preceding and flanked both above and below with
the same steep masses of rock, presenting, however, here and there
narrow irregular ledges, supporting a shallow soil, on which grew a
variety of bushes and trees, whose bright verdure contrasted beautifully
with the foamy waters that flowed between them.

Toby, who invariably acted as pioneer, now proceeded to reconnoitre.
On his return, he reported that the shelves of rock on our right
would enable us to gain with little risk the bottom of the cataract.
Accordingly, leaving the bed of the stream at the very point where it
thundered down, we began crawling along one of those sloping ledges
until it carried us to within a few feet of another that inclined
downwards at a still sharper angle, and upon which, by assisting each
other we managed to alight in safety. We warily crept along this,
steadying ourselves by the naked roots of the shrubs that clung to every
fissure. As we proceeded, the narrow path became still more contracted,
rendering it difficult for us to maintain our footing, until suddenly,
as we reached an angle of the wall of rock where we had expected it to
widen, we perceived to our consternation that a yard or two further on
it abruptly terminated at a place we could not possibly hope to pass.

Toby as usual led the van, and in silence I waited to learn from him how
he proposed to extricate us from this new difficulty.

‘Well, my boy,’ I exclaimed, after the expiration of several minutes,
during which time my companion had not uttered a word, ‘what’s to be
done now?’

He replied in a tranquil tone, that probably the best thing we could do
in our present strait was to get out of it as soon as possible.

‘Yes, my dear Toby, but tell me how we are to get out of it.’

‘Something in this sort of style,’ he replied, and at the same moment to
my horror he slipped sideways off the rocks and, as I then thought, by
good fortune merely, alighted among the spreading branches of a species
of palm tree, that shooting its hardy roots along a ledge below, curved
its trunk upwards into the air, and presented a thick mass of foliage
about twenty feet below the spot where we had thus suddenly been brought
to a standstill. I involuntarily held my breath, expecting to see the
form of my companion, after being sustained for a moment by the branches
of the tree, sink through their frail support, and fall headlong to
the bottom. To my surprise and joy, however, he recovered himself, and
disentangling his limbs from the fractured branches, he peered out from
his leafy bed, and shouted lustily, ‘Come on, my hearty there is no
other alternative!’ and with this he ducked beneath the foliage, and
slipping down the trunk, stood in a moment at least fifty feet beneath
me, upon the broad shelf of rock from which sprung the tree he had
descended.

What would I not have given at that moment to have been by his side. The
feat he had just accomplished seemed little less than miraculous, and
I could hardly credit the evidence of my senses when I saw the wide
distance that a single daring act had so suddenly placed between us.

Toby’s animating ‘come on’ again sounded in my ears, and dreading to
lose all confidence in myself if I remained meditating upon the step,
I once more gazed down to assure myself of the relative bearing of the
tree and my own position, and then closing my eyes and uttering one
comprehensive ejaculation of prayer, I inclined myself over towards the
abyss, and after one breathless instant fell with a crash into the tree,
the branches snapping and cracking with my weight, as I sunk lower and
lower among them, until I was stopped by coming in contact with a sturdy
limb.

In a few moments I was standing at the foot of the tree manipulating
myself all over with a view of ascertaining the extent of the injuries
I had received. To my surprise the only effects of my feat were a few
slight contusions too trifling to care about. The rest of our descent
was easily accomplished, and in half an hour after regaining the ravine
we had partaken of our evening morsel, built our hut as usual, and
crawled under its shelter.

The next morning, in spite of our debility and the agony of hunger under
which we were now suffering, though neither of us confessed to the fact,
we struggled along our dismal and still difficult and dangerous path,
cheered by the hope of soon catching a glimpse of the valley before
us, and towards evening the voice of a cataract which had for some time
sounded like a low deep bass to the music of the smaller waterfalls,
broke upon our ears in still louder tones, and assured us that we were
approaching its vicinity.

That evening we stood on the brink of a precipice, over which the dark
stream bounded in one final leap of full 300 feet. The sheer descent
terminated in the region we so long had sought. On each side of the
fall, two lofty and perpendicular bluffs buttressed the sides of the
enormous cliff, and projected into the sea of verdure with which the
valley waved, and a range of similar projecting eminences stood disposed
in a half circle about the head if the vale. A thick canopy of trees
hung over the very verge of the fall, leaving an arched aperture for the
passage of the waters, which imparted a strange picturesqueness to the
scene.

The valley was now before us; but instead of being conducted into its
smiling bosom by the gradual descent of the deep watercourse we had thus
far pursued, all our labours now appeared to have been rendered futile
by its abrupt termination. But, bitterly disappointed, we did not
entirely despair.

As it was now near sunset we determined to pass the night where we were,
and on the morrow, refreshed by sleep, and by eating at one meal all our
stock of food, to accomplish a descent into the valley, or perish in the
attempt.

We laid ourselves down that night on a spot, the recollection of which
still makes me shudder. A small table of rock which projected over the
precipice on one side of the stream, and was drenched by the spray
of the fall, sustained a huge trunk of a tree which must have been
deposited there by some heavy freshet. It lay obliquely, with one end
resting on the rock and the other supported by the side of the ravine.
Against it we placed in a sloping direction a number of the half decayed
boughs that were strewn about, and covering the whole with twigs and
leaves, awaited the morning’s light beneath such shelter as it afforded.


During the whole of this night the continual roaring of the
cataract--the dismal moaning of the gale through the trees--the
pattering of the rain, and the profound darkness, affected my spirits to
a degree which nothing had ever before produced. Wet, half famished,
and chilled to the heart with the dampness of the place, and nearly wild
with the pain I endured, I fairly cowered down to the earth under
this multiplication of hardships, and abandoned myself to frightful
anticipations of evil; and my companion, whose spirit at last was a good
deal broken, scarcely uttered a word during the whole night.

At length the day dawned upon us, and rising from our miserable pallet,
we stretched our stiffened joints, and after eating all that remained
of our bread, prepared for the last stage of our journey. I will not
recount every hair-breadth escape, and every fearful difficulty that
occurred before we succeeded in reaching the bosom of the valley. As I
have already described similar scenes, it will be sufficient to say that
at length, after great toil and great dangers, we both stood with no
limbs broken at the head of that magnificent vale which five days before
had so suddenly burst upon my sight, and almost beneath the shadow of
those very cliffs from whose summits we had gazed upon the prospect.



CHAPTER TEN

THE HEAD OF THE VALLEY--CAUTIOUS ADVANCE--A PATH--FRUIT--DISCOVERY
OF TWO OF THE NATIVES--THEIR SINGULAR CONDUCT--APPROACH TOWARDS
THE INHABITED PARTS OF THE VALE--SENSATION PRODUCED BY OUR
APPEARANCE--RECEPTION AT THE HOUSE OF ONE OF THE NATIVES

HOW to obtain the fruit which we felt convinced must grow near at hand
was our first thought.

Typee or Happar? A frightful death at the hands of the fiercest of
cannibals, or a kindly reception from a gentler race of savages? Which?
But it was too late now to discuss a question which would so soon be
answered.

The part of the valley in which we found ourselves appeared to be
altogether uninhabited. An almost impenetrable thicket extended
from side to side, without presenting a single plant affording the
nourishment we had confidently calculated upon; and with this object, we
followed the course of the stream, casting quick glances as we
proceeded into the thick jungles on each hand. My companion--to whose
solicitations I had yielded in descending into the valley--now that
the step was taken, began to manifest a degree of caution I had little
expected from him. He proposed that in the event of our finding an
adequate supply of fruit, we should remain in this unfrequented portion
of the country--where we should run little chance of being surprised by
its occupants, whoever they might be--until sufficiently recruited to
resume our journey; when laying a store of food equal to our wants, we
might easily regain the bay of Nukuheva, after the lapse of a sufficient
interval to ensure the departure of our vessel.

I objected strongly to this proposition, plausible as it was, as the
difficulties of the route would be almost insurmountable, unacquainted
as we were with the general bearings of the country, and I reminded
my companion of the hardships which we had already encountered in our
uncertain wanderings; in a word, I said that since we had deemed
it advisable to enter the valley, we ought manfully to face the
consequences, whatever they might be; the more especially as I was
convinced there was no alternative left us but to fall in with the
natives at once, and boldly risk the reception they might give us; and
that as to myself, I felt the necessity of rest and shelter, and that
until I had obtained them, I should be wholly unable to encounter such
sufferings as we had lately passed through. To the justice of these
observations Toby somewhat reluctantly assented.

We were surprised that, after moving as far as we had along the valley,
we should still meet with the same impervious thickets; and thinking,
that although the borders of the stream might be lined for some distance
with them, yet beyond there might be more open ground, I requested Toby
to keep a bright look-out upon one side, while I did the same on the
other, in order to discover some opening in the bushes, and especially
to watch for the slightest appearance of a path or anything else that
might indicate the vicinity of the islanders.

What furtive and anxious glances we cast into those dim-looking shadows!
With what apprehensions we proceeded, ignorant at what moment we might
be greeted by the javelin of some ambushed savage. At last my companion
paused, and directed my attention to a narrow opening in the foliage. We
struck into it, and it soon brought us by an indistinctly traced path to
a comparatively clear space, at the further end of which we descried
a number of the trees, the native name of which is ‘annuee’, and which
bear a most delicious fruit. What a race! I hobbling over the ground
like some decrepid wretch, and Toby leaping forward like a greyhound. He
quickly cleared one of the trees on which there were two or three of
the fruit, but to our chagrin they proved to be much decayed; the rinds
partly opened by the birds, and their hearts half devoured. However, we
quickly despatched them, and no ambrosia could have been more delicious.

We looked about us uncertain whither to direct our steps, since the path
we had so far followed appeared to be lost in the open space around us.
At last we resolved to enter a grove near at hand, and had advanced a
few rods, when, just upon its skirts, I picked up a slender bread-fruit
shoot perfectly green, and with the tender bark freshly stripped from
it. It was still slippery with moisture, and appeared as if it had been
but that moment thrown aside. I said nothing, but merely held it up to
Toby, who started at this undeniable evidence of the vicinity of the
savages.

The plot was now thickening.--A short distance further lay a little
faggot of the same shoots bound together with a strip of bark. Could it
have been thrown down by some solitary native, who, alarmed at seeing
us, had hurried forward to carry the tidings of our approach to his
countrymen?--Typee or Happar?--But it was too late to recede, so we
moved on slowly, my companion in advance casting eager glances under the
trees on each side, until all at once I saw him recoil as if stung by
an adder. Sinking on his knee, he waved me off with one hand, while with
the other he held aside some intervening leaves, and gazed intently at
some object.

Disregarding his injunction, I quickly approached him and caught a
glimpse of two figures partly hidden by the dense foliage; they were
standing close together, and were perfectly motionless. They must have
previously perceived us, and withdrawn into the depths of the wood to
elude our observation.

My mind was at once made up. Dropping my staff, and tearing open the
package of things we had brought from the ship, I unrolled the cotton
cloth, and holding it in one hand picked with the other a twig from the
bushes beside me, and telling Toby to follow my example, I broke through
the covert and advanced, waving the branch in token of peace towards
the shrinking forms before me. They were a boy and a girl, slender and
graceful, and completely naked, with the exception of a slight girdle of
bark, from which depended at opposite points two of the russet leaves of
the bread-fruit tree. An arm of the boy, half screened from sight by
her wild tresses, was thrown about the neck of the girl, while with the
other he held one of her hands in his; and thus they stood together,
their heads inclined forward, catching the faint noise we made in our
progress, and with one foot in advance, as if half inclined to fly from
our presence.

As we drew near, their alarm evidently increased. Apprehensive that
they might fly from us altogether, I stopped short and motioned them
to advance and receive the gift I extended towards them, but they would
not; I then uttered a few words of their language with which I was
acquainted, scarcely expected that they would understand me, but to show
that we had not dropped from the clouds upon them. This appeared to give
them a little confidence, so I approached nearer, presenting the cloth
with one hand, and holding the bough with the other, while they slowly
retreated. At last they suffered us to approach so near to them that we
were enabled to throw the cotton cloth across their shoulders, giving
them to understand that it was theirs, and by a variety of gestures
endeavouring to make them understand that we entertained the highest
possible regard for them.

The frightened pair now stood still, whilst we endeavoured to make them
comprehend the nature of our wants. In doing this Toby went through with
a complete series of pantomimic illustrations--opening his mouth from
ear to ear, and thrusting his fingers down his throat, gnashing his
teeth and rolling his eyes about, till I verily believe the poor
creatures took us for a couple of white cannibals who were about to
make a meal of them. When, however, they understood us, they showed
no inclination to relieve our wants. At this juncture it began to rain
violently, and we motioned them to lead us to some place of shelter.
With this request they appeared willing to comply, but nothing could
evince more strongly the apprehension with which they regarded us,
than the way in which, whilst walking before us, they kept their eyes
constantly turned back to watch every movement we made, and even our
very looks.

‘Typee or Happar, Toby?’ asked I as we walked after them.

‘Of course Happar,’ he replied, with a show of confidence which was
intended to disguise his doubts.

‘We shall soon know,’ I exclaimed; and at the same moment I
stepped forward towards our guides, and pronouncing the two names
interrogatively and pointing to the lowest part of the valley,
endeavoured to come to the point at once. They repeated the words after
me again and again, but without giving any peculiar emphasis to either,
so that I was completely at a loss to understand them; for a couple of
wilier young things than we afterwards found them to have been on this
particular occasion never probably fell in any traveller’s way.

More and more curious to ascertain our fate, I now threw together in the
form of a question the words ‘Happar’ and ‘Motarkee’, the latter being
equivalent to the word ‘good’. The two natives interchanged glances
of peculiar meaning with one another at this, and manifested no little
surprise; but on the repetition of the question after some consultation
together, to the great joy of Toby, they answered in the affirmative.
Toby was now in ecstasies, especially as the young savages continued
to reiterate their answer with great energy, as though desirous of
impressing us with the idea that being among the Happars, we ought to
consider ourselves perfectly secure.

Although I had some lingering doubts, I feigned great delight with Toby
at this announcement, while my companion broke out into a pantomimic
abhorrence of Typee, and immeasurable love for the particular valley in
which we were; our guides all the while gazing uneasily at one another
as if at a loss to account for our conduct.

They hurried on, and we followed them; until suddenly they set up a
strange halloo, which was answered from beyond the grove through which
we were passing, and the next moment we entered upon some open ground,
at the extremity of which we descried a long, low hut, and in front of
it were several young girls. As soon as they perceived us they fled with
wild screams into the adjoining thickets, like so many startled fawns.
A few moments after the whole valley resounded with savage outcries, and
the natives came running towards us from every direction.

Had an army of invaders made an irruption into their territory they
could not have evinced greater excitement. We were soon completely
encircled by a dense throng, and in their eager desire to behold us they
almost arrested our progress; an equal number surrounded our youthful
guides, who with amazing volubility appeared to be detailing the
circumstances which had attended their meeting with us. Every item of
intelligence appeared to redouble the astonishment of the islanders, and
they gazed at us with inquiring looks.

At last we reached a large and handsome building of bamboos, and were by
signs told to enter it, the natives opening a lane for us through which
to pass; on entering without ceremony, we threw our exhausted frames
upon the mats that covered the floor. In a moment the slight tenement
was completely full of people, whilst those who were unable to obtain
admittance gazed at us through its open cane-work.

It was now evening, and by the dim light we could just discern the
savage countenances around us, gleaming with wild curiosity and wonder;
the naked forms and tattooed limbs of brawny warriors, with here and
there the slighter figures of young girls, all engaged in a perfect
storm of conversation, of which we were of course the one only
theme, whilst our recent guides were fully occupied in answering the
innumerable questions which every one put to them. Nothing can exceed
the fierce gesticulation of these people when animated in conversation,
and on this occasion they gave loose to all their natural vivacity,
shouting and dancing about in a manner that well nigh intimidated us.

Close to where we lay, squatting upon their haunches, were some eight or
ten noble-looking chiefs--for such they subsequently proved to be--who,
more reserved than the rest, regarded us with a fixed and stern
attention, which not a little discomposed our equanimity. One of them
in particular, who appeared to be the highest in rank, placed himself
directly facing me, looking at me with a rigidity of aspect under which
I absolutely quailed. He never once opened his lips, but maintained his
severe expression of countenance, without turning his face aside for
a single moment. Never before had I been subjected to so strange and
steady a glance; it revealed nothing of the mind of the savage, but it
appeared to be reading my own.

After undergoing this scrutiny till I grew absolutely nervous, with a
view of diverting it if possible, and conciliating the good opinion of
the warrior, I took some tobacco from the bosom of my frock and
offered it to him. He quietly rejected the proffered gift, and, without
speaking, motioned me to return it to its place.

In my previous intercourse with the natives of Nukuheva and Tior, I had
found that the present of a small piece of tobacco would have rendered
any of them devoted to my service. Was this act of the chief a token of
his enmity? Typee or Happar? I asked within myself. I started, for at
the same moment this identical question was asked by the strange being
before me. I turned to Toby, the flickering light of a native taper
showed me his countenance pale with trepidation at this fatal question.
I paused for a second, and I know not by what impulse it was that I
answered ‘Typee’. The piece of dusky statuary nodded in approval, and
then murmured ‘Motarkee!’ ‘Motarkee,’ said I, without further hesitation
‘Typee motarkee.’

What a transition! The dark figures around us leaped to their feet,
clapped their hands in transport, and shouted again and again the
talismanic syllables, the utterance of which appeared to have settled
everything.

When this commotion had a little subsided, the principal chief squatted
once more before me, and throwing himself into a sudden rage, poured
forth a string of philippics, which I was at no loss to understand, from
the frequent recurrence of the word Happar, as being directed against
the natives of the adjoining valley. In all these denunciations my
companion and I acquiesced, while we extolled the character of the
warlike Typees. To be sure our panegyrics were somewhat laconic,
consisting in the repetition of that name, united with the potent
adjective ‘motarkee’. But this was sufficient, and served to conciliate
the good will of the natives, with whom our congeniality of sentiment on
this point did more towards inspiring a friendly feeling than anything
else that could have happened.

At last the wrath of the chief evaporated, and in a few moments he
was as placid as ever. Laying his hand upon his breast, he gave me to
understand that his name was ‘Mehevi’, and that, in return, he wished me
to communicate my appellation. I hesitated for an instant, thinking that
it might be difficult for him to pronounce my real name, and then with
the most praiseworthy intentions intimated that I was known as ‘Tom’.
But I could not have made a worse selection; the chief could not master
it. ‘Tommo,’ ‘Tomma’, ‘Tommee’, everything but plain ‘Tom’. As he
persisted in garnishing the word with an additional syllable, I
compromised the matter with him at the word ‘Tommo’; and by that name
I went during the entire period of my stay in the valley. The same
proceeding was gone through with Toby, whose mellifluous appellation was
more easily caught.

An exchange of names is equivalent to a ratification of good will and
amity among these simple people; and as we were aware of this fact, we
were delighted that it had taken place on the present occasion.

Reclining upon our mats, we now held a kind of levee, giving audience
to successive troops of the natives, who introduced themselves to us by
pronouncing their respective names, and retired in high good humour on
receiving ours in return. During this ceremony the greatest merriment
prevailed nearly every announcement on the part of the islanders being
followed by a fresh sally of gaiety, which induced me to believe that
some of them at least were innocently diverting the company at our
expense, by bestowing upon themselves a string of absurd titles, of the
humour of which we were of course entirely ignorant.

All this occupied about an hour, when the throng having a little
diminished, I turned to Mehevi and gave him to understand that we were
in need of food and sleep. Immediately the attentive chief addressed a
few words to one of the crowd, who disappeared, and returned in a few
moments with a calabash of ‘poee-poee’, and two or three young cocoanuts
stripped of their husks, and with their shells partly broken. We both
of us forthwith placed one of these natural goblets to our lips, and
drained it in a moment of the refreshing draught it contained. The
poee-poee was then placed before us, and even famished as I was, I
paused to consider in what manner to convey it to my mouth.

This staple article of food among the Marquese islanders is manufactured
from the produce of the bread-fruit tree. It somewhat resembles in
its plastic nature our bookbinders’ paste, is of a yellow colour, and
somewhat tart to the taste.

Such was the dish, the merits of which I was now eager to discuss. I
eyed it wistfully for a moment, and then, unable any longer to stand on
ceremony, plunged my hand into the yielding mass, and to the boisterous
mirth of the natives drew it forth laden with the poee-poee, which
adhered in lengthy strings to every finger. So stubborn was its
consistency, that in conveying my heavily-weighted hand to my mouth, the
connecting links almost raised the calabash from the mats on which it
had been placed. This display of awkwardness--in which, by-the-bye, Toby
kept me company--convulsed the bystanders with uncontrollable laughter.

As soon as their merriment had somewhat subsided, Mehevi, motioning us
to be attentive, dipped the forefinger of his right hand in the dish,
and giving it a rapid and scientific twirl, drew it out coated smoothly
with the preparation. With a second peculiar flourish he prevented the
poee-poee from dropping to the ground as he raised it to his mouth, into
which the finger was inserted and drawn forth perfectly free from any
adhesive matter.

This performance was evidently intended for our instruction; so I
again essayed the feat on the principles inculcated, but with very ill
success.

A starving man, however, little heeds conventional proprieties,
especially on a South-Sea Island, and accordingly Toby and I partook of
the dish after our own clumsy fashion, beplastering our faces all over
with the glutinous compound, and daubing our hands nearly to the
wrist. This kind of food is by no means disagreeable to the palate of a
European, though at first the mode of eating it may be. For my own
part, after the lapse of a few days I became accustomed to its singular
flavour, and grew remarkably fond of it.

So much for the first course; several other dishes followed it, some of
which were positively delicious. We concluded our banquet by tossing
off the contents of two more young cocoanuts, after which we regaled
ourselves with the soothing fumes of tobacco, inhaled from a quaintly
carved pipe which passed round the circle.

During the repast, the natives eyed us with intense curiosity, observing
our minutest motions, and appearing to discover abundant matter for
comment in the most trifling occurrence. Their surprise mounted the
highest, when we began to remove our uncomfortable garments, which were
saturated with rain. They scanned the whiteness of our limbs, and seemed
utterly unable to account for the contrast they presented to the swarthy
hue of our faces embrowned from a six months’ exposure to the scorching
sun of the Line. They felt our skin, much in the same way that a silk
mercer would handle a remarkably fine piece of satin; and some of them
went so far in their investigation as to apply the olfactory organ.

Their singular behaviour almost led me to imagine that they never before
had beheld a white man; but a few moments’ reflection convinced me that
this could not have been the case; and a more satisfactory reason for
their conduct has since suggested itself to my mind.

Deterred by the frightful stories related of its inhabitants, ships
never enter this bay, while their hostile relations with the tribes in
the adjoining valleys prevent the Typees from visiting that section of
the island where vessels occasionally lie. At long intervals, however,
some intrepid captain will touch on the skirts of the bay, with two or
three armed boats’ crews and accompanied by interpreters. The natives
who live near the sea descry the strangers long before they reach their
waters, and aware of the purpose for which they come, proclaim loudly
the news of their approach. By a species of vocal telegraph the
intelligence reaches the inmost recesses of the vale in an inconceivably
short space of time, drawing nearly its whole population down to
the beach laden with every variety of fruit. The interpreter, who is
invariably a ‘tabooed Kanaka’ *, leaps ashore with the goods intended for
barter, while the boats, with their oars shipped, and every man on his
thwart, lie just outside the surf, heading off the shore, in readiness
at the first untoward event to escape to the open sea. As soon as the
traffic is concluded, one of the boats pulls in under cover of the
muskets of the others, the fruit is quickly thrown into her, and the
transient visitors precipitately retire from what they justly consider
so dangerous a vicinity.

* The word ‘Kanaka’ is at the present day universally used in the South
Seas by Europeans to designate the Islanders. In the various dialects
of the principal groups it is simply a sexual designation applied to
the males; but it is now used by the natives in their intercourse with
foreigners in the same sense in which the latter employ it.

A ‘Tabooed Kanaka’ is an islander whose person has been made to a
certain extent sacred by the operation of a singular custom hereafter to
be explained.



The intercourse occurring with Europeans being so restricted, no wonder
that the inhabitants of the valley manifested so much curiosity with
regard to us, appearing as we did among them under such singular
circumstances. I have no doubt that we were the first white men who ever
penetrated thus far back into their territories, or at least the first
who had ever descended from the head of the vale. What had brought us
thither must have appeared a complete mystery to them, and from our
ignorance of the language it was impossible for us to enlighten them. In
answer to inquiries which the eloquence of their gestures enabled us to
comprehend, all that we could reply was, that we had come from Nukuheva,
a place, be it remembered, with which they were at open war. This
intelligence appeared to affect them with the most lively emotions.
‘Nukuheva motarkee?’ they asked. Of course we replied most energetically
in the negative.

Then they plied us with a thousand questions, of which we could
understand nothing more than that they had reference to the recent
movements of the French, against whom they seemed to cherish the most
fierce hatred. So eager were they to obtain information on this point,
that they still continued to propound their queries long after we had
shown that we were utterly unable to answer them. Occasionally we caught
some indistinct idea of their meaning, when we would endeavour by every
method in our power to communicate the desired intelligence. At such
times their gratification was boundless, and they would redouble their
efforts to make us comprehend them more perfectly. But all in vain; and
in the end they looked at us despairingly, as if we were the receptacles
of invaluable information; but how to come at it they knew not.

After a while the group around us gradually dispersed, and we were
left about midnight (as we conjectured) with those who appeared to be
permanent residents of the house. These individuals now provided us with
fresh mats to lie upon, covered us with several folds of tappa, and then
extinguishing the tapers that had been burning, threw themselves down
beside us, and after a little desultory conversation were soon sound
asleep.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS--MORNING VISITORS--A WARRIOR IN COSTUME--A SAVAGE
AESCULAPIUS--PRACTICE OF THE HEALING ART--BODY SERVANT--A DWELLING-HOUSE
OF THE VALLEY DESCRIBED--PORTRAITS OF ITS INMATES

VARIOUS and conflicting were the thoughts which oppressed me during the
silent hours that followed the events related in the preceding chapter.
Toby, wearied with the fatigues of the day, slumbered heavily by my
side; but the pain under which I was suffering effectually prevented
my sleeping, and I remained distressingly alive to all the fearful
circumstances of our present situation. Was it possible that, after all
our vicissitudes, we were really in the terrible valley of Typee, and
at the mercy of its inmates, a fierce and unrelenting tribe of savages?
Typee or Happar? I shuddered when I reflected that there was no longer
any room for doubt; and that, beyond all hope of escape, we were now
placed in those very circumstances from the bare thought of which I had
recoiled with such abhorrence but a few days before. What might not
be our fearful destiny? To be sure, as yet we had been treated with no
violence; nay, had been even kindly and hospitably entertained. But what
dependence could be placed upon the fickle passions which sway the bosom
of a savage? His inconstancy and treachery are proverbial. Might it
not be that beneath these fair appearances the islanders covered some
perfidious design, and that their friendly reception of us might only
precede some horrible catastrophe? How strongly did these forebodings
spring up in my mind as I lay restlessly upon a couch of mats surrounded
by the dimly revealed forms of those whom I so greatly dreaded!

From the excitement of these fearful thoughts I sank towards morning
into an uneasy slumber; and on awaking, with a start, in the midst of an
appalling dream, looked up into the eager countenance of a number of the
natives, who were bending over me.

It was broad day; and the house was nearly filled with young females,
fancifully decorated with flowers, who gazed upon me as I rose with
faces in which childish delight and curiosity were vividly portrayed.
After waking Toby, they seated themselves round us on the mats, and gave
full play to that prying inquisitiveness which time out of mind has been
attributed to the adorable sex.

As these unsophisticated young creatures were attended by no jealous
duennas, their proceedings were altogether informal, and void of
artificial restraint. Long and minute was the investigation with which
they honoured us, and so uproarious their mirth, that I felt infinitely
sheepish; and Toby was immeasurably outraged at their familiarity.

These lively young ladies were at the same time wonderfully polite
and humane; fanning aside the insects that occasionally lighted on our
brows; presenting us with food; and compassionately regarding me in the
midst of my afflictions. But in spite of all their blandishments, my
feelings of propriety were exceedingly shocked, for I could but consider
them as having overstepped the due limits of female decorum.

Having diverted themselves to their hearts’ content, our young visitants
now withdrew, and gave place to successive troops of the other sex, who
continued flocking towards the house until near noon; by which time I
have no doubt that the greater part of the inhabitants of the valley had
bathed themselves in the light of our benignant countenances.

At last, when their numbers began to diminish, a superb-looking warrior
stooped the towering plumes of his head-dress beneath the low portal,
and entered the house. I saw at once that he was some distinguished
personage, the natives regarding him with the utmost deference, and
making room for him as he approached. His aspect was imposing. The
splendid long drooping tail-feathers of the tropical bird, thickly
interspersed with the gaudy plumage of the cock, were disposed in an
immense upright semicircle upon his head, their lower extremities being
fixed in a crescent of guinea-heads which spanned the forehead. Around
his neck were several enormous necklaces of boar’s tusks, polished like
ivory, and disposed in such a manner as that the longest and largest
were upon his capacious chest. Thrust forward through the large
apertures in his ears were two small and finely-shaped sperm whale
teeth, presenting their cavities in front, stuffed with freshly-plucked
leaves, and curiously wrought at the other end into strange little
images and devices. These barbaric trinkets, garnished in this manner at
their open extremities, and tapering and curving round to a point behind
the ear, resembled not a little a pair of cornucopias.

The loins of the warrior were girt about with heavy folds of a
dark-coloured tappa, hanging before and behind in clusters of braided
tassels, while anklets and bracelets of curling human hair completed
his unique costume. In his right hand he grasped a beautifully carved
paddle-spear, nearly fifteen feet in length, made of the bright
koar-wood, one end sharply pointed, and the other flattened like an
oar-blade. Hanging obliquely from his girdle by a loop of sinnate was
a richly decorated pipe; the slender reed forming its stem was coloured
with a red pigment, and round it, as well as the idol-bowl, fluttered
little streamers of the thinnest tappa.

But that which was most remarkable in the appearance of this splendid
islander was the elaborate tattooing displayed on every noble limb. All
imaginable lines and curves and figures were delineated over his whole
body, and in their grotesque variety and infinite profusion I could only
compare them to the crowded groupings of quaint patterns we sometimes
see in costly pieces of lacework. The most simple and remarkable of all
these ornaments was that which decorated the countenance of the chief.
Two broad stripes of tattooing, diverging from the centre of his shaven
crown, obliquely crossed both eyes--staining the lids--to a little
below each ear, where they united with another stripe which swept in a
straight line along the lips and formed the base of the triangle.
The warrior, from the excellence of his physical proportions, might
certainly have been regarded as one of Nature’s noblemen, and the lines
drawn upon his face may possibly have denoted his exalted rank.

This warlike personage, upon entering the house, seated himself at some
distance from the spot where Toby and myself reposed, while the rest of
the savages looked alternately from us to him, as if in expectation of
something they were disappointed in not perceiving. Regarding the chief
attentively, I thought his lineaments appeared familiar to me. As
soon as his full face was turned upon me, and I again beheld its
extraordinary embellishment, and met the strange gaze to which I had
been subjected the preceding night, I immediately, in spite of the
alteration in his appearance, recognized the noble Mehevi. On addressing
him, he advanced at once in the most cordial manner, and greeting me
warmly, seemed to enjoy not a little the effect his barbaric costume had
produced upon me.

I forthwith determined to secure, if possible, the good-will of this
individual, as I easily perceived he was a man of great authority in his
tribe, and one who might exert a powerful influence upon our subsequent
fate. In the endeavour I was not repulsed; for nothing could surpass
the friendliness he manifested towards both my companion and myself.
He extended his sturdy limbs by our side, and endeavoured to make
us comprehend the full extent of the kindly feelings by which he was
actuated. The almost insuperable difficulty in communicating to one
another our ideas affected the chief with no little mortification. He
evinced a great desire to be enlightened with regard to the customs and
peculiarities of the far-off country we had left behind us, and to which
under the name of Maneeka he frequently alluded.

But that which more than any other subject engaged his attention was
the late proceedings of the ‘Frannee’ as he called the French, in the
neighbouring bay of Nukuheva. This seemed a never-ending theme with him,
and one concerning which he was never weary of interrogating us. All the
information we succeeded in imparting to him on this subject was little
more than that we had seen six men-of-war lying in the hostile bay at
the time we had left it. When he received this intelligence, Mehevi, by
the aid of his fingers, went through a long numerical calculation, as if
estimating the number of Frenchmen the squadron might contain.

It was just after employing his faculties in this way that he happened
to notice the swelling in my limb. He immediately examined it with the
utmost attention, and after doing so, despatched a boy who happened to
be standing by with some message.

After the lapse of a few moments the stripling re-entered the house with
an aged islander, who might have been taken for old Hippocrates himself.
His head was as bald as the polished surface of a cocoanut shell, which
article it precisely resembled in smoothness and colour, while a long
silvery beard swept almost to his girdle of bark. Encircling his temples
was a bandeau of the twisted leaves of the Omoo tree, pressed closely
over the brows to shield his feeble vision from the glare of the sun.
His tottering steps were supported by a long slim staff, resembling the
wand with which a theatrical magician appears on the stage, and in
one hand he carried a freshly plaited fan of the green leaflets of the
cocoanut tree. A flowing robe of tappa, knotted over the shoulder, hung
loosely round his stooping form, and heightened the venerableness of his
aspect.

Mehevi, saluting this old gentleman, motioned him to a seat between us,
and then uncovering my limb, desired him to examine it. The leech
gazed intently from me to Toby, and then proceeded to business. After
diligently observing the ailing member, he commenced manipulating it;
and on the supposition probably that the complaint had deprived the leg
of all sensation, began to pinch and hammer it in such a manner that I
absolutely roared with pain. Thinking that I was as capable of making
an application of thumps and pinches to the part as any one else, I
endeavoured to resist this species of medical treatment. But it was
not so easy a matter to get out of the clutches of the old wizard; he
fastened on the unfortunate limb as if it were something for which he
had been long seeking, and muttering some kind of incantation continued
his discipline, pounding it after a fashion that set me well nigh crazy;
while Mehevi, upon the same principle which prompts an affectionate
mother to hold a struggling child in a dentist’s chair, restrained me
in his powerful grasp, and actually encouraged the wretch in this
infliction of torture.

Almost frantic with rage and pain, I yelled like a bedlamite; while
Toby, throwing himself into all the attitudes of a posture-master,
vainly endeavoured to expostulate with the natives by signs and
gestures. To have looked at my companion, as, sympathizing with my
sufferings, he strove to put an end to them, one would have thought
that he was the deaf and dumb alphabet incarnated. Whether my tormentor
yielded to Toby’s entreaties, or paused from sheer exhaustion, I do not
know; but all at once he ceased his operations, and at the same time the
chief relinquishing his hold upon me, I fell back, faint and breathless
with the agony I had endured.

My unfortunate limb was now left much in the same condition as a
rump-steak after undergoing the castigating process which precedes
cooking. My physician, having recovered from the fatigues of his
exertions, as if anxious to make amends for the pain to which he had
subjected me, now took some herbs out of a little wallet that was
suspended from his waist, and moistening them in water, applied them
to the inflamed part, stooping over it at the same time, and either
whispering a spell, or having a little confidential chat with some
imaginary demon located in the calf of my leg. My limb was now swathed
in leafy bandages, and grateful to Providence for the cessation of
hostilities, I was suffered to rest.

Mehevi shortly after rose to depart; but before he went he spoke
authoritatively to one of the natives whom he addressed as Kory-Kory;
and from the little I could understand of what took place, pointed
him out to me as a man whose peculiar business thenceforth would be to
attend upon my person. I am not certain that I comprehended as much as
this at the time, but the subsequent conduct of my trusty body-servant
fully assured me that such must have been the case.

I could not but be amused at the manner in which the chief addressed me
upon this occasion, talking to me for at least fifteen or twenty minutes
as calmly as if I could understand every word that he said. I remarked
this peculiarity very often afterwards in many other of the islanders.

Mehevi having now departed, and the family physician having likewise
made his exit, we were left about sunset with ten or twelve natives, who
by this time I had ascertained composed the household of which Toby and
I were members. As the dwelling to which we had been first introduced
was the place of my permanent abode while I remained in the valley,
and as I was necessarily placed upon the most intimate footing with its
occupants, I may as well here enter into a little description of it
and its inhabitants. This description will apply also to nearly all the
other dwelling-places in the vale, and will furnish some idea of the
generality of the natives.

Near one side of the valley, and about midway up the ascent of a rather
abrupt rise of ground waving with the richest verdure, a number of large
stones were laid in successive courses, to the height of nearly
eight feet, and disposed in such a manner that their level surface
corresponded in shape with the habitation which was perched upon it. A
narrow space, however, was reserved in front of the dwelling, upon the
summit of this pile of stones (called by the natives a ‘pi-pi’),
which being enclosed by a little picket of canes, gave it somewhat the
appearance of a verandah. The frame of the house was constructed of
large bamboos planted uprightly, and secured together at intervals by
transverse stalks of the light wood of the habiscus, lashed with thongs
of bark. The rear of the tenement--built up with successive ranges of
cocoanut boughs bound one upon another, with their leaflets cunningly
woven together--inclined a little from the vertical, and extended from
the extreme edge of the ‘pi-pi’ to about twenty feet from its surface;
whence the shelving roof--thatched with the long tapering leaves of the
palmetto--sloped steeply off to within about five feet of the floor;
leaving the eaves drooping with tassel-like appendages over the front
of the habitation. This was constructed of light and elegant canes in a
kind of open screenwork, tastefully adorned with bindings of variegated
sinnate, which served to hold together its various parts. The sides of
the house were similarly built; thus presenting three quarters for the
circulation of the air, while the whole was impervious to the rain.

In length this picturesque building was perhaps twelve yards, while
in breadth it could not have exceeded as many feet. So much for the
exterior; which, with its wire-like reed-twisted sides, not a little
reminded me of an immense aviary.

Stooping a little, you passed through a narrow aperture in its front;
and facing you, on entering, lay two long, perfectly straight, and
well-polished trunks of the cocoanut tree, extending the full length of
the dwelling; one of them placed closely against the rear, and the other
lying parallel with it some two yards distant, the interval between
them being spread with a multitude of gaily-worked mats, nearly all of a
different pattern. This space formed the common couch and lounging place
of the natives, answering the purpose of a divan in Oriental countries.
Here would they slumber through the hours of the night, and recline
luxuriously during the greater part of the day. The remainder of the
floor presented only the cool shining surfaces of the large stones of
which the ‘pi-pi’ was composed.

From the ridge-pole of the house hung suspended a number of large
packages enveloped in coarse tappa; some of which contained festival
dresses, and various other matters of the wardrobe, held in high
estimation. These were easily accessible by means of a line, which,
passing over the ridge-pole, had one end attached to a bundle, while
with the other, which led to the side of the dwelling and was there
secured, the package could be lowered or elevated at pleasure.

Against the farther wall of the house were arranged in tasteful figures
a variety of spears and javelins, and other implements of savage
warfare. Outside of the habitation, and built upon the piazza-like area
in its front, was a little shed used as a sort of larder or pantry, and
in which were stored various articles of domestic use and convenience.
A few yards from the pi-pi was a large shed built of cocoanut boughs,
where the process of preparing the ‘poee-poee’ was carried on, and all
culinary operations attended to.

Thus much for the house, and its appurtenances; and it will be readily
acknowledged that a more commodious and appropriate dwelling for the
climate and the people could not possibly be devised. It was cool, free
to admit the air, scrupulously clean, and elevated above the dampness
and impurities of the ground.

But now to sketch the inmates; and here I claim for my tried servitor
and faithful valet Kory-Kory the precedence of a first description. As
his character will be gradually unfolded in the course of my narrative,
I shall for the present content myself with delineating his personal
appearance. Kory-Kory, though the most devoted and best natured
serving-man in the world, was, alas! a hideous object to look upon. He
was some twenty-five years of age, and about six feet in height, robust
and well made, and of the most extraordinary aspect. His head was
carefully shaven with the exception of two circular spots, about the
size of a dollar, near the top of the cranium, where the hair, permitted
to grow of an amazing length, was twisted up in two prominent knots,
that gave him the appearance of being decorated with a pair of horns.
His beard, plucked out by the root from every other part of his face,
was suffered to droop in hairy pendants, two of which garnished his
under lip, and an equal number hung from the extremity of his chin.

Kory-Kory, with a view of improving the handiwork of nature, and
perhaps prompted by a desire to add to the engaging expression of
his countenance, had seen fit to embellish his face with three broad
longitudinal stripes of tattooing, which, like those country roads that
go straight forward in defiance of all obstacles, crossed his nasal
organ, descended into the hollow of his eyes, and even skirted the
borders of his mouth. Each completely spanned his physiognomy; one
extending in a line with his eyes, another crossing the face in the
vicinity of the nose, and the third sweeping along his lips from ear
to ear. His countenance thus triply hooped, as it were, with tattooing,
always reminded me of those unhappy wretches whom I have sometimes
observed gazing out sentimentally from behind the grated bars of a
prison window; whilst the entire body of my savage valet, covered all
over with representations of birds and fishes, and a variety of most
unaccountable-looking creatures, suggested to me the idea of a pictorial
museum of natural history, or an illustrated copy of ‘Goldsmith’s
Animated Nature.’

But it seems really heartless in me to write thus of the poor islander,
when I owe perhaps to his unremitting attentions the very existence I
now enjoy. Kory-Kory, I mean thee no harm in what I say in regard to
thy outward adornings; but they were a little curious to my unaccustomed
sight, and therefore I dilate upon them. But to underrate or forget thy
faithful services is something I could never be guilty of, even in the
giddiest moment of my life.

The father of my attached follower was a native of gigantic frame, and
had once possessed prodigious physical powers; but the lofty form was
now yielding to the inroads of time, though the hand of disease seemed
never to have been laid upon the aged warrior. Marheyo--for such was
his name--appeared to have retired from all active participation in the
affairs of the valley, seldom or never accompanying the natives in
their various expeditions; and employing the greater part of his time
in throwing up a little shed just outside the house, upon which he was
engaged to my certain knowledge for four months, without appearing
to make any sensible advance. I suppose the old gentleman was in his
dotage, for he manifested in various ways the characteristics which mark
this particular stage of life.

I remember in particular his having a choice pair of ear-ornaments,
fabricated from the teeth of some sea-monster. These he would
alternately wear and take off at least fifty times in the course of the
day, going and coming from his little hut on each occasion with all the
tranquillity imaginable. Sometimes slipping them through the slits
in his ears, he would seize his spear--which in length and slightness
resembled a fishing-pole--and go stalking beneath the shadows of the
neighbouring groves, as if about to give a hostile meeting to some
cannibal knight. But he would soon return again, and hiding his weapon
under the projecting eaves of the house, and rolling his clumsy trinkets
carefully in a piece of tappa, would resume his more pacific operations
as quietly as if he had never interrupted them.

But despite his eccentricities, Marheyo was a most paternal and
warm-hearted old fellow, and in this particular not a little resembled
his son Kory-Kory. The mother of the latter was the mistress of the
family, and a notable housewife, and a most industrious old lady she
was. If she did not understand the art of making jellies, jams, custard,
tea-cakes, and such like trashy affairs, she was profoundly skilled in
the mysteries of preparing ‘amar’, ‘poee-poee’, and ‘kokoo’, with other
substantial matters.

She was a genuine busy-body; bustling about the house like a country
landlady at an unexpected arrival; for ever giving the young girls tasks
to perform, which the little hussies as often neglected; poking into
every corner, and rummaging over bundles of old tappa, or making a
prodigious clatter among the calabashes. Sometimes she might have been
seen squatting upon her haunches in front of a huge wooden basin, and
kneading poee-poee with terrific vehemence, dashing the stone pestle
about as if she would shiver the vessel into fragments; on other
occasions, galloping about the valley in search of a particular kind
of leaf, used in some of her recondite operations, and returning home,
toiling and sweating, with a bundle of it, under which most women would
have sunk.

To tell the truth, Kory-Kory’s mother was the only industrious person
in all the valley of Typee; and she could not have employed herself more
actively had she been left an exceedingly muscular and destitute widow,
with an inordinate ate supply of young children, in the bleakest part
of the civilized world. There was not the slightest necessity for the
greater portion of the labour performed by the old lady: but she seemed
to work from some irresistible impulse; her limbs continually swaying to
and fro, as if there were some indefatigable engine concealed within her
body which kept her in perpetual motion.

Never suppose that she was a termagant or a shrew for all this; she had
the kindliest heart in the world, and acted towards me in particular
in a truly maternal manner, occasionally putting some little morsel of
choice food into my hand, some outlandish kind of savage sweetmeat or
pastry, like a doting mother petting a sickly urchin with tarts
and sugar plums. Warm indeed are my remembrances of the dear, good,
affectionate old Tinor!

Besides the individuals I have mentioned, there belonged to the
household three young men, dissipated, good-for-nothing, roystering
blades of savages, who were either employed in prosecuting love affairs
with the maidens of the tribe, or grew boozy on ‘arva’ and tobacco in
the company of congenial spirits, the scapegraces of the valley.

Among the permanent inmates of the house were likewise several lovely
damsels, who instead of thrumming pianos and reading novels, like
more enlightened young ladies, substituted for these employments the
manufacture of a fine species of tappa; but for the greater portion of
the time were skipping from house to house, gadding and gossiping with
their acquaintances.

From the rest of these, however, I must except the beauteous nymph
Fayaway, who was my peculiar favourite. Her free pliant figure was the
very perfection of female grace and beauty. Her complexion was a rich
and mantling olive, and when watching the glow upon her cheeks I could
almost swear that beneath the transparent medium there lurked the
blushes of a faint vermilion.

The face of this girl was a rounded oval, and each feature as perfectly
formed as the heart or imagination of man could desire.

Her full lips, when parted with a smile, disclosed teeth of dazzling
whiteness and when her rosy mouth opened with a burst of merriment, they
looked like the milk-white seeds of the ‘arta,’ a fruit of the valley,
which, when cleft in twain, shows them reposing in rows on each side,
imbedded in the red and juicy pulp. Her hair of the deepest brown,
parted irregularly in the middle, flowed in natural ringlets over her
shoulders, and whenever she chanced to stoop, fell over and hid from
view her lovely bosom. Gazing into the depths of her strange blue
eyes, when she was in a contemplative mood, they seemed most placid yet
unfathomable; but when illuminated by some lively emotion, they beamed
upon the beholder like stars. The hands of Fayaway were as soft and
delicate as those of any countess; for an entire exemption from rude
labour marks the girlhood and even prime of a Typee woman’s life. Her
feet, though wholly exposed, were as diminutive and fairly shaped as
those which peep from beneath the skirts of a Lima lady’s dress. The
skin of this young creature, from continual ablutions and the use of
mollifying ointments, was inconceivably smooth and soft.

I may succeed, perhaps, in particularizing some of the individual
features of Fayaway’s beauty, but that general loveliness of appearance
which they all contributed to produce I will not attempt to describe.
The easy unstudied graces of a child of nature like this, breathing from
infancy an atmosphere of perpetual summer, and nurtured by the simple
fruits of the earth; enjoying a perfect freedom from care and anxiety,
and removed effectually from all injurious tendencies, strike the eye in
a manner which cannot be pourtrayed. This picture is no fancy sketch; it
is drawn from the most vivid recollections of the person delineated.

Were I asked if the beauteous form of Fayaway was altogether free from
the hideous blemish of tattooing, I should be constrained to answer that
it was not. But the practitioners of the barbarous art, so remorseless
in their inflictions upon the brawny limbs of the warriors of the tribe,
seem to be conscious that it needs not the resources of their profession
to augment the charms of the maidens of the vale.

The females are very little embellished in this way, and Fayaway, and
all the other young girls of her age, were even less so than those of
their sex more advanced in years. The reason of this peculiarity will
be alluded to hereafter. All the tattooing that the nymph in question
exhibited upon her person may be easily described. Three minute dots, no
bigger than pin-heads, decorated each lip, and at a little distance were
not at all discernible. Just upon the fall of the shoulder were drawn
two parallel lines half an inch apart, and perhaps three inches in
length, the interval being filled with delicately executed figures.
These narrow bands of tattooing, thus placed, always reminded me of
those stripes of gold lace worn by officers in undress, and which are in
lieu of epaulettes to denote their rank.

Thus much was Fayaway tattooed. The audacious hand which had gone so far
in its desecrating work stopping short, apparently wanting the heart to
proceed.

But I have omitted to describe the dress worn by this nymph of the
valley.

Fayaway--I must avow the fact--for the most part clung to the primitive
and summer garb of Eden. But how becoming the costume!

It showed her fine figure to the best possible advantage; and nothing
could have been better adapted to her peculiar style of beauty. On
ordinary occasions she was habited precisely as I have described the two
youthful savages whom we had met on first entering the valley. At other
times, when rambling among the groves, or visiting at the houses of her
acquaintances, she wore a tunic of white tappa, reaching from her waist
to a little below the knees; and when exposed for any length of time to
the sun, she invariably protected herself from its rays by a floating
mantle of--the same material, loosely gathered about the person. Her
gala dress will be described hereafter.

As the beauties of our own land delight in bedecking themselves with
fanciful articles of jewellery, suspending them from their ears, hanging
them about their necks, and clasping them around their wrists; so
Fayaway and her companions were in the habit of ornamenting themselves
with similar appendages.

Flora was their jeweller. Sometimes they wore necklaces of small
carnation flowers, strung like rubies upon a fibre of tappa, or
displayed in their ears a single white bud, the stem thrust backward
through the aperture, and showing in front the delicate petals folded
together in a beautiful sphere, and looking like a drop of the purest
pearl. Chaplets too, resembling in their arrangement the strawberry
coronal worn by an English peeress, and composed of intertwined leaves
and blossoms, often crowned their temples; and bracelets and anklets
of the same tasteful pattern were frequently to be seen. Indeed, the
maidens of the island were passionately fond of flowers, and never
wearied of decorating their persons with them; a lovely trait in their
character, and one that ere long will be more fully alluded to.

Though in my eyes, at least, Fayaway was indisputably the loveliest
female I saw in Typee, yet the description I have given of her will in
some measure apply to nearly all the youthful portion of her sex in the
valley. Judge ye then, reader, what beautiful creatures they must have
been.



CHAPTER TWELVE

OFFICIOUSNESS OF KORY-KORY--HIS DEVOTION--A BATH IN THE STREAM--WANT
OF REFINEMENT OF THE TYPEE DAMSELS--STROLL WITH MEHEVI--A TYPEE
HIGHWAY--THE TABOO GROVES--THE HOOLAH HOOLAH GROUND--THE TI--TIMEWORN
SAVAGES--HOSPITALITY OF MEHEVI--MIDNIGHT MUSINGS--ADVENTURES IN THE
DARK--DISTINGUISHED HONOURS PAID TO THE VISITORS--STRANGE PROCESSION AND
RETURN TO THE HOUSE OF MARHEYO

WHEN Mehevi had departed from the house, as related in the preceding
chapter, Kory-Kory commenced the functions of the post assigned him.
He brought out, various kinds of food; and, as if I were an infant,
insisted upon feeding me with his own hands. To this procedure I, of
course, most earnestly objected, but in vain; and having laid a calabash
of kokoo before me, he washed his fingers in a vessel of water, and then
putting his hands into the dish and rolling the food into little balls,
put them one after another into my mouth. All my remonstrances against
this measure only provoked so great a clamour on his part, that I
was obliged to acquiesce; and the operation of feeding being thus
facilitated, the meal was quickly despatched. As for Toby, he was
allowed to help himself after his own fashion.

The repast over, my attendant arranged the mats for repose, and, bidding
me lie down, covered me with a large robe of tappa, at the same time
looking approvingly upon me, and exclaiming ‘Ki-Ki, nuee nuee, ah! moee
moee motarkee’ (eat plenty, ah! sleep very good). The philosophy of
this sentiment I did not pretend to question; for deprived of sleep for
several preceding nights, and the pain of my limb having much abated, I
now felt inclined to avail myself of the opportunity afforded me.

The next morning, on waking, I found Kory-Kory stretched out on one side
of me, while my companion lay upon the other. I felt sensibly refreshed
after a night of sound repose, and immediately agreed to the proposition
of my valet that I should repair to the water and wash, although
dreading the suffering that the exertion might produce. From this
apprehension, however, I was quickly relieved; for Kory-Kory, leaping
from the pi-pi, and then backing himself up against it, like a porter
in readiness to shoulder a trunk, with loud vociferations and a
superabundance of gestures, gave me to understand that I was to mount
upon his back and be thus transported to the stream, which flowed
perhaps two hundred yards from the house.

Our appearance upon the verandah in front of the habitation drew
together quite a crowd, who stood looking on and conversing with one
another in the most animated manner. They reminded one of a group of
idlers gathered about the door of a village tavern when the equipage
of some distinguished traveller is brought round previously to his
departure. As soon as I clasped my arms about the neck of the devoted
fellow, and he jogged off with me, the crowd--composed chiefly of young
girls and boys--followed after, shouting and capering with infinite
glee, and accompanied us to the banks of the stream.

On gaining it, Kory-Kory, wading up to his hips in the water, carried me
half way across, and deposited me on a smooth black stone which rose a
few inches above the surface. The amphibious rabble at our heels plunged
in after us, and climbing to the summit of the grass-grown rocks with
which the bed of the brook was here and there broken, waited curiously
to witness our morning ablutions.

Somewhat embarrassed by the presence of the female portion of the
company, and feeling my cheeks burning with bashful timidity, I formed
a primitive basin by joining my hands together, and cooled my blushes
in the water it contained; then removing my frock, bent over and washed
myself down to my waist in the stream. As soon as Kory-Kory comprehended
from my motions that this was to be the extent of my performance, he
appeared perfectly aghast with astonishment, and rushing towards me,
poured out a torrent of words in eager deprecation of so limited an
operation, enjoining me by unmistakable signs to immerse my whole body.
To this I was forced to consent; and the honest fellow regarding me as a
froward, inexperienced child, whom it was his duty to serve at the risk
of offending, lifted me from the rocks, and tenderly bathed my limbs.
This over, and resuming my seat, I could not avoid bursting into
admiration of the scene around me.

From the verdant surfaces of the large stones that lay scattered about,
the natives were now sliding off into the water, diving and ducking
beneath the surface in all directions--the young girls springing
buoyantly into the air, and revealing their naked forms to the waist,
with their long tresses dancing about their shoulders, their eyes
sparkling like drops of dew in the sun, and their gay laughter pealing
forth at every frolicsome incident. On the afternoon of the day that I
took my first bath in the valley, we received another visit from Mehevi.
The noble savage seemed to be in the same pleasant mood, and was quite
as cordial in his manner as before. After remaining about an hour, he
rose from the mats, and motioning to leave the house, invited Toby and
myself to accompany him. I pointed to my leg; but Mehevi in his turn
pointed to Kory-Kory, and removed that objection; so, mounting upon the
faithful fellow’s shoulders again--like the old man of the sea astride
of Sindbad--I followed after the chief.

The nature of the route we now pursued struck me more forcibly than
anything I had yet seen, as illustrating the indolent disposition of
the islanders. The path was obviously the most beaten one in the
valley, several others leading from each side into it, and perhaps for
successive generations it had formed the principal avenue of the place.
And yet, until I grew more familiar with its impediments, it seemed as
difficult to travel as the recesses of a wilderness. Part of it swept
around an abrupt rise of ground, the surface of which was broken by
frequent inequalities, and thickly strewn with projecting masses of
rocks, whose summits were often hidden from view by the drooping foliage
of the luxurious vegetation. Sometimes directly over, sometimes evading
these obstacles with a wide circuit, the path wound along;--one moment
climbing over a sudden eminence smooth with continued wear, then
descending on the other side into a steep glen, and crossing the flinty
channel of a brook. Here it pursued the depths of a glade, occasionally
obliging you to stoop beneath vast horizontal branches; and now you
stepped over huge trunks and boughs that lay rotting across the track.

Such was the grand thoroughfare of Typee. After proceeding a little
distance along it--Kory-Kory panting and blowing with the weight of
his burden--I dismounted from his back, and grasping the long spear of
Mehevi in my hand, assisted my steps over the numerous obstacles of
the road; preferring this mode of advance to one which, from the
difficulties of the way, was equally painful to myself and my wearied
servitor.

Our journey was soon at an end; for, scaling a sudden height, we came
abruptly upon the place of our destination. I wish that it were possible
to sketch in words this spot as vividly as I recollect it.

Here were situated the Taboo groves of the valley--the scene of many a
prolonged feast, of many a horrid rite. Beneath the dark shadows of
the consecrated bread-fruit trees there reigned a solemn twilight--a
cathedral-like gloom. The frightful genius of pagan worship seemed to
brood in silence over the place, breathing its spell upon every object
around. Here and there, in the depths of these awful shades, half
screened from sight by masses of overhanging foliage, rose the
idolatrous altars of the savages, built of enormous blocks of black and
polished stone, placed one upon another, without cement, to the height
of twelve or fifteen feet, and surmounted by a rustic open temple,
enclosed with a low picket of canes, within which might be seen, in
various stages of decay, offerings of bread-fruit and cocoanuts, and the
putrefying relics of some recent sacrifice.

In the midst of the wood was the hallowed ‘Hoolah Hoolah’ ground--set
apart for the celebration of the fantastical religious ritual of these
people--comprising an extensive oblong pi-pi, terminating at either end
in a lofty terraced altar, guarded by ranks of hideous wooden idols, and
with the two remaining sides flanked by ranges of bamboo sheds, opening
towards the interior of the quadrangle thus formed. Vast trees, standing
in the middle of this space, and throwing over it an umbrageous shade,
had their massive trunks built round with slight stages, elevated a few
feet above the ground, and railed in with canes, forming so many rustic
pulpits, from which the priests harangued their devotees.

This holiest of spots was defended from profanation by the strictest
edicts of the all-pervading ‘taboo’, which condemned to instant death
the sacrilegious female who should enter or touch its sacred precincts,
or even so much as press with her feet the ground made holy by the
shadows that it cast.

Access was had to the enclosure through an embowered entrance, on one
side, facing a number of towering cocoanut trees, planted at intervals
along a level area of a hundred yards. At the further extremity of this
space was to be seen a building of considerable size, reserved for the
habitation of the priests and religious attendants of the groves.

In its vicinity was another remarkable edifice, built as usual upon the
summit of a pi-pi, and at least two hundred feet in length, though not
more than twenty in breadth. The whole front of this latter structure
was completely open, and from one end to the other ran a narrow
verandah, fenced in on the edge of the pi-pi with a picket of canes.
Its interior presented the appearance of an immense lounging place, the
entire floor being strewn with successive layers of mats, lying between
parallel trunks of cocoanut trees, selected for the purpose from the
straightest and most symmetrical the vale afforded.

To this building, denominated in the language of the natives the ‘Ti’,
Mehevi now conducted us. Thus far we had been accompanied by a troop of
the natives of both sexes; but as soon as we approached its vicinity,
the females gradually separated themselves from the crowd, and standing
aloof, permitted us to pass on. The merciless prohibitions of the
taboo extended likewise to this edifice, and were enforced by the
same dreadful penalty that secured the Hoolah-Hoolah ground from the
imaginary pollution of a woman’s presence.

On entering the house, I was surprised to see six muskets ranged against
the bamboo on one side, from the barrels of which depended as many small
canvas pouches, partly filled with powder.

Disposed about these muskets, like the cutlasses that decorate the
bulkhead of a man-of-war’s cabin, were a great variety of rude spears
and paddles, javelins, and war-clubs. This then, said I to Toby, must be
the armoury of the tribe.

As we advanced further along the building, we were struck with the
aspect of four or five hideous old wretches, on whose decrepit forms
time and tattooing seemed to have obliterated every trace of humanity.
Owing to the continued operation of this latter process, which only
terminates among the warriors of the island after all the figures
stretched upon their limbs in youth have been blended together--an
effect, however, produced only in cases of extreme longevity--the bodies
of these men were of a uniform dull green colour--the hue which the
tattooing gradually assumes as the individual advances in age. Their
skin had a frightful scaly appearance, which, united with its singular
colour, made their limbs not a little resemble dusty specimens of
verde-antique. Their flesh, in parts, hung upon them in huge folds, like
the overlapping plaits on the flank of a rhinoceros. Their heads were
completely bald, whilst their faces were puckered into a thousand
wrinkles, and they presented no vestige of a beard. But the most
remarkable peculiarity about them was the appearance of their feet;
the toes, like the radiating lines of the mariner’s compass, pointed
to every quarter of the horizon. This was doubtless attributable to
the fact, that during nearly a hundred years of existence the said toes
never had been subjected to any artificial confinement, and in their
old age, being averse to close neighbourhood, bid one another keep open
order.

These repulsive-looking creatures appeared to have lost the use of their
lower limbs altogether; sitting upon the floor cross-legged in a state
of torpor. They never heeded us in the least, scarcely looking conscious
of our presence, while Mehevi seated us upon the mats, and Kory-Kory
gave utterance to some unintelligible gibberish.

In a few moments a boy entered with a wooden trencher of poee-poee; and
in regaling myself with its contents I was obliged again to submit to
the officious intervention of my indefatigable servitor. Various other
dishes followed, the chief manifesting the most hospitable importunity
in pressing us to partake, and to remove all bashfulness on our part,
set us no despicable example in his own person.

The repast concluded, a pipe was lighted, which passed from mouth to
mouth, and yielding to its soporific influence, the quiet of the place,
and the deepening shadows of approaching night, my companion and I sank
into a kind of drowsy repose, while the chief and Kory-Kory seemed to be
slumbering beside us.

I awoke from an uneasy nap, about midnight, as I supposed; and, raising
myself partly from the mat, became sensible that we were enveloped
in utter darkness. Toby lay still asleep, but our late companions had
disappeared. The only sound that interrupted the silence of the place
was the asthmatic breathing of the old men I have mentioned, who reposed
at a little distance from us. Besides them, as well as I could judge,
there was no one else in the house.

Apprehensive of some evil, I roused my comrade, and we were engaged in a
whispered conference concerning the unexpected withdrawal of the natives
when all at once, from the depths of the grove, in full view of us
where we lay, shoots of flame were seen to rise, and in a few moments
illuminated the surrounding trees, casting, by contrast, into still
deeper gloom the darkness around us.

While we continued gazing at this sight, dark figures appeared moving
to and fro before the flames; while others, dancing and capering about,
looked like so many demons.

Regarding this new phenomenon with no small degree of trepidation, I
said to my companion, ‘What can all this mean, Toby?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ replied he; ‘getting the fire ready, I suppose.’

‘Fire!’ exclaimed I, while my heart took to beating like a trip-hammer,
‘what fire?’

‘Why, the fire to cook us, to be sure, what else would the cannibals be
kicking up such a row about if it were not for that?’

‘Oh, Toby! have done with your jokes; this is no time for them;
something is about to happen, I feel confident.’

‘Jokes, indeed?’ exclaimed Toby indignantly. ‘Did you ever hear me joke?
Why, for what do you suppose the devils have been feeding us up in this
kind of style during the last three days, unless it were for something
that you are too much frightened at to talk about? Look at that
Kory-Kory there!--has he not been stuffing you with his confounded
mushes, just in the way they treat swine before they kill them? Depend
upon it, we will be eaten this blessed night, and there is the fire we
shall be roasted by.’

This view of the matter was not at all calculated to allay my
apprehensions, and I shuddered when I reflected that we were indeed at
the mercy of a tribe of cannibals, and that the dreadful contingency
to which Toby had alluded was by no means removed beyond the bounds of
possibility.

‘There! I told you so! they are coming for us!’ exclaimed my companion
the next moment, as the forms of four of the islanders were seen in
bold relief against the illuminated back-ground mounting the pi-pi and
approaching towards us.

They came on noiselessly, nay stealthily, and glided along through the
gloom that surrounded us as if about to spring upon some object they
were fearful of disturbing before they should make sure of it.--Gracious
heaven! the horrible reflections which crowded upon me that moment.--A
cold sweat stood upon my brow, and spell-bound with terror I awaited my
fate!

Suddenly the silence was broken by the well-remembered tones of Mehevi,
and at the kindly accents of his voice my fears were immediately
dissipated. ‘Tommo, Toby, ki ki!’ (eat). He had waited to address us,
until he had assured himself that we were both awake, at which he seemed
somewhat surprised.

‘Ki ki! is it?’ said Toby in his gruff tones; ‘Well, cook us first, will
you--but what’s this?’ he added, as another savage appeared, bearing
before him a large trencher of wood containing some kind of steaming
meat, as appeared from the odours it diffused, and which he deposited at
the feet of Mehevi. ‘A baked baby, I dare say I but I will have none
of it, never mind what it is.--A pretty fool I should make of myself,
indeed, waked up here in the middle of the night, stuffing and guzzling,
and all to make a fat meal for a parcel of booby-minded cannibals one
of these mornings!--No, I see what they are at very plainly, so I am
resolved to starve myself into a bunch of bones and gristle, and then,
if they serve me up, they are welcome! But I say, Tommo, you are not
going to eat any of that mess there, in the dark, are you? Why, how can
you tell what it is?’

‘By tasting it, to be sure,’ said I, masticating a morsel that Kory-Kory
had just put in my mouth, ‘and excellently good it is, too, very much
like veal.’

‘A baked baby, by the soul of Captain Cook!’ burst forth Toby, with
amazing vehemence; ‘Veal? why there never was a calf on the island
till you landed. I tell you you are bolting down mouthfuls from a dead
Happar’s carcass, as sure as you live, and no mistake!’

Emetics and lukewarm water! What a sensation in the abdominal region!
Sure enough, where could the fiends incarnate have obtained meat? But I
resolved to satisfy myself at all hazards; and turning to Mehevi, I soon
made the ready chief understand that I wished a light to be brought.
When the taper came, I gazed eagerly into the vessel, and recognized the
mutilated remains of a juvenile porker! ‘Puarkee!’ exclaimed Kory-Kory,
looking complacently at the dish; and from that day to this I have never
forgotten that such is the designation of a pig in the Typee lingo.

The next morning, after being again abundantly feasted by the hospitable
Mehevi, Toby and myself arose to depart. But the chief requested us to
postpone our intention. ‘Abo, abo’ (Wait, wait), he said and accordingly
we resumed our seats, while, assisted by the zealous Kory-Kory, he
appeared to be engaged in giving directions to a number of the natives
outside, who were busily employed in making arrangements, the nature
of which we could not comprehend. But we were not left long in our
ignorance, for a few moments only had elapsed, when the chief beckoned
us to approach, and we perceived that he had been marshalling a kind of
guard of honour to escort us on our return to the house of Marheyo.

The procession was led off by two venerable-looking savages, each
provided with a spear, from the end of which streamed a pennon of
milk-white tappa. After them went several youths, bearing aloft
calabashes of poee-poee, and followed in their turn by four stalwart
fellows, sustaining long bamboos, from the tops of which hung
suspended, at least twenty feet from the ground, large baskets of
green bread-fruits. Then came a troop of boys, carrying bunches of ripe
bananas, and baskets made of the woven leaflets of cocoanut boughs,
filled with the young fruit of the tree, the naked shells stripped of
their husks peeping forth from the verdant wicker-work that surrounded
them. Last of all came a burly islander, holding over his head a wooden
trencher, in which lay disposed the remnants of our midnight feast,
hidden from view, however, by a covering of bread-fruit leaves.

Astonished as I was at this exhibition, I could not avoid smiling at
its grotesque appearance, and the associations it naturally called
up. Mehevi, it seemed, was bent on replenishing old Marheyo’s larder,
fearful perhaps that without this precaution his guests might not fare
as well as they could desire.

As soon as I descended from the pi-pi, the procession formed anew,
enclosing us in its centre; where I remained part of the time, carried
by Kory-Kory, and occasionally relieving him from his burden by limping
along with spear. When we moved off in this order, the natives struck
up a musical recitative, which with various alternations, they continued
until we arrived at the place of our destination.

As we proceeded on our way, bands of young girls, darting from the
surrounding groves, hung upon our skirts, and accompanied us with shouts
of merriment and delight, which almost drowned the deep notes of the
recitative. On approaching old Marheyo’s domicile, its inmates rushed
out to receive us; and while the gifts of Mehevi were being disposed of,
the superannuated warrior did the honours of his mansion with all the
warmth of hospitality evinced by an English squire when he regales his
friends at some fine old patrimonial mansion.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ATTEMPT TO PROCURE RELIEF FROM NUKUHEVA--PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF TOBY IN
THE HAPPAR MOUNTAINS--ELOQUENCE OF KORY-KORY

AMIDST these novel scenes a week passed away almost imperceptibly. The
natives, actuated by some mysterious impulse, day after day redoubled
their attentions to us. Their manner towards us was unaccountable.
Surely, thought I, they would not act thus if they meant us any harm.
But why this excess of deferential kindness, or what equivalent can they
imagine us capable of rendering them for it?

We were fairly puzzled. But despite the apprehensions I could not
dispel, the horrible character imputed to these Typees appeared to be
wholly undeserved.

‘Why, they are cannibals!’ said Toby on one occasion when I eulogized
the tribe. ‘Granted,’ I replied, ‘but a more humane, gentlemanly and
amiable set of epicures do not probably exist in the Pacific.’

But, notwithstanding the kind treatment we received, I was too familiar
with the fickle disposition of savages not to feel anxious to withdraw
from the valley, and put myself beyond the reach of that fearful death
which, under all these smiling appearances, might yet menace us. But
here there was an obstacle in the way of doing so. It was idle for me
to think of moving from the place until I should have recovered from the
severe lameness that afflicted me; indeed my malady began seriously to
alarm me; for, despite the herbal remedies of the natives, it continued
to grow worse and worse. Their mild applications, though they soothed
the pain, did not remove the disorder, and I felt convinced that without
better aid I might anticipate long and acute suffering.

But how was this aid to be procured? From the surgeons of the French
fleet, which probably still lay in the bay of Nukuheva, it might easily
have been obtained, could I have made my case known to them. But how
could that be effected?

At last, in the exigency to which I was reduced, I proposed to Toby that
he should endeavour to go round to Nukuheva, and if he could not
succeed in returning to the valley by water, in one of the boats of the
squadron, and taking me off, he might at least procure me some proper
medicines, and effect his return overland.

My companion listened to me in silence, and at first did not appear to
relish the idea. The truth was, he felt impatient to escape from the
place, and wished to avail himself of our present high favour with
the natives to make good our retreat, before we should experience some
sudden alteration in their behaviour. As he could not think of leaving
me in my helpless condition, he implored me to be of good cheer; assured
me that I should soon be better, and enabled in a few days to return
with him to Nukuheva.

Added to this, he could not bear the idea of again returning to this
dangerous place; and as for the expectation of persuading the Frenchmen
to detach a boat’s crew for the purpose of rescuing me from the Typees,
he looked upon it as idle; and with arguments that I could not answer,
urged the improbability of their provoking the hostilities of the clan
by any such measure; especially, as for the purpose of quieting its
apprehensions, they had as yet refrained from making any visit to the
bay. ‘And even should they consent,’ said Toby, ‘they would only produce
a commotion in the valley, in which we might both be sacrificed by these
ferocious islanders.’ This was unanswerable; but still I clung to the
belief that he might succeed in accomplishing the other part of my plan;
and at last I overcame his scruples, and he agreed to make the attempt.

As soon as we succeeded in making the natives understand our intention,
they broke out into the most vehement opposition to the measure, and
for a while I almost despaired of obtaining their consent. At the bare
thought of one of us leaving them, they manifested the most lively
concern. The grief and consternation of Kory-Kory, in particular, was
unbounded; he threw himself into a perfect paroxysm of gestures which
were intended to convey to us not only his abhorrence of Nukuheva
and its uncivilized inhabitants, but also his astonishment that after
becoming acquainted with the enlightened Typees, we should evince the
least desire to withdraw, even for a time, from their agreeable society.

However, I overbore his objections by appealing to my lameness; from
which I assured the natives I should speedily recover if Toby were
permitted to obtain the supplies I needed.

It was agreed that on the following morning my companion should depart,
accompanied by some one or two of the household, who should point out to
him an easy route, by which the bay might be reached before sunset.

At early dawn of the next day, our habitation was astir. One of the
young men mounted into an adjoining cocoanut tree, and threw down a
number of the young fruit, which old Marheyo quickly stripped of the
green husks, and strung together upon a short pole. These were intended
to refresh Toby on his route.

The preparations being completed, with no little emotion I bade my
companion adieu. He promised to return in three days at farthest; and,
bidding me keep up my spirits in the interval, turned round the corner
of the pi-pi, and, under the guidance of the venerable Marheyo, was
soon out of sight. His departure oppressed me with melancholy, and,
re-entering the dwelling, I threw myself almost in despair upon the
matting of the floor.

In two hours’ time the old warrior returned, and gave me to understand
that after accompanying my companion a little distance, and showing him
the route, he had left him journeying on his way.

It was about noon of this same day, a season which these people are wont
to pass in sleep, that I lay in the house, surrounded by its slumbering
inmates, and painfully affected by the strange silence which prevailed.
All at once I thought I heard a faint shout, as if proceeding from
some persons in the depth of the grove which extended in front of our
habitation.

The sounds grew louder and nearer, and gradually the whole valley rang
with wild outcries. The sleepers around me started to their feet in
alarm, and hurried outside to discover the cause of the commotion.
Kory-Kory, who had been the first to spring up, soon returned almost
breathless, and nearly frantic with the excitement under which he seemed
to be labouring. All that I could understand from him was that some
accident had happened to Toby. Apprehensive of some dreadful calamity,
I rushed out of the house, and caught sight of a tumultuous crowd, who,
with shrieks and lamentations, were just emerging from the grove
bearing in their arms some object, the sight of which produced all this
transport of sorrow. As they drew near, the men redoubled their
cries, while the girls, tossing their bare arms in the air, exclaimed
plaintively, ‘Awha! awha! Toby mukee moee!’--Alas! alas! Toby is killed!

In a moment the crowd opened, and disclosed the apparently lifeless body
of my companion home between two men, the head hanging heavily against
the breast of the foremost. The whole face, neck, back, and bosom were
covered with blood, which still trickled slowly from a wound behind the
temple. In the midst of the greatest uproar and confusion the body was
carried into the house and laid on a mat. Waving the natives off to give
room and air, I bent eagerly over Toby, and, laying my hand upon the
breast, ascertained that the heart still beat. Overjoyed at this, I
seized a calabash of water, and dashed its contents upon his face, then
wiping away the blood, anxiously examined the wound. It was about three
inches long, and on removing the clotted hair from about it, showed the
skull laid completely bare. Immediately with my knife I cut away the
heavy locks, and bathed the part repeatedly in water.

In a few moments Toby revived, and opening his eyes for a second--closed
them again without speaking. Kory-Kory, who had been kneeling beside me,
now chafed his limbs gently with the palms of his hands, while a young
girl at his head kept fanning him, and I still continued to moisten his
lips and brow. Soon my poor comrade showed signs of animation, and I
succeeded in making him swallow from a cocoanut shell a few mouthfuls of
water.

Old Tinor now appeared, holding in her hand some simples she had
gathered, the juice of which she by signs besought me to squeeze into
the wound. Having done so, I thought it best to leave Toby undisturbed
until he should have had time to rally his faculties. Several times he
opened his lips, but fearful for his safety I enjoined silence. In the
course of two or three hours, however, he sat up, and was sufficiently
recovered to tell me what had occurred.

‘After leaving the house with Marheyo,’ said Toby, ‘we struck across the
valley, and ascended the opposite heights. Just beyond them, my guide
informed me, lay the valley of Happar, while along their summits, and
skirting the head of the vale, was my route to Nukuheva. After mounting
a little way up the elevation my guide paused, and gave me to understand
that he could not accompany me any farther, and by various signs
intimated that he was afraid to approach any nearer the territories of
the enemies of his tribe. He however pointed out my path, which now
lay clearly before me, and bidding me farewell, hastily descended the
mountain.

‘Quite elated at being so near the Happars, I pushed up the acclivity,
and soon gained its summit. It tapered to a sharp ridge, from whence
I beheld both the hostile valleys. Here I sat down and rested for a
moment, refreshing myself with my cocoanuts. I was soon again pursuing
my way along the height, when suddenly I saw three of the islanders, who
must have just come out of Happar valley, standing in the path ahead of
me. They were each armed with a heavy spear, and one from his appearance
I took to be a chief. They sung out something, I could not understand
what, and beckoned me to come on.

‘Without the least hesitation I advanced towards them, and had
approached within about a yard of the foremost, when, pointing angrily
into the Typee valley, and uttering some savage exclamation, he wheeled
round his weapon like lightning, and struck me in a moment to the
ground. The blow inflicted this wound, and took away my senses. As soon
as I came to myself, I perceived the three islanders standing a little
distance off, and apparently engaged in some violent altercation
respecting me.

‘My first impulse was to run for it; but, in endeavouring to rise, I
fell back, and rolled down a little grassy precipice. The shock seemed
to rally my faculties; so, starting to my feet, I fled down the path I
had just ascended. I had no need to look behind me, for, from the yells
I heard, I knew that my enemies were in full pursuit. Urged on by their
fearful outcries, and heedless of the injury I had received--though
the blood flowing from the wound trickled over into my eyes and almost
blinded me--I rushed down the mountain side with the speed of the wind.
In a short time I had descended nearly a third of the distance, and the
savages had ceased their cries, when suddenly a terrific howl burst upon
my ear, and at the same moment a heavy javelin darted past me as I fled,
and stuck quivering in a tree close to me. Another yell followed, and
a second spear and a third shot through the air within a few feet of my
body, both of them piercing the ground obliquely in advance of me. The
fellows gave a roar of rage and disappointment; but they were afraid, I
suppose, of coming down further into the Typee valley, and so abandoned
the chase. I saw them recover their weapons and turn back; and I
continued my descent as fast as I could.

‘What could have caused this ferocious attack on the part of these
Happars I could not imagine, unless it were that they had seen me
ascending the mountain with Marheyo, and that the mere fact of coming
from the Typee valley was sufficient to provoke them.

‘As long as I was in danger I scarcely felt the wound I had received;
but when the chase was over I began to suffer from it. I had lost my
hat in the flight, and the run scorched my bare head. I felt faint
and giddy; but, fearful of falling to the ground beyond the reach of
assistance, I staggered on as well as I could, and at last gained the
level of the valley, and then down I sank; and I knew nothing more until
I found myself lying upon these mats, and you stooping over me with the
calabash of water.’

Such was Toby’s account of this sad affair. I afterwards learned that,
fortunately, he had fallen close to a spot where the natives go for
fuel. A party of them caught sight of him as he fell, and sounding
the alarm, had lifted him up; and after ineffectually endeavouring to
restore him at the brook, had hurried forward with him to the house.

This incident threw a dark cloud over our prospects. It reminded us that
we were hemmed in by hostile tribes, whose territories we could not hope
to pass, on our route to Nukuheva, without encountering the effects of
their savage resentment. There appeared to be no avenue opened to our
escape but the sea, which washed the lower extremities of the vale.

Our Typee friends availed themselves of the recent disaster of Toby to
exhort us to a due appreciation of the blessings we enjoyed among them,
contrasting their own generous reception of us with the animosity of
their neighbours. They likewise dwelt upon the cannibal propensities of
the Happars, a subject which they were perfectly aware could not fail
to alarm us; while at the same time they earnestly disclaimed all
participation in so horrid a custom. Nor did they omit to call upon
us to admire the natural loveliness of their own abode, and the lavish
abundance with which it produced all manner of luxuriant fruits;
exalting it in this particular above any of the surrounding valleys.

Kory-Kory seemed to experience so heartfelt a desire to infuse into our
minds proper views on these subjects, that, assisted in his endeavours
by the little knowledge of the language we had acquired, he actually
made us comprehend a considerable part of what he said. To facilitate
our correct apprehension of his meaning, he at first condensed his ideas
into the smallest possible compass.

‘Happar keekeeno nuee,’ he exclaimed, ‘nuee, nuee, ki ki
kannaka!--ah! owle motarkee!’ which signifies, ‘Terrible fellows those
Happars!--devour an amazing quantity of men!--ah, shocking bad!’
Thus far he explained himself by a variety of gestures, during
the performance of which he would dart out of the house, and point
abhorrently towards the Happar valley; running in to us again with
a rapidity that showed he was fearful he would lose one part of
his meaning before he could complete the other; and continuing his
illustrations by seizing the fleshy part of my arm in his teeth,
intimating by the operation that the people who lived over in that
direction would like nothing better than to treat me in that manner.

Having assured himself that we were fully enlightened on this point, he
proceeded to another branch of his subject. ‘Ah! Typee mortakee!--nuee,
nuee mioree--nuee, nuee wai--nuee, nuee poee-poee--nuee, nuee kokoo--ah!
nuee, nuee kiki--ah! nuee, nuee, nuee!’ Which literally interpreted
as before, would imply, ‘Ah, Typee! isn’t it a fine place though!--no
danger of starving here, I tell you!--plenty of bread-fruit--plenty of
water--plenty of pudding--ah! plenty of everything! ah! heaps, heaps
heaps!’ All this was accompanied by a running commentary of signs and
gestures which it was impossible not to comprehend.

As he continued his harangue, however, Kory-Kory, in emulation of our
more polished orators, began to launch out rather diffusely into other
branches of his subject, enlarging probably upon the moral reflections
it suggested; and proceeded in such a strain of unintelligible and
stunning gibberish, that he actually gave me the headache for the rest
of the day.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A GREAT EVENT HAPPENS IN THE VALLEY--THE ISLAND TELEGRAPH--SOMETHING
BEFALLS TOBY--FAYAWAY DISPLAYS A TENDER HEART--MELANCHOLY
REFLECTIONS--MYSTERIOUS CONDUCT OF THE ISLANDERS--DEVOTION OF
KORY-KORY--A RURAL COUCH--A LUXURY--KORY-KORY STRIKES A LIGHT A LA TYPEE

IN the course of a few days Toby had recovered from the effects of
his adventure with the Happar warriors; the wound on his head rapidly
healing under the vegetable treatment of the good Tinor. Less fortunate
than my companion however, I still continued to languish under a
complaint, the origin and nature of which were still a mystery. Cut off
as I was from all intercourse with the civilized world, and feeling the
inefficacy of anything the natives could do to relieve me; knowing,
too, that so long as I remained in my present condition, it would
be impossible for me to leave the valley, whatever opportunity might
present itself; and apprehensive that ere long we might be exposed to
some caprice on the part of the islanders, I now gave up all hopes
of recovery, and became a prey to the most gloomy thoughts. A deep
dejection fell upon me, which neither the friendly remonstrances of
my companion, the devoted attentions of Kory-Kory nor all the soothing
influences of Fayaway could remove.

One morning as I lay on the mats in the house, plunged in melancholy
reverie, and regardless of everything around me, Toby, who had left me
about an hour, returned in haste, and with great glee told me to cheer
up and be of good heart; for he believed, from what was going on among
the natives, that there were boats approaching the bay.

These tidings operated upon me like magic. The hour of our deliverance
was at hand, and starting up, I was soon convinced that something
unusual was about to occur. The word ‘botee! botee!’ was vociferated in
all directions; and shouts were heard in the distance, at first
feebly and faintly; but growing louder and nearer at each successive
repetition, until they were caught up by a fellow in a cocoanut tree a
few yards off, who sounding them in turn, they were reiterated from a
neighbouring grove, and so died away gradually from point to point, as
the intelligence penetrated into the farthest recess of the valley. This
was the vocal telegraph of the islanders; by means of which condensed
items of information could be carried in a very few minutes from the
sea to their remotest habitation, a distance of at least eight or nine
miles. On the present occasion it was in active operation; one piece of
information following another with inconceivable rapidity.

The greatest commotion now appeared to prevail. At every fresh item of
intelligence the natives betrayed the liveliest interest, and redoubled
the energy with which they employed themselves in collecting fruit to
sell to the expected visitors. Some were tearing off the husks from
cocoanuts; some perched in the trees were throwing down bread-fruit
to their companions, who gathered them into heaps as they fell; while
others were plying their fingers rapidly in weaving leafen baskets in
which to carry the fruit.

There were other matters too going on at the same time. Here you would
see a stout warrior polishing his spear with a bit of old tappa, or
adjusting the folds of the girdle about his waist; and there you might
descry a young damsel decorating herself with flowers, as if having
in her eye some maidenly conquest; while, as in all cases of hurry
and confusion in every part of the world, a number of individuals kept
hurrying to and fro, with amazing vigour and perseverance, doing nothing
themselves, and hindering others.

Never before had we seen the islanders in such a state of bustle and
excitement; and the scene furnished abundant evidence of the fact--that
it was only at long intervals any such events occur.

When I thought of the length of time that might intervene before a
similar chance of escape would be presented, I bitterly lamented that
I had not the power of availing myself effectually of the present
opportunity.

From all that we could gather, it appeared that the natives were fearful
of arriving too late upon the beach, unless they made extraordinary
exertions. Sick and lame as I was, I would have started with Toby at
once, had not Kory-Kory not only refused to carry me, but manifested
the most invincible repugnance to our leaving the neighbourhood of the
house. The rest of the savages were equally opposed to our wishes, and
seemed grieved and astonished at the earnestness of my solicitations.
I clearly perceived that while my attendant avoided all appearance of
constraining my movements, he was nevertheless determined to thwart my
wishes. He seemed to me on this particular occasion, as well as often
afterwards, to be executing the orders of some other person with regard
to me, though at the same time feeling towards me the most lively
affection.

Toby, who had made up his mind to accompany the islanders if possible,
as soon as they were in readiness to depart, and who for that reason had
refrained from showing the same anxiety that I had done, now represented
to me that it was idle for me to entertain the hope of reaching the
beach in time to profit by any opportunity that might then be presented.

‘Do you not see,’ said he, ‘the savages themselves are fearful of being
too late, and I should hurry forward myself at once did I not think that
if I showed too much eagerness I should destroy all our hopes of reaping
any benefit from this fortunate event. If you will only endeavour to
appear tranquil or unconcerned, you will quiet their suspicions, and I
have no doubt they will then let me go with them to the beach, supposing
that I merely go out of curiosity. Should I succeed in getting down to
the boats, I will make known the condition in which I have left you, and
measures may then be taken to secure our escape.’

In the expediency of this I could not but acquiesce; and as the natives
had now completed their preparations, I watched with the liveliest
interest the reception that Toby’s application might meet with. As soon
as they understood from my companion that I intended to remain, they
appeared to make no objection to his proposition, and even hailed it
with pleasure. Their singular conduct on this occasion not a little
puzzled me at the time, and imparted to subsequent events an additional
mystery.

The islanders were now to be seen hurrying along the path which led to
the sea. I shook Toby warmly by the hand, and gave him my Payta hat
to shield his wounded head from the sun, as he had lost his own. He
cordially returned the pressure of my hand, and solemnly promising to
return as soon as the boats should leave the shore, sprang from my side,
and the next minute disappeared in a turn of the grove.

In spite of the unpleasant reflections that crowded upon my mind, I
could not but be entertained by the novel and animated sight which by
now met my view. One after another the natives crowded along the narrow
path, laden with every variety of fruit. Here, you might have seen one,
who, after ineffectually endeavouring to persuade a surly porker to be
conducted in leading strings, was obliged at last to seize the perverse
animal in his arms, and carry him struggling against his naked breast,
and squealing without intermission. There went two, who at a little
distance might have been taken for the Hebrew spies, on their return to
Moses with the goodly bunch of grape. One trotted before the other at a
distance of a couple of yards, while between them, from a pole resting
on the shoulders, was suspended a huge cluster of bananas, which swayed
to and fro with the rocking gait at which they proceeded. Here ran
another, perspiring with his exertions, and bearing before him a
quantity of cocoanuts, who, fearful of being too late, heeded not the
fruit that dropped from his basket, and appeared solely intent upon
reaching his destination, careless how many of his cocoanuts kept
company with him.

In a short time the last straggler was seen hurrying on his way, and the
faint shouts of those in advance died insensibly upon the ear. Our
part of the valley now appeared nearly deserted by its inhabitants,
Kory-Kory, his aged father, and a few decrepit old people, being all
that were left.

Towards sunset the islanders in small parties began to return from
the beach, and among them, as they drew near to the house, I sought to
descry the form of my companion. But one after another they passed the
dwelling, and I caught no glimpse of him. Supposing, however, that he
would soon appear with some of the members of the household, I quieted
my apprehensions, and waited patiently to see him advancing in company
with the beautiful Fayaway. At last, I perceived Tinor coming forward,
followed by the girls and young men who usually resided in the house of
Marheyo; but with them came not my comrade, and, filled with a thousand
alarms, I eagerly sought to discover the cause of his delay.

My earnest questions appeared to embarrass the natives greatly. All
their accounts were contradictory: one giving me to understand that
Toby would be with me in a very short time; another that he did not know
where he was; while a third, violently inveighing, against him, assured
me that he had stolen away, and would never come back. It appeared
to me, at the time, that in making these various statements they
endeavoured to conceal from me some terrible disaster, lest the
knowledge of it should overpower me.

Fearful lest some fatal calamity had overtaken him, I sought out young
Fayaway, and endeavoured to learn from her, if possible, the truth.

This gentle being had early attracted my regard, not only from her
extraordinary beauty, but from the attractive cast of her countenance,
singularly expressive of intelligence and humanity. Of all the natives
she alone seemed to appreciate the effect which the peculiarity of the
circumstances in which we were placed had produced upon the minds of my
companion and myself. In addressing me--especially when I lay reclining
upon the mats suffering from pain--there was a tenderness in her manner
which it was impossible to misunderstand or resist. Whenever she entered
the house, the expression of her face indicated the liveliest sympathy
for me; and moving towards the place where I lay, with one arm slightly
elevated in a gesture of pity, and her large glistening eyes gazing
intently into mine, she would murmur plaintively, ‘Awha! awha! Tommo,’
and seat herself mournfully beside me.

Her manner convinced me that she deeply compassionated my situation, as
being removed from my country and friends, and placed beyond the reach
of all relief. Indeed, at times I was almost led to believe that her
mind was swayed by gentle impulses hardly to be anticipated from one in
her condition; that she appeared to be conscious there were ties rudely
severed, which had once bound us to our homes; that there were sisters
and brothers anxiously looking forward to our return, who were, perhaps,
never more to behold us.

In this amiable light did Fayaway appear in my eyes; and reposing full
confidence in her candour and intelligence, I now had recourse to her,
in the midst of my alarm, with regard to my companion.

My questions evidently distressed her. She looked round from one to
another of the bystanders, as if hardly knowing what answer to give me.
At last, yielding to my importunities, she overcame her scruples, and
gave me to understand that Toby had gone away with the boats which had
visited the bay, but had promised to return at the expiration of three
days. At first I accused him of perfidiously deserting me; but as I grew
more composed, I upbraided myself for imputing so cowardly an action
to him, and tranquillized myself with the belief that he had availed
himself, of the opportunity to go round to Nukuheva, in order to make
some arrangement by which I could be removed from the valley. At any
rate, thought I, he will return with the medicines I require, and then,
as soon as I recover, there will be no difficulty in the way of our
departure.

Consoling myself with these reflections, I lay down that night in a
happier frame of mind than I had done for some time. The next day passed
without any allusion to Toby on the part of the natives, who seemed
desirous of avoiding all reference to the subject. This raised some
apprehensions in my breast; but when night came, I congratulated myself
that the second day had now gone by, and that on the morrow Toby would
again be with me. But the morrow came and went, and my companion did
not appear. Ah! thought I, he reckons three days from the morning of his
departure,--tomorrow he will arrive. But that weary day also closed upon
me, without his return. Even yet I would not despair; I thought that
something detained him--that he was waiting for the sailing of a boat,
at Nukuheva, and that in a day or two at farthest I should see him
again. But day after day of renewed disappointment passed by; at last
hope deserted me, and I fell a victim to despair.

Yes; thought I, gloomily, he has secured his own escape, and cares not
what calamity may befall his unfortunate comrade. Fool that I was,
to suppose that any one would willingly encounter the perils of this
valley, after having once got beyond its limits! He has gone, and has
left me to combat alone all the dangers by which I am surrounded. Thus
would I sometimes seek to derive a desperate consolation from dwelling
upon the perfidity of Toby: whilst at other times I sunk under the
bitter remorse which I felt as having by my own imprudence brought upon
myself the fate which I was sure awaited me.

At other times I thought that perhaps after all these treacherous
savages had made away with him, and thence the confusion into which
they were thrown by my questions, and their contradictory answers, or he
might be a captive in some other part of the valley, or, more dreadful
still, might have met with that fate at which my very soul shuddered.
But all these speculations were vain; no tidings of Toby ever reached
me; he had gone never to return.

The conduct of the islanders appeared inexplicable. All reference to my
lost comrade was carefully evaded, and if at any time they were forced
to make some reply to my frequent inquiries on the subject, they would
uniformly denounce him as an ungrateful runaway, who had deserted
his friend, and taken himself off to that vile and detestable place
Nukuheva.

But whatever might have been his fate, now that he was gone the natives
multiplied their acts of kindness and attention towards myself, treating
me with a degree of deference which could hardly have been surpassed had
I been some celestial visitant. Kory-Kory never for one moment left my
side, unless it were to execute my wishes. The faithful fellow, twice
every day, in the cool of the morning and in the evening, insisted upon
carrying me to the stream, and bathing me in its refreshing water.

Frequently in the afternoon he would carry me to a particular part of
the stream, where the beauty of the scene produced a soothing influence
upon my mind. At this place the waters flowed between grassy banks,
planted with enormous bread-fruit trees, whose vast branches interlacing
overhead, formed a leafy canopy; near the stream were several smooth
black rocks. One of these, projecting several feet above the surface
of the water, had upon its summit a shallow cavity, which, filled with
freshly-gathered leaves, formed a delightful couch.

Here I often lay for hours, covered with a gauze-like veil of tappa,
while Fayaway, seated beside me, and holding in her hand a fan woven
from the leaflets of a young cocoanut bough, brushed aside the insects
that occasionally lighted on my face, and Kory-Kory, with a view of
chasing away my melancholy, performed a thousand antics in the water
before us.

As my eye wandered along this romantic stream, it would fall upon the
half-immersed figure of a beautiful girl, standing in the transparent
water, and catching in a little net a species of diminutive shell-fish,
of which these people are extraordinarily fond. Sometimes a chattering
group would be seated upon the edge of a low rock in the midst of the
brook, busily engaged in thinning and polishing the shells of cocoanuts,
by rubbing them briskly with a small stone in the water, an operation
which soon converts them into a light and elegant drinking vessel,
somewhat resembling goblets made of tortoise shell.

But the tranquillizing influence of beautiful scenery, and the
exhibition of human life under so novel and charming an aspect were not
my only sources of consolation.

Every evening the girls of the house gathered about me on the mats, and
after chasing away Kory-Kory from my side--who nevertheless, retired
only to a little distance and watched their proceedings with the most
jealous attention--would anoint my whole body with a fragrant oil,
squeezed from a yellow root, previously pounded between a couple of
stones, and which in their language is denominated ‘aka’. And most
refreshing and agreeable are the juices of the ‘aka’, when applied to
ones, limbs by the soft palms of sweet nymphs, whose bright eyes are
beaming upon you with kindness; and I used to hail with delight the
daily recurrence of this luxurious operation, in which I forgot all my
troubles, and buried for the time every feeling of sorrow.

Sometimes in the cool of the evening my devoted servitor would lead me
out upon the pi-pi in front of the house, and seating me near its edge,
protect my body from the annoyance of the insects which occasionally
hovered in the air, by wrapping me round with a large roll of tappa.
He then bustled about, and employed himself at least twenty minutes in
adjusting everything to secure my personal comfort.

Having perfected his arrangements, he would get my pipe, and, lighting
it, would hand it to me. Often he was obliged to strike a light for the
occasion, and as the mode he adopted was entirely different from what I
had ever seen or heard of before I will describe it.

A straight, dry, and partly decayed stick of the Hibiscus, about six
feet in length, and half as many inches in diameter, with a small, bit
of wood not more than a foot long, and scarcely an inch wide, is as
invariably to be met with in every house in Typee as a box of lucifer
matches in the corner of a kitchen cupboard at home.

The islander, placing the larger stick obliquely against some object,
with one end elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees, mounts astride
of it like an urchin about to gallop off upon a cane, and then grasping
the smaller one firmly in both hands, he rubs its pointed end slowly
up and down the extent of a few inches on the principal stick, until at
last he makes a narrow groove in the wood, with an abrupt termination
at the point furthest from him, where all the dusty particles which the
friction creates are accumulated in a little heap.

At first Kory-Kory goes to work quite leisurely, but gradually quickens
his pace, and waxing warm in the employment, drives the stick furiously
along the smoking channel, plying his hands to and fro with amazing
rapidity, the perspiration starting from every pore. As he approaches
the climax of his effort, he pants and gasps for breath, and his eyes
almost start from their sockets with the violence of his exertions. This
is the critical stage of the operation; all his previous labours
are vain if he cannot sustain the rapidity of the movement until the
reluctant spark is produced. Suddenly he stops, becoming perfectly
motionless. His hands still retain their hold of the smaller stick,
which is pressed convulsively against the further end of the channel
among the fine powder there accumulated, as if he had just pierced
through and through some little viper that was wriggling and struggling
to escape from his clutches. The next moment a delicate wreath of smoke
curls spirally into the air, the heap of dusty particles glows with
fire, and Kory-Kory, almost breathless, dismounts from his steed.

This operation appeared to me to be the most laborious species of work
performed in Typee; and had I possessed a sufficient intimacy with the
language to have conveyed my ideas upon the subject, I should certainly
have suggested to the most influential of the natives the expediency of
establishing a college of vestals to be centrally located in the valley,
for the purpose of keeping alive the indispensable article of fire; so
as to supersede the necessity of such a vast outlay of strength and
good temper, as were usually squandered on these occasions. There might,
however, be special difficulties in carrying this plan into execution.

What a striking evidence does this operation furnish of the wide
difference between the extreme of savage and civilized life. A gentleman
of Typee can bring up a numerous family of children and give them all
a highly respectable cannibal education, with infinitely less toil
and anxiety than he expends in the simple process of striking a light;
whilst a poor European artisan, who through the instrumentality of a
lucifer performs the same operation in one second, is put to his wit’s
end to provide for his starving offspring that food which the children
of a Polynesian father, without troubling their parents, pluck from the
branches of every tree around them.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

KINDNESS OF MARHEYO AND THE REST OF THE ISLANDERS--A FULL DESCRIPTION OF
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE--DIFFERENT MODES OF PREPARING THE FRUIT

ALL the inhabitants of the valley treated me with great kindness; but as
to the household of Marheyo, with whom I was now permanently domiciled,
nothing could surpass their efforts to minister to my comfort. To the
gratification of my palate they paid the most unwearied attention.
They continually invited me to partake of food, and when after eating
heartily I declined the viands they continued to offer me, they seemed
to think that my appetite stood in need of some piquant stimulant to
excite its activity.

In pursuance of this idea, old Marheyo himself would hie him away to
the sea-shore by the break of day, for the purpose of collecting
various species of rare sea-weed; some of which among these people are
considered a great luxury. After a whole day spent in this employment,
he would return about nightfall with several cocoanut shells filled with
different descriptions of kelp. In preparing these for use he manifested
all the ostentation of a professed cook, although the chief mystery of
the affair appeared to consist in pouring water in judicious quantities
upon the slimy contents of his cocoanut shells.

The first time he submitted one of these saline salads to my critical
attention I naturally thought that anything collected at such pains must
possess peculiar merits; but one mouthful was a complete dose; and great
was the consternation of the old warrior at the rapidity with which I
ejected his Epicurean treat.

How true it is, that the rarity of any particular article enhances
its value amazingly. In some part of the valley--I know not where, but
probably in the neighbourhood of the sea--the girls were sometimes in
the habit of procuring small quantities of salt, a thimble-full or
so being the result of the united labours of a party of five or six
employed for the greater part of the day. This precious commodity they
brought to the house, enveloped in multitudinous folds of leaves; and
as a special mark of the esteem in which they held me, would spread
an immense leaf on the ground, and dropping one by one a few minute
particles of the salt upon it, invite me to taste them.

From the extravagant value placed upon the article, I verily believe,
that with a bushel of common Liverpool salt all the real estate in Typee
might have been purchased. With a small pinch of it in one hand, and a
quarter section of a bread-fruit in the other, the greatest chief in the
valley would have laughed at all luxuries of a Parisian table.

The celebrity of the bread-fruit tree, and the conspicuous place it
occupies in a Typee bill of fare, induces me to give at some length
a general description of the tree, and the various modes in which the
fruit is prepared.

The bread-fruit tree, in its glorious prime, is a grand and towering
object, forming the same feature in a Marquesan landscape that the
patriarchal elm does in New England scenery. The latter tree it not a
little resembles in height, in the wide spread of its stalwart branches,
and in its venerable and imposing aspect.

The leaves of the bread-fruit are of great size, and their edges are cut
and scolloped as fantastically as those of a lady’s lace collar. As they
annually tend towards decay, they almost rival in brilliant variety
of their gradually changing hues the fleeting shades of the expiring
dolphin. The autumnal tints of our American forests, glorious as they
are, sink into nothing in comparison with this tree.

The leaf, in one particular stage, when nearly all the prismatic colours
are blended on its surface, is often converted by the natives into
a superb and striking head-dress. The principal fibre traversing its
length being split open a convenient distance, and the elastic sides of
the aperture pressed apart, the head is inserted between them, the leaf
drooping on one side, with its forward half turned jauntily up on the
brows, and the remaining part spreading laterally behind the ears.

The fruit somewhat resembles in magnitude and general appearance one of
our citron melons of ordinary size; but, unlike the citron, it has no
sectional lines drawn along the outside. Its surface is dotted all over
with little conical prominences, looking not unlike the knobs, on an
antiquated church door. The rind is perhaps an eighth of an inch in
thickness; and denuded of this at the time when it is in the greatest
perfection, the fruit presents a beautiful globe of white pulp, the
whole of which may be eaten, with the exception of a slender core, which
is easily removed.

The bread-fruit, however, is never used, and is indeed altogether unfit
to be eaten, until submitted in one form or other to the action of fire.

The most simple manner in which this operation is performed, and I
think, the best, consists in placing any number of the freshly plucked
fruit, when in a particular state of greenness, among the embers of a
fire, in the same way that you would roast a potato. After the lapse
of ten or fifteen minutes, the green rind embrowns and cracks, showing
through the fissures in its sides the milk-white interior. As soon as it
cools the rind drops off, and you then have the soft round pulp in its
purest and most delicious state. Thus eaten, it has a mild and pleasing
flavour.

Sometimes after having been roasted in the fire, the natives snatch it
briskly from the embers, and permitting it to slip out of the yielding
rind into a vessel of cold water, stir up the mixture, which they
call ‘bo-a-sho’. I never could endure this compound, and indeed the
preparation is not greatly in vogue among the more polite Typees.

There is one form, however, in which the fruit is occasionally served,
that renders it a dish fit for a king. As soon as it is taken from the
fire the exterior is removed, the core extracted, and the remaining part
is placed in a sort of shallow stone mortar, and briskly worked with
a pestle of the same substance. While one person is performing this
operation, another takes a ripe cocoanut, and breaking it in halves,
which they also do very cleverly, proceeds to grate the juicy meat into
fine particles. This is done by means of a piece of mother-of-pearl
shell, lashed firmly to the extreme end of a heavy stick, with its
straight side accurately notched like a saw. The stick is sometimes a
grotesquely-formed limb of a tree, with three or four branches twisting
from its body like so many shapeless legs, and sustaining it two or
three feet from the ground.

The native, first placing a calabash beneath the nose, as it were, of
his curious-looking log-steed, for the purpose of receiving the
grated fragments as they fall, mounts astride of it as if it were a
hobby-horse, and twirling the inside of his hemispheres of cocoanut
around the sharp teeth of the mother-of-pearl shell, the pure white meat
falls in snowy showers into the receptacle provided. Having obtained a
quantity sufficient for his purpose, he places it in a bag made of
the net-like fibrous substance attached to all cocoanut trees, and
compressing it over the bread-fruit, which being now sufficiently
pounded, is put into a wooden bowl--extracts a thick creamy milk. The
delicious liquid soon bubbles round the fruit, and leaves it at last
just peeping above its surface.

This preparation is called ‘kokoo’, and a most luscious preparation it
is. The hobby-horse and the pestle and mortar were in great requisition
during the time I remained in the house of Marheyo, and Kory-Kory had
frequent occasion to show his skill in their use.

But the great staple articles of food into which the bread-fruit is
converted by these natives are known respectively by the names of Amar
and Poee-Poee.

At a certain season of the year, when the fruit of the hundred groves
of the valley has reached its maturity, and hangs in golden spheres from
every branch, the islanders assemble in harvest groups, and garner in
the abundance which surrounds them.

The trees are stripped of their nodding burdens, which, easily freed
from the rind and core, are gathered together in capacious wooden
vessels, where the pulpy fruit is soon worked by a stone pestle,
vigorously applied, into a blended mass of a doughy consistency, called
by the natives ‘Tutao’. This is then divided into separate parcels,
which, after being made up into stout packages, enveloped in successive
folds of leaves, and bound round with thongs of bark, are stored away in
large receptacles hollowed in the earth, from whence they are drawn as
occasion may require. In this condition the Tutao sometimes remains for
years, and even is thought to improve by age. Before it is fit to be
eaten, however, it has to undergo an additional process. A primitive
oven is scooped in the ground, and its bottom being loosely covered
with stones, a large fire is kindled within it. As soon as the requisite
degree of heat is attained, the embers are removed, and the surface of
the stones being covered with thick layers of leaves, one of the large
packages of Tutao is deposited upon them and overspread with another
layer of leaves. The whole is then quickly heaped up with earth, and
forms a sloping mound.

The Tutao thus baked is called ‘Amar’; the action of the oven having
converted it into an amber-coloured caky substance, a little tart, but
not at all disagreeable to the taste.

By another and final process the ‘Amar’ is changed into ‘Poee-Poee’.
This transition is rapidly effected. The Amar is placed in a vessel, and
mixed with water until it gains a proper pudding-like consistency, when,
without further preparation, it is in readiness for use. This is the
form in which the ‘Tutao’ is generally consumed. The singular mode of
eating it I have already described.

Were it not that the bread-fruit is thus capable of being preserved for
a length of time, the natives might be reduced to a state of starvation;
for owing to some unknown cause the trees sometimes fail to bear fruit;
and on such occasions the islanders chiefly depend upon the supplies
they have been enabled to store away.

This stately tree, which is rarely met with upon the Sandwich Islands,
and then only of a very inferior quality, and at Tahiti does not abound
to a degree that renders its fruit the principal article of food,
attains its greatest excellence in the genial climate of the Marquesan
group, where it grows to an enormous magnitude, and flourishes in the
utmost abundance.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MELANCHOLY CONDITION--OCCURRENCE AT THE TI--ANECDOTE OF MARHEYO--SHAVING
THE HEAD OF A WARRIOR

IN looking back to this period, and calling to remembrance the
numberless proofs of kindness and respect which I received from the
natives of the valley, I can scarcely understand how it was that, in the
midst of so many consolatory circumstances, my mind should still have
been consumed by the most dismal forebodings, and have remained a
prey to the profoundest melancholy. It is true that the suspicious
circumstances which had attended the disappearance of Toby were enough
of themselves to excite distrust with regard to the savages, in whose
power I felt myself to be entirely placed, especially when it was
combined with the knowledge that these very men, kind and respectful
as they were to me, were, after all, nothing better than a set of
cannibals.

But my chief source of anxiety, and that which poisoned every temporary
enjoyment, was the mysterious disease in my leg, which still remained
unabated. All the herbal applications of Tinor, united with the severer
discipline of the old leech, and the affectionate nursing of Kory-Kory,
had failed to relieve me. I was almost a cripple, and the pain I endured
at intervals was agonizing. The unaccountable malady showed no signs
of amendment: on the contrary, its violence increased day by day, and
threatened the most fatal results, unless some powerful means were
employed to counteract it. It seemed as if I were destined to sink
under this grievous affliction, or at least that it would hinder me from
availing myself of any opportunity of escaping from the valley.

An incident which occurred as nearly as I can estimate about three weeks
after the disappearance of Toby, convinced me that the natives, from
some reason or other, would interpose every possible obstacle to my
leaving them.

One morning there was no little excitement evinced by the people near
my abode, and which I soon discovered proceeded from a vague report
that boats, had been seen at a great distance approaching the bay.
Immediately all was bustle and animation. It so happened that day that
the pain I suffered having somewhat abated, and feeling in much better
spirits than usual, I had complied with Kory-Kory’s invitation to visit
the chief Mehevi at the place called the ‘Ti’, which I have before
described as being situated within the precincts of the Taboo Groves.
These sacred recesses were at no great distance from Marheyo’s
habitation, and lay between it and the sea; the path that conducted to
the beach passing directly in front of the Ti, and thence skirting along
the border of the groves.

I was reposing upon the mats, within the sacred building, in company
with Mehevi and several other chiefs, when the announcement was first
made. It sent a thrill of joy through my whole frame;--perhaps Toby was
about to return. I rose at once to my feet, and my instinctive impulse
was to hurry down to the beach, equally regardless of the distance that
separated me from it, and of my disabled condition. As soon as Mehevi
noticed the effect the intelligence had produced upon me, and the
impatience I betrayed to reach the sea, his countenance assumed that
inflexible rigidity of expression which had so awed me on the afternoon
of our arrival at the house of Marheyo. As I was proceeding to leave
the Ti, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said gravely, ‘abo, abo’
(wait, wait). Solely intent upon the one thought that occupied my mind,
and heedless of his request, I was brushing past him, when suddenly he
assumed a tone of authority, and told me to ‘moee’ (sit down). Though
struck by the alteration in his demeanour, the excitement under which I
laboured was too strong to permit me to obey the unexpected command,
and I was still limping towards the edge of the pi-pi with Kory-Kory
clinging to one arm in his efforts to restrain me, when the natives
around started to their feet, ranged themselves along the open front of
the building, while Mehevi looked at me scowlingly, and reiterated his
commands still more sternly.

It was at this moment, when fifty savage countenances were glaring upon
me, that I first truly experienced I was indeed a captive in the
valley. The conviction rushed upon me with staggering force, and I was
overwhelmed by this confirmation of my worst fears. I saw at once that
it was useless for me to resist, and sick at heart, I reseated myself
upon the mats, and for the moment abandoned myself to despair.

I now perceived the natives one after the other hurrying past the Ti and
pursuing the route that conducted to the sea. These savages, thought
I, will soon be holding communication with some of my own countrymen
perhaps, who with ease could restore me to liberty did they know of the
situation I was in. No language can describe the wretchedness which I
felt; and in the bitterness of my soul I imprecated a thousand curses on
the perfidious Toby, who had thus abandoned me to destruction. It was in
vain that Kory-Kory tempted me with food, or lighted my pipe, or sought
to attract my attention by performing the uncouth antics that
had sometimes diverted me. I was fairly knocked down by this last
misfortune, which, much as I had feared it, I had never before had the
courage calmly to contemplate.

Regardless of everything but my own sorrow, I remained in the Ti for
several hours, until shouts proceeding at intervals from the groves
beyond the house proclaimed the return of the natives from the beach.

Whether any boats visited the bay that morning or not, I never could
ascertain. The savages assured me that there had not--but I was inclined
to believe that by deceiving me in this particular they sought to allay
the violence of my grief. However that might be, this incident showed
plainly that the Typees intended to hold me a prisoner. As they still
treated me with the same sedulous attention as before, I was utterly
at a loss how to account for their singular conduct. Had I been in a
situation to instruct them in any of the rudiments of the mechanic arts,
or had I manifested a disposition to render myself in any way useful
among them, their conduct might have been attributed to some adequate
motive, but as it was, the matter seemed to me inexplicable.

During my whole stay on the island there occurred but two or three
instances where the natives applied to me with the view of availing
themselves of my superior information; and these now appear so ludicrous
that I cannot forbear relating them.

The few things we had brought from Nukuheva had been done up into a
small bundle which we had carried with us in our descent to the valley.
This bundle, the first night of our arrival, I had used as a pillow, but
on the succeeding morning, opening it for the inspection of the natives,
they gazed upon the miscellaneous contents as though I had just revealed
to them a casket of diamonds, and they insisted that so precious a
treasure should be properly secured. A line was accordingly attached to
it, and the other end being passed over the ridge-pole of the house, it
was hoisted up to the apex of the roof, where it hung suspended directly
over the mats where I usually reclined. When I desired anything from it
I merely raised my finger to a bamboo beside me, and taking hold of
the string which was there fastened, lowered the package. This was
exceedingly handy, and I took care to let the natives understand how
much I applauded the invention. Of this package the chief contents were
a razor with its case, a supply of needles and thread, a pound or two of
tobacco and a few yards of bright-coloured calico.

I should have mentioned that shortly after Toby’s disappearance,
perceiving the uncertainty of the time I might be obliged to remain in
the valley--if, indeed, I ever should escape from it--and considering
that my whole wardrobe consisted of a shirt and a pair of trousers, I
resolved to doff these garments at once, in order to preserve them in
a suitable condition for wear should I again appear among civilized
beings. I was consequently obliged to assume the Typee costume, a little
altered, however, to suit my own views of propriety, and in which I have
no doubt I appeared to as much advantage as a senator of Rome enveloped
in the folds of his toga. A few folds of yellow tappa tucked about my
waist, descended to my feet in the style of a lady’s petticoat, only
I did not have recourse to those voluminous paddings in the rear with
which our gentle dames are in the habit of augmenting the sublime
rotundity of their figures. This usually comprised my in-door dress;
whenever I walked out, I superadded to it an ample robe of the same
material, which completely enveloped my person, and screened it from the
rays of the sun.

One morning I made a rent in this mantle; and to show the islanders with
what facility it could be repaired, I lowered my bundle, and taking
from it a needle and thread, proceeded to stitch up the opening. They
regarded this wonderful application of science with intense admiration;
and whilst I was stitching away, old Marheyo, who was one of the
lookers-on, suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, and rushing to
a corner of the house, drew forth a soiled and tattered strip of faded
calico which he must have procured some time or other in traffic on the
beach--and besought me eagerly to exercise a little of my art upon it.
I willingly complied, though certainly so stumpy a needle as mine never
took such gigantic strides over calico before. The repairs completed,
old Marheyo gave me a paternal hug; and divesting himself of his ‘maro’
(girdle), swathed the calico about his loins, and slipping the beloved
ornaments into his ears, grasped his spear and sallied out of the house,
like a valiant Templar arrayed in a new and costly suit of armour.

I never used my razor during my stay in the island, but although a
very subordinate affair, it had been vastly admired by the Typees; and
Narmonee, a great hero among them, who was exceedingly precise in the
arrangements of his toilet and the general adjustment of is person,
being the most accurately tattooed and laboriously horrified individual
in all the valley, thought it would be a great advantage to have it
applied to the already shaven crown of his head.

The implement they usually employ is a shark’s tooth, which is about as
well adapted to the purpose as a one-pronged fork for pitching hay. No
wonder, then, that the acute Narmonee perceived the advantage my razor
possessed over the usual implement. Accordingly, one day he requested as
a personal favour that I would just run over his head with the razor. In
reply, I gave him to understand that it was too dull, and could not be
used to any purpose without being previously sharpened. To assist my
meaning, I went through an imaginary honing process on the palm of my
hand. Narmonee took my meaning in an instant, and running out of the
house, returned the next moment with a huge rough mass of rock as big
as a millstone, and indicated to me that that was exactly the thing
I wanted. Of course there was nothing left for me but to proceed to
business, and I began scraping away at a great rate. He writhed and
wriggled under the infliction, but, fully convinced of my skill, endured
the pain like a martyr.

Though I never saw Narmonee in battle I will, from what I then observed,
stake my life upon his courage and fortitude. Before commencing
operations, his head had presented a surface of short bristling hairs,
and by the time I had concluded my unskilful operation it resembled not
a little a stubble field after being gone over with a harrow. However,
as the chief expressed the liveliest satisfaction at the result, I was
too wise to dissent from his opinion.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IMPROVEMENT IN HEALTH AND SPIRITS--FELICITY OF THE
TYPEES--THEIR ENJOYMENTS COMPARED WITH THOSE OF MORE ENLIGHTENED
COMMUNITIES--COMPARATIVE WICKEDNESS OF CIVILIZED AND UNENLIGHTENED
PEOPLE--A SKIRMISH IN THE MOUNTAIN WITH THE WARRIORS OF HAPPAR

DAY after day wore on, and still there was no perceptible change in the
conduct of the islanders towards me. Gradually I lost all knowledge of
the regular recurrence of the days of the week, and sunk insensibly into
that kind of apathy which ensues after some violent outburst of despair.
My limb suddenly healed, the swelling went down, the pain subsided, and
I had every reason to suppose I should soon completely recover from the
affliction that had so long tormented me.

As soon as I was enabled to ramble about the valley in company with the
natives, troops of whom followed me whenever I sallied out of the house,
I began to experience an elasticity of mind which placed me beyond the
reach of those dismal forebodings to which I had so lately been a prey.
Received wherever I went with the most deferential kindness; regaled
perpetually with the most delightful fruits; ministered to by dark-eyed
nymphs, and enjoying besides all the services of the devoted Kory-Kory,
I thought that, for a sojourn among cannibals, no man could have well
made a more agreeable one.

To be sure there were limits set to my wanderings. Toward the sea my
progress was barred by an express prohibition of the savages; and after
having made two or three ineffectual attempts to reach it, as much to
gratify my curiosity as anything else, I gave up the idea. It was in
vain to think of reaching it by stealth, since the natives escorted me
in numbers wherever I went, and not for one single moment that I can
recall to mind was I ever permitted to be alone.

The green and precipitous elevations that stood ranged around the
head of the vale where Marheyo’s habitation was situated effectually
precluded all hope of escape in that quarter, even if I could have
stolen away from the thousand eyes of the savages.

But these reflections now seldom obtruded upon me; I gave myself up to
the passing hour, and if ever disagreeable thoughts arose in my mind, I
drove them away. When I looked around the verdant recess in which I was
buried, and gazed up to the summits of the lofty eminence that hemmed me
in, I was well disposed to think that I was in the ‘Happy Valley’,
and that beyond those heights there was naught but a world of care
and anxiety. As I extended my wanderings in the valley and grew more
familiar with the habits of its inmates, I was fain to confess that,
despite the disadvantages of his condition, the Polynesian savage,
surrounded by all the luxurious provisions of nature, enjoyed an
infinitely happier, though certainly a less intellectual existence than
the self-complacent European.

The naked wretch who shivers beneath the bleak skies, and starves among
the inhospitable wilds of Tierra-del-Fuego, might indeed be made happier
by civilization, for it would alleviate his physical wants. But the
voluptuous Indian, with every desire supplied, whom Providence has
bountifully provided with all the sources of pure and natural enjoyment,
and from whom are removed so many of the ills and pains of life--what
has he to desire at the hands of Civilization? She may ‘cultivate his
mind--may elevate his thoughts,’--these I believe are the established
phrases--but will he be the happier? Let the once smiling and populous
Hawaiian islands, with their now diseased, starving, and dying natives,
answer the question. The missionaries may seek to disguise the matter
as they will, but the facts are incontrovertible; and the devoutest
Christian who visits that group with an unbiased mind, must go away
mournfully asking--‘Are these, alas! the fruits of twenty-five years of
enlightening?’

In a primitive state of society, the enjoyments of life, though few
and simple, are spread over a great extent, and are unalloyed; but
Civilization, for every advantage she imparts, holds a hundred evils in
reserve;--the heart-burnings, the jealousies, the social rivalries,
the family dissentions, and the thousand self-inflicted discomforts of
refined life, which make up in units the swelling aggregate of human
misery, are unknown among these unsophisticated people.

But it will be urged that these shocking unprincipled wretches are
cannibals. Very true; and a rather bad trait in their character it must
be allowed. But they are such only when they seek to gratify the passion
of revenge upon their enemies; and I ask whether the mere eating of
human flesh so very far exceeds in barbarity that custom which only
a few years since was practised in enlightened England:--a convicted
traitor, perhaps a man found guilty of honesty, patriotism, and suchlike
heinous crimes, had his head lopped off with a huge axe, his bowels
dragged out and thrown into a fire; while his body, carved into four
quarters, was with his head exposed upon pikes, and permitted to rot and
fester among the public haunts of men!

The fiend-like skill we display in the invention of all manner of
death-dealing engines, the vindictiveness with which we carry on our
wars, and the misery and desolation that follow in their train, are
enough of themselves to distinguish the white civilized man as the most
ferocious animal on the face of the earth.

His remorseless cruelty is seen in many of the institutions of our own
favoured land. There is one in particular lately adopted in one of the
States of the Union, which purports to have been dictated by the most
merciful considerations. To destroy our malefactors piece-meal, drying
up in their veins, drop by drop, the blood we are too chicken-hearted
to shed by a single blow which would at once put a period to their
sufferings, is deemed to be infinitely preferable to the old-fashioned
punishment of gibbeting--much less annoying to the victim, and more in
accordance with the refined spirit of the age; and yet how feeble is all
language to describe the horrors we inflict upon these wretches, whom we
mason up in the cells of our prisons, and condemn to perpetual solitude
in the very heart of our population.

But it is needless to multiply the examples of civilized barbarity; they
far exceed in the amount of misery they cause the crimes which we regard
with such abhorrence in our less enlightened fellow-creatures.

The term ‘Savage’ is, I conceive, often misapplied, and indeed, when I
consider the vices, cruelties, and enormities of every kind that spring
up in the tainted atmosphere of a feverish civilization, I am inclined
to think that so far as the relative wickedness of the parties is
concerned, four or five Marquesan Islanders sent to the United States
as Missionaries might be quite as useful as an equal number of Americans
despatched to the Islands in a similar capacity.

I once heard it given as an instance of the frightful depravity of a
certain tribe in the Pacific that they had no word in their language
to express the idea of virtue. The assertion was unfounded; but were
it otherwise, it might be met by stating that their language is almost
entirely destitute of terms to express the delightful ideas conveyed by
our endless catalogue of civilized crimes.

In the altered frame of mind to which I have referred, every object that
presented itself to my notice in the valley struck me in a new light,
and the opportunities I now enjoyed of observing the manners of its
inmates, tended to strengthen my favourable impressions. One peculiarity
that fixed my admiration was the perpetual hilarity reigning through the
whole extent of the vale.

There seemed to be no cares, griefs, troubles, or vexations, in all
Typee. The hours tripped along as gaily as the laughing couples down a
country dance.

There were none of those thousand sources of irritation that the
ingenuity of civilized man has created to mar his own felicity. There
were no foreclosures of mortgages, no protested notes, no bills payable,
no debts of honour in Typee; no unreasonable tailors and shoemakers
perversely bent on being paid; no duns of any description and battery
attorneys, to foment discord, backing their clients up to a quarrel,
and then knocking their heads together; no poor relations, everlastingly
occupying the spare bed-chamber, and diminishing the elbow room at the
family table; no destitute widows with their children starving on the
cold charities of the world; no beggars; no debtors’ prisons; no proud
and hard-hearted nabobs in Typee; or to sum up all in one word--no
Money! ‘That root of all evil’ was not to be found in the valley.

In this secluded abode of happiness there were no cross old women, no
cruel step-dames, no withered spinsters, no lovesick maidens, no sour
old bachelors, no inattentive husbands, no melancholy young men, no
blubbering youngsters, and no squalling brats. All was mirth, fun and
high good humour. Blue devils, hypochondria, and doleful dumps, went and
hid themselves among the nooks and crannies of the rocks.

Here you would see a parcel of children frolicking together the
live-long day, and no quarrelling, no contention, among them. The same
number in our own land could not have played together for the space of
an hour without biting or scratching one another. There you might have
seen a throng of young females, not filled with envyings of each other’s
charms, nor displaying the ridiculous affectations of gentility, nor
yet moving in whalebone corsets, like so many automatons, but free,
inartificially happy, and unconstrained.

There were some spots in that sunny vale where they would frequently
resort to decorate themselves with garlands of flowers. To have seen
them reclining beneath the shadows of one of the beautiful groves;
the ground about them strewn with freshly gathered buds and blossoms,
employed in weaving chaplets and necklaces, one would have thought
that all the train of Flora had gathered together to keep a festival in
honour of their mistress.

With the young men there seemed almost always some matter of diversion
or business on hand that afforded a constant variety of enjoyment. But
whether fishing, or carving canoes, or polishing their ornaments, never
was there exhibited the least sign of strife or contention among them.
As for the warriors, they maintained a tranquil dignity of demeanour,
journeying occasionally from house to house, where they were always sure
to be received with the attention bestowed upon distinguished guests.
The old men, of whom there were many in the vale, seldom stirred from
their mats, where they would recline for hours and hours, smoking and
talking to one another with all the garrulity of age.

But the continual happiness, which so far as I was able to judge
appeared to prevail in the valley, sprang principally from that
all-pervading sensation which Rousseau has told us be at one time
experienced, the mere buoyant sense of a healthful physical existence.
And indeed in this particular the Typees had ample reason to felicitate
themselves, for sickness was almost unknown. During the whole period of
my stay I saw but one invalid among them; and on their smooth skins you
observed no blemish or mark of disease.

The general repose, however, upon which I have just been descanting,
was broken in upon about this time by an event which proved that the
islanders were not entirely exempt from those occurrences which disturb
the quiet of more civilized communities.

Having now been a considerable time in the valley, I began to feel
surprised that the violent hostility subsisting between its inhabitants,
and those of the adjoining bay of Happar, should never have manifested
itself in any warlike encounter. Although the valiant Typees would often
by gesticulations declare their undying hatred against their enemies,
and the disgust they felt at their cannibal propensities; although they
dilated upon the manifold injuries they had received at their hands, yet
with a forbearance truly commendable, they appeared to sit down under
their grievances, and to refrain from making any reprisals. The Happars,
entrenched behind their mountains, and never even showing themselves on
their summits, did not appear to me to furnish adequate cause for that
excess of animosity evinced towards them by the heroic tenants of our
vale, and I was inclined to believe that the deeds of blood attributed
to them had been greatly exaggerated.

On the other hand, as the clamours of war had not up to this period
disturbed the serenity of the tribe, I began to distrust the truth of
those reports which ascribed so fierce and belligerent a character to
the Typee nation. Surely, thought I, all these terrible stories I have
heard about the inveteracy with which they carried on the feud, their
deadly intensity, of hatred and the diabolical malice with which they
glutted their revenge upon the inanimate forms of the slain, are nothing
more than fables, and I must confess that I experienced something like a
sense of regret at having my hideous anticipations thus disappointed.
I felt in some sort like a ‘prentice boy who, going to the play in the
expectation of being delighted with a cut-and-thrust tragedy, is almost
moved to tears of disappointment at the exhibition of a genteel comedy.

I could not avoid thinking that I had fallen in with a greatly traduced
people, and I moralized not a little upon the disadvantage of having a
bad name, which in this instance had given a tribe of savages, who
were as pacific as so many lambkins, the reputation of a confederacy of
giant-killers.

But subsequent events proved that I had been a little too premature in
coming to this conclusion. One, day about noon, happening to be at the
Ti, I had lain down on the mats with several of the chiefs, and had
gradually sunk into a most luxurious siesta, when I was awakened by
a tremendous outcry, and starting up beheld the natives seizing their
spears and hurrying out, while the most puissant of the chiefs, grasping
the six muskets which were ranged against the bamboos, followed after,
and soon disappeared in the groves. These movements were accompanied
by wild shouts, in which ‘Happar, Happar,’ greatly predominated. The
islanders were now seen running past the Ti, and striking across the
valley to the Happar side. Presently I heard the sharp report of a
musket from the adjoining hills, and then a burst of voices in the same
direction. At this the women who had congregated in the groves, set up
the most violent clamours, as they invariably do here as elsewhere on
every occasion of excitement and alarm, with a view of tranquillizing
their own minds and disturbing other people. On this particular
occasion they made such an outrageous noise, and continued it with such
perseverance, that for awhile, had entire volleys of musketry been fired
off in the neighbouring mountains, I should not have been able to have
heard them.

When this female commotion had a little subsided I listened eagerly for
further information. At last bang went another shot, and then a second
volley of yells from the hills. Again all was quiet, and continued so
for such a length of time that I began to think the contending armies
had agreed upon a suspension of hostilities; when pop went a third gun,
followed as before with a yell. After this, for nearly two hours
nothing occurred worthy of comment, save some straggling shouts from the
hillside, sounding like the halloos of a parcel of truant boys who had
lost themselves in the woods.

During this interval I had remained standing on the piazza of the ‘Ti,’
which directly fronted the Happar mountain, and with no one near me
but Kory-Kory and the old superannuated savages I have described. These
latter never stirred from their mats, and seemed altogether unconscious
that anything unusual was going on.

As for Kory-Kory, he appeared to think that we were in the midst of
great events, and sought most zealously to impress me with a due sense
of their importance. Every sound that reached us conveyed some momentous
item of intelligence to him. At such times, as if he were gifted with
second sight, he would go through a variety of pantomimic illustrations,
showing me the precise manner in which the redoubtable Typees were at
that very moment chastising the insolence of the enemy. ‘Mehevi hanna
pippee nuee Happar,’ he exclaimed every five minutes, giving me to
understand that under that distinguished captain the warriors of his
nation were performing prodigies of valour.

Having heard only four reports from the muskets, I was led to believe
that they were worked by the islanders in the same manner as the Sultan
Solyman’s ponderous artillery at the siege of Byzantium, one of them
taking an hour or two to load and train. At last, no sound whatever
proceeding from the mountains, I concluded that the contest had been
determined one way or the other. Such appeared, indeed, to be the case,
for in a little while a courier arrived at the ‘Ti’, almost breathless
with his exertions, and communicated the news of a great victory having
been achieved by his countrymen: ‘Happar poo arva!--Happar poo arva!’
(the cowards had fled). Kory-Kory was in ecstasies, and commenced a
vehement harangue, which, so far as I understood it, implied that the
result exactly agreed with his expectations, and which, moreover,
was intended to convince me that it would be a perfectly useless
undertaking, even for an army of fire-eaters, to offer battle to the
irresistible heroes of our valley. In all this I of course acquiesced,
and looked forward with no little interest to the return of the
conquerors, whose victory I feared might not have been purchased without
cost to themselves.

But here I was again mistaken; for Mehevi, in conducting his warlike
operations, rather inclined to the Fabian than to the Bonapartean
tactics, husbanding his resources and exposing his troops to no
unnecessary hazards. The total loss of the victors in this obstinately
contested affair was, in killed, wounded, and missing--one forefinger
and part of a thumb-nail (which the late proprietor brought along with
him in his hand), a severely contused arm, and a considerable effusion
of blood flowing from the thigh of a chief, who had received an ugly
thrust from a Happar spear. What the enemy had suffered I could not
discover, but I presume they had succeeded in taking off with them the
bodies of their slain.

Such was the issue of the battle, as far as its results came under my
observation: and as it appeared to be considered an event of prodigious
importance, I reasonably concluded that the wars of the natives were
marked by no very sanguinary traits. I afterwards learned how the
skirmish had originated. A number of the Happars had been discovered
prowling for no good purpose on the Typee side of the mountain; the
alarm sounded, and the invaders, after a protracted resistance, had been
chased over the frontier. But why had not the intrepid Mehevi carried
the war into Happar? Why had he not made a descent into the hostile
vale, and brought away some trophy of his victory--some materials for
the cannibal entertainment which I had heard usually terminated every
engagement? After all, I was much inclined to believe that these
shocking festivals must occur very rarely among the islanders, if,
indeed, they ever take place.

For two or three days the late event was the theme of general comment;
after which the excitement gradually wore away, and the valley resumed
its accustomed tranquility.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SWIMMING IN COMPANY WITH THE GIRLS OF THE VALLEY--A CANOE--EFFECTS
OF THE TABOO--A PLEASURE EXCURSION ON THE POND--BEAUTIFUL FREAK OF
FAYAWAY--MANTUA-MAKING--A STRANGER ARRIVES IN THE VALLEY--HIS MYSTERIOUS
CONDUCT--NATIVE ORATORY--THE INTERVIEW--ITS RESULTS--DEPARTURE OF THE
STRANGER

RETURNING health and peace of mind gave a new interest to everything
around me. I sought to diversify my time by as many enjoyments as lay
within my reach. Bathing in company with troops of girls formed one of
my chief amusements. We sometimes enjoyed the recreation in the waters
of a miniature lake, to which the central stream of the valley expanded.
This lovely sheet of water was almost circular in figure, and about
three hundred yards across. Its beauty was indescribable. All around
its banks waved luxuriant masses of tropical foliage, soaring high above
which were seen, here and there, the symmetrical shaft of the cocoanut
tree, surmounted by its tufts of graceful branches, drooping in the air
like so many waving ostrich plumes.

The ease and grace with which the maidens of the valley propelled
themselves through the water, and their familiarity with the element,
were truly astonishing. Sometimes they might be seen gliding along just
under the surface, without apparently moving hand or foot--then throwing
themselves on their sides, they darted through the water, revealing
glimpses of their forms, as, in the course of their rapid progress, they
shot for an instant partly into the air--at one moment they dived deep
down into the water, and the next they rose bounding to the surface.

I remember upon one occasion plunging in among a parcel of these
river-nymphs, and counting vainly on my superior strength, sought to
drag some of them under the water, but I quickly repented my temerity.
The amphibious young creatures swarmed about me like a shoal of
dolphins, and seizing hold of my devoted limbs, tumbled me about and
ducked me under the surface, until from the strange noises which rang in
my ears, and the supernatural visions dancing before my eyes, I thought
I was in the land of the spirits. I stood indeed as little chance among
them as a cumbrous whale attacked on all sides by a legion of swordfish.
When at length they relinquished their hold of me, they swam away in
every direction, laughing at my clumsy endeavours to reach them.

There was no boat on the lake; but at my solicitation and for my special
use, some of the young men attached to Marheyo’s household, under
the direction of the indefatigable Kory-Kory, brought up a light and
tastefully carved canoe from the sea. It was launched upon the sheet
of water, and floated there as gracefully as a swan. But, melancholy to
relate, it produced an effect I had not anticipated. The sweet nymphs,
who had sported with me before on the lake, now all fled its vicinity.
The prohibited craft, guarded by the edicts of the ‘taboo,’ extended the
prohibition to the waters in which it lay.

For a few days, Kory-Kory, with one or two other youths, accompanied
me in my excursions to the lake, and while I paddled about in my light
canoe, would swim after me shouting and gambolling in pursuit. But I
as ever partial to what is termed in the ‘Young Men’s Own Book’--‘the
society of virtuous and intelligent young ladies;’ and in the absence
of the mermaids, the amusement became dull and insipid. One morning
I expressed to my faithful servitor my desire for the return of the
nymphs. The honest fellow looked at me bewildered for a moment, and
then shook his head solemnly, and murmured ‘taboo! taboo!’ giving me to
understand that unless the canoe was removed I could not expect to have
the young ladies back again. But to this procedure I was averse; I not
only wanted the canoe to stay where it was, but I wanted the beauteous
Fayaway to get into it, and paddle with me about the lake. This latter
proposition completely horrified Kory-Kory’s notions of propriety. He
inveighed against it, as something too monstrous to be thought of. It
not only shocked their established notions of propriety, but was at
variance with all their religious ordinances.

However, although the ‘taboo’ was a ticklish thing to meddle with, I
determined to test its capabilities of resisting an attack. I consulted
the chief Mehevi, who endeavoured to dissuade me from my object; but
I was not to be repulsed; and accordingly increased the warmth of my
solicitations. At last he entered into a long, and I have no doubt a
very learned and eloquent exposition of the history and nature of the
‘taboo’ as affecting this particular case; employing a variety of most
extraordinary words, which, from their amazing length and sonorousness,
I have every reason to believe were of a theological nature. But all
that he said failed to convince me: partly, perhaps, because I could not
comprehend a word that he uttered; but chiefly, that for the life of me
I could not understand why a woman would not have as much right to
enter a canoe as a man. At last he became a little more rational, and
intimated that, out of the abundant love he bore me, he would consult
with the priests and see what could be done.

How it was that the priesthood of Typee satisfied the affair with their
consciences, I know not; but so it was, and Fayaway dispensation from
this portion of the taboo was at length procured. Such an event I
believe never before had occurred in the valley; but it was high time
the islanders should be taught a little gallantry, and I trust that the
example I set them may produce beneficial effects. Ridiculous, indeed,
that the lovely creatures should be obliged to paddle about in the
water, like so many ducks, while a parcel of great strapping fellows
skimmed over its surface in their canoes.

The first day after Fayaway’s emancipation, I had a delightful little
party on the lake--the damsels’ Kory-Kory, and myself. My zealous
body-servant brought from the house a calabash of poee-poee, half a
dozen young cocoanuts--stripped of their husks--three pipes, as many
yams, and me on his back a part of the way. Something of a load; but
Kory-Kory was a very strong man for his size, and by no means brittle in
the spine. We had a very pleasant day; my trusty valet plied the paddle
and swept us gently along the margin of the water, beneath the shades
of the overhanging thickets. Fayaway and I reclined in the stern of
the canoe, on the very best terms possible with one another; the gentle
nymph occasionally placing her pipe to her lip, and exhaling the mild
fumes of the tobacco, to which her rosy breath added a fresh perfume.
Strange as it may seem, there is nothing in which a young and beautiful
female appears to more advantage than in the act of smoking. How
captivating is a Peruvian lady, swinging in her gaily-woven hammock of
grass, extended between two orange-trees, and inhaling the fragrance of
a choice cigarro!

But Fayaway, holding in her delicately formed olive hand the long yellow
reed of her pipe, with its quaintly carved bowl, and every few moments
languishingly giving forth light wreaths of vapour from her mouth and
nostrils, looked still more engaging.

We floated about thus for several hours, when I looked up to the warm,
glowing, tropical sky, and then down into the transparent depths below;
and when my eye, wandering from the bewitching scenery around, fell upon
the grotesquely-tattooed form of Kory-Kory, and finally, encountered the
pensive gaze of Fayaway, I thought I had been transported to some fairy
region, so unreal did everything appear.

This lovely piece of water was the coolest spot in all the valley, and I
now made it a place of continual resort during the hottest period of
the day. One side of it lay near the termination of a long gradually
expanding gorge, which mounted to the heights that environed the vale.
The strong trade wind, met in its course by these elevations, circled
and eddied about their summits, and was sometimes driven down the
steep ravine and swept across the valley, ruffling in its passage the
otherwise tranquil surface of the lake.

One day, after we had been paddling about for some time, I disembarked
Kory-Kory, and paddled the canoe to the windward side of the lake. As
I turned the canoe, Fayaway, who was with me, seemed all at once to be
struck with some happy idea. With a wild exclamation of delight, she
disengaged from her person the ample robe of tappa which was knotted
over her shoulder (for the purpose of shielding her from the sun), and
spreading it out like a sail, stood erect with upraised arms in the head
of the canoe. We American sailors pride ourselves upon our straight,
clean spars, but a prettier little mast than Fayaway made was never
shipped aboard of any craft.

In a moment the tappa was distended by the breeze--the long brown
tresses of Fayaway streamed in the air--and the canoe glided rapidly
through the water, and shot towards the shore. Seated in the stern, I
directed its course with my paddle until it dashed up the soft sloping
bank, and Fayaway, with a light spring alighted on the ground; whilst
Kory-Kory, who had watched our manoeuvres with admiration, now
clapped his hands in transport, and shouted like a madman. Many a time
afterwards was this feat repeated.

If the reader has not observed ere this that I was the declared admirer
of Miss Fayaway, all I can say is that he is little conversant with
affairs of the heart, and I certainly shall not trouble myself to
enlighten him any farther. Out of the calico I had brought from the ship
I made a dress for this lovely girl. In it she looked, I must confess,
something like an opera-dancer.

The drapery of the latter damsel generally commences a little above
the elbows, but my island beauty’s began at the waist, and terminated
sufficiently far above the ground to reveal the most bewitching ankle in
the universe.

The day that Fayaway first wore this robe was rendered memorable by a
new acquaintance being introduced to me. In the afternoon I was lying
in the house when I heard a great uproar outside; but being by this time
pretty well accustomed to the wild halloos which were almost continually
ringing through the valley, I paid little attention to it, until old
Marheyo, under the influence of some strange excitement, rushed into my
presence and communicated the astounding tidings, ‘Marnoo pemi!’ which
being interpreted, implied that an individual by the name of Marnoo was
approaching.

My worthy old friend evidently expected that this intelligence would
produce a great effect upon me, and for a time he stood earnestly
regarding me, as if curious to see how I should conduct myself, but as
I remained perfectly unmoved, the old gentleman darted out of the house
again, in as great a hurry as he had entered it.

‘Marnoo, Marnoo,’ cogitated I, ‘I have never heard that name before.
Some distinguished character, I presume, from the prodigious riot the
natives are making;’ the tumultuous noise drawing nearer and nearer
every moment, while ‘Marnoo!--Marnoo!’ was shouted by every tongue.

I made up my mind that some savage warrior of consequence, who had
not yet enjoyed the honour of an audience, was desirous of paying his
respects on the present occasion. So vain had I become by the lavish
attention to which I had been accustomed, that I felt half inclined,
as a punishment for such neglect, to give this Marnoo a cold reception,
when the excited throng came within view, convoying one of the most
striking specimens of humanity that I ever beheld.

The stranger could not have been more than twenty-five years of age, and
was a little above the ordinary height; had he a single hair’s breadth
taller, the matchless symmetry of his form would have been destroyed.
His unclad limbs were beautifully formed; whilst the elegant outline of
his figure, together with his beardless cheeks, might have entitled him
to the distinction of standing for the statue of the Polynesian Apollo;
and indeed the oval of his countenance and the regularity of every
feature reminded one of an antique bust. But the marble repose of art
was supplied by a warmth and liveliness of expression only to be seen in
the South Sea Islander under the most favourable developments of nature.
The hair of Marnoo was a rich curling brown, and twined about his
temples and neck in little close curling ringlets, which danced up and
down continually, when he was animated in conversation. His cheek was
of a feminine softness, and his face was free from the least blemish
of tattooing, although the rest of his body was drawn all over with
fanciful figures, which--unlike the unconnected sketching usual among
these natives--appeared to have been executed in conformity with some
general design.

The tattooing on his back in particular attracted my attention. The
artist employed must indeed have excelled in his profession. Traced
along the course of the spine was accurately delineated the slender,
tapering and diamond checkered shaft of the beautiful ‘artu’ tree.
Branching from the stem on each side, and disposed alternately, were
the graceful branches drooping with leaves all correctly drawn and
elaborately finished. Indeed the best specimen of the Fine Arts I had
yet seen in Typee. A rear view of the stranger might have suggested the
idea of a spreading vine tacked against a garden wall. Upon his breast,
arms and legs, were exhibited an infinite variety of figures; every
one of which, however, appeared to have reference to the general
effect sought to be produced. The tattooing I have described was of the
brightest blue, and when contrasted with the light olive-colour of the
skin, produced an unique and even elegant effect. A slight girdle of
white tappa, scarcely two inches in width, but hanging before and behind
in spreading tassels, composed the entire costume of the stranger.

He advanced surrounded by the islanders, carrying under one arm a small
roll of native cloth, and grasping in his other hand a long and richly
decorated spear. His manner was that of a traveller conscious that he is
approaching a comfortable stage in his journey. Every moment he turned
good-humouredly on the throng around him, and gave some dashing sort of
reply to their incessant queries, which appeared to convulse them with
uncontrollable mirth.

Struck by his demeanour, and the peculiarity of his appearance, so
unlike that of the shaven-crowned and face-tattooed natives in general,
I involuntarily rose as he entered the house, and proffered him a seat
on the mats beside me. But without deigning to notice the civility, or
even the more incontrovertible fact of my existence, the stranger passed
on, utterly regardless of me, and flung himself upon the further end
of the long couch that traversed the sole apartment of Marheyo’s
habitation.

Had the belle of the season, in the pride of her beauty and power, been
cut in a place of public resort by some supercilious exquisite, she
could not have felt greater indignation than I did at this unexpected
slight.

I was thrown into utter astonishment. The conduct of the savages had
prepared me to anticipate from every newcomer the same extravagant
expressions of curiosity and regard. The singularity of his conduct,
however, only roused my desire to discover who this remarkable personage
might be, who now engrossed the attention of every one.

Tinor placed before him a calabash of poee-poee, from which the stranger
regaled himself, alternating every mouthful with some rapid exclamation,
which was eagerly caught up and echoed by the crowd that completely
filled the house. When I observed the striking devotion of the natives
to him, and their temporary withdrawal of all attention from myself, I
felt not a little piqued. The glory of Tommo is departed, thought I, and
the sooner he removes from the valley the better. These were my feelings
at the moment, and they were prompted by that glorious principle
inherent in all heroic natures--the strong-rooted determination to have
the biggest share of the pudding or to go without any of it.

Marnoo, that all-attractive personage, having satisfied his hunger and
inhaled a few whiffs from a pipe which was handed to him, launched
out into an harangue which completely enchained the attention of his
auditors.

Little as I understood of the language, yet from his animated gestures
and the varying expression of his features--reflected as from so many
mirrors in the countenances around him, I could easily discover the
nature of those passions which he sought to arouse. From the frequent
recurrence of the words ‘Nukuheva’ and ‘Frannee’ (French), and some
others with the meaning of which I was acquainted, he appeared to be
rehearsing to his auditors events which had recently occurred in the
neighbouring bays. But how he had gained the knowledge of these matters
I could not understand, unless it were that he had just come from
Nukuheva--a supposition which his travel-stained appearance not a little
supported. But, if a native of that region, I could not account for his
friendly reception at the hands of the Typees.

Never, certainly, had I beheld so powerful an exhibition of natural
eloquence as Marnoo displayed during the course of his oration. The
grace of the attitudes into which he threw his flexible figure, the
striking gestures of his naked arms, and above all, the fire which shot
from his brilliant eyes, imparted an effect to the continually changing
accents of his voice, of which the most accomplished orator might have
been proud. At one moment reclining sideways upon the mat, and leaning
calmly upon his bended arm, he related circumstantially the aggressions
of the French--their hostile visits to the surrounding bays, enumerating
each one in succession--Happar, Puerka, Nukuheva, Tior,--and then
starting to his feet and precipitating himself forward with clenched
hands and a countenance distorted with passion, he poured out a tide of
invectives. Falling back into an attitude of lofty command, he exhorted
the Typees to resist these encroachments; reminding them, with a fierce
glance of exultation, that as yet the terror of their name had preserved
them from attack, and with a scornful sneer he sketched in ironical
terms the wondrous intrepidity of the French, who, with five war-canoes
and hundreds of men, had not dared to assail the naked warriors of their
valley.

The effect he produced upon his audience was electric; one and all they
stood regarding him with sparkling eyes and trembling limbs, as though
they were listening to the inspired voice of a prophet.

But it soon appeared that Marnoo’s powers were as versatile as they
were extraordinary. As soon as he had finished his vehement harangue, he
threw himself again upon the mats, and, singling out individuals in the
crowd, addressed them by name, in a sort of bantering style, the humour
of which, though nearly hidden from me filled the whole assembly with
uproarious delight.

He had a word for everybody; and, turning rapidly from one to another,
gave utterance to some hasty witticism, which was sure to be followed
by peals of laughter. To the females as well as to the men, he addressed
his discourse. Heaven only knows what he said to them, but he caused
smiles and blushes to mantle their ingenuous faces. I am, indeed, very
much inclined to believe that Marnoo, with his handsome person and
captivating manners, was a sad deceiver among the simple maidens of the
island.

During all this time he had never, for one moment, deigned to regard me.
He appeared, indeed, to be altogether unconscious of my presence. I
was utterly at a loss how to account for this extraordinary conduct. I
easily perceived that he was a man of no little consequence among the
islanders; that he possessed uncommon talents; and was gifted with a
higher degree of knowledge than the inmates of the valley. For these
reasons, I therefore greatly feared lest having, from some cause or
other, unfriendly feelings towards me, he might exert his powerful
influence to do me mischief.

It seemed evident that he was not a permanent resident of the vale, and
yet, whence could he have come? On all sides the Typees were girt in by
hostile tribes, and how could he possibly, if belonging to any of these,
be received with so much cordiality?

The personal appearance of the enigmatical stranger suggested additional
perplexities. The face, free from tattooing, and the unshaven crown,
were peculiarities I had never before remarked in any part of the
island, and I had always heard that the contrary were considered the
indispensable distinction of a Marquesan warrior. Altogether the matter
was perfectly incomprehensible to me, and I awaited its solution with no
small degree of anxiety.

At length, from certain indications, I suspected that he was making me
the subject of his remarks, although he appeared cautiously to avoid
either pronouncing my name, or looking in the direction where I lay. All
at once he rose from the mats where he had been reclining, and, still
conversing, moved towards me, his eye purposely evading mine, and seated
himself within less than a yard of me. I had hardly recovered from my
surprise, when he suddenly turned round, and, with a most benignant
countenance extended his right hand gracefully towards me. Of course I
accepted the courteous challenge, and, as soon as our palms met, he bent
towards me, and murmured in musical accents--‘How you do?’ ‘How long you
been in this bay?’ ‘You like this bay?’

Had I been pierced simultaneously by three Happar spears, I could not
have started more than I did at hearing these simple questions. For a
moment I was overwhelmed with astonishment, and then answered something
I know not what; but as soon as I regained my self-possession, the
thought darted through my mind that from this individual I might obtain
that information regarding Toby which I suspected the natives had
purposely withheld from me. Accordingly I questioned him concerning
the disappearance of my companion, but he denied all knowledge of
the matter. I then inquired from whence he had come? He replied, from
Nukuheva. When I expressed my surprise, he looked at me for a moment,
as if enjoying my perplexity, and then with his strange vivacity,
exclaimed,--‘Ah! Me taboo,--me go Nukuheva,--me go Tior,--me go
Typee,--me go everywhere,--nobody harm me,--me taboo.’

This explanation would have been altogether unintelligible to me, had
it not recalled to my mind something I had previously heard concerning
a singular custom among these islanders. Though the country is possessed
by various tribes, whose mutual hostilities almost wholly prelude any
intercourse between them; yet there are instances where a person having
ratified friendly relations with some individual belonging longing to
the valley, whose inmates are at war with his own, may, under particular
restrictions, venture with impunity into the country of his friend,
where, under other circumstances, he would have been treated as an
enemy. In this light are personal friendships regarded among them, and
the individual so protected is said to be ‘taboo’, and his person, to a
certain extent, is held as sacred. Thus the stranger informed me he had
access to all the valleys in the island.

Curious to know how he had acquired his knowledge of English, I
questioned him on the subject. At first, for some reason or other, he
evaded the inquiry, but afterwards told me that, when a boy, he had
been carried to sea by the captain of a trading vessel, with whom he
had stayed three years, living part of the time with him at Sidney in
Australia, and that at a subsequent visit to the island, the captain
had, at his own request, permitted him to remain among his countrymen.
The natural quickness of the savage had been wonderfully improved by his
intercourse with the white men, and his partial knowledge of a foreign
language gave him a great ascendancy over his less accomplished
countrymen.

When I asked the now affable Marnoo why it was that he had not
previously spoken to me, he eagerly inquired what I had been led to
think of him from his conduct in that respect. I replied, that I had
supposed him to be some great chief or warrior, who had seen plenty
of white men before, and did not think it worth while to notice a poor
sailor. At this declaration of the exalted opinion I had formed of him,
he appeared vastly gratified, and gave me to understand that he had
purposely behaved in that manner, in order to increase my astonishment,
as soon as he should see proper to address me.

Marnoo now sought to learn my version of the story as to how I came
to be an inmate of the Typee valley. When I related to him the
circumstances under which Toby and I had entered it, he listened
with evident interest; but as soon as I alluded to the absence, yet
unaccounted for, of my comrade, he endeavoured to change the subject, as
if it were something he desired not to agitate. It seemed, indeed, as
if everything connected with Toby was destined to beget distrust and
anxiety in my bosom. Notwithstanding Marnoo’s denial of any knowledge
of his fate, I could not avoid suspecting that he was deceiving me; and
this suspicion revived those frightful apprehensions with regard to my
own fate, which, for a short time past, had subsided in my breast.

Influenced by these feelings, I now felt a strong desire to avail myself
of the stranger’s protection, and under his safeguard to return to
Nukuheva. But as soon as I hinted at this, he unhesitatingly pronounced
it to be entirely impracticable; assuring me that the Typees would never
consent to my leaving the valley. Although what he said merely confirmed
the impression which I had before entertained, still it increased
my anxiety to escape from a captivity which, however endurable, nay,
delightful it might be in some respects, involved in its issues a fate
marked by the most frightful contingencies.

I could not conceal from my mind that Toby had been treated in the same
friendly manner as I had been, and yet all their kindness terminated
with his mysterious disappearance. Might not the same fate await me?--a
fate too dreadful to think of. Stimulated by these considerations,
I urged anew my request to Marnoo; but he only set forth in stronger
colours the impossibility of my escape, and repeated his previous
declaration that the Typees would never be brought to consent to my
departure.

When I endeavoured to learn from him the motives which prompted them to
hold me a prisoner, Marnoo again presumed that mysterious tone which had
tormented me with apprehension when I had questioned him with regard to
the fate of my companion.

Thus repulsed, in a manner which only served, by arousing the most
dreadful forebodings, to excite me to renewed attempts, I conjured him
to intercede for me with the natives, and endeavour to procure their
consent to my leaving them. To this he appeared strongly averse; but,
yielding at last to my importunities, he addressed several of the
chiefs, who with the rest had been eyeing us intently during the whole
of our conversation. His petition, however, was at once met with the
most violent disapprobation, manifesting itself in angry glances and
gestures, and a perfect torrent of passionate words, directed to both
him and myself. Marnoo, evidently repenting the step he had taken,
earnestly deprecated the resentment of the crowd, and, in a few moments
succeeded in pacifying to some extent the clamours which had broken out
as soon as his proposition had been understood.

With the most intense interest had I watched the reception his
intercession might receive; and a bitter pang shot through my heart
at the additional evidence, now furnished, of the unchangeable
determination of the islanders. Marnoo told me with evident alarm in his
countenance, that although admitted into the bay on a friendly footing
with its inhabitants, he could not presume to meddle with their
concerns, as such procedure, if persisted in, would at once absolve
the Typees from the restraints of the ‘taboo’, although so long as
he refrained from such conduct, it screened him effectually from the
consequences of the enmity they bore his tribe. At this moment, Mehevi,
who was present, angrily interrupted him; and the words which he uttered
in a commanding tone, evidently meant that he must at once cease talking
to me and withdraw to the other part of the house. Marnoo immediately
started up, hurriedly enjoining me not to address him again, and as I
valued my safety, to refrain from all further allusion to the subject of
my departure; and then, in compliance with the order of the determined
chief, but not before it had again been angrily repeated, he withdrew to
a distance.

I now perceived, with no small degree of apprehension, the same savage
expression in the countenances of the natives, which had startled me
during the scene at the Ti. They glanced their eyes suspiciously from
Marnoo to me, as if distrusting the nature of an intercourse carried on,
as it was, in a language they could not understand, and they seemed to
harbour the belief that already we had concerted measures calculated to
elude their vigilance.

The lively countenances of these people are wonderfully indicative of
the emotions of the soul, and the imperfections of their oral language
are more than compensated for by the nervous eloquence of their looks
and gestures. I could plainly trace, in every varying expression of
their faces, all those passions which had been thus unexpectedly aroused
in their bosoms.

It required no reflection to convince me, from what was going on, that
the injunction of Marnoo was not to be rashly slighted; and accordingly,
great as was the effort to suppress my feelings, I accosted Mehevi in
a good-humoured tone, with a view of dissipating any ill impression
he might have received. But the ireful, angry chief was not so easily
mollified. He rejected my advances with that peculiarly stern expression
I have before described, and took care by the whole of his behaviour
towards me to show the displeasure and resentment which he felt.

Marnoo, at the other extremity of the house, apparently desirous of
making a diversion in my favour, exerted himself to amuse with his
pleasantries the crowd about him; but his lively attempts were not so
successful as they had previously been, and, foiled in his efforts, he
rose gravely to depart. No one expressed any regret at this movement,
so seizing his roll of tappa, and grasping his spear, he advanced to
the front of the pi-pi, and waving his hand in adieu to the now silent
throng, cast upon me a glance of mingled pity and reproach, and flung
himself into the path which led from the house. I watched his receding
figure until it was lost in the obscurity of the grove, and then gave
myself up to the most desponding reflections.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

REFLECTIONS AFTER MARNOO’S DEPARTURE-BATTLE OF THE POP-GUNS--STRANGE
CONCEIT OF MARHEYO--PROCESS OF MAKING TAPPA

THE knowledge I had now obtained as to the intention of the savages
deeply affected me.

Marnoo, I perceived, was a man who, by reason of his superior
acquirements, and the knowledge he possessed of the events which were
taking place in the different bays of the island, was held in no little
estimation by the inhabitants of the valley. He had been received with
the most cordial welcome and respect. The natives had hung upon the
accents of his voice, and, had manifested the highest gratification at
being individually noticed by him. And yet despite all this, a few
words urged in my behalf, with the intent of obtaining my release from
captivity, had sufficed not only to banish all harmony and good-will;
but, if I could believe what he told me, had gone on to endanger his own
personal safety.

How strongly rooted, then, must be the determination of the Typees
with regard to me, and how suddenly could they display the strangest
passions! The mere suggestion of my departure had estranged from me,
for the time at least, Mehevi, who was the most influential of all
the chiefs, and who had previously exhibited so many instances of his
friendly sentiments. The rest of the natives had likewise evinced their
strong repugnance to my wishes, and even Kory-Kory himself seemed to
share in the general disapprobation bestowed upon me.

In vain I racked my invention to find out some motive for them, but I
could discover none.

But however this might be, the scene which had just occurred admonished
me of the danger of trifling with the wayward and passionate spirits
against whom it was vain to struggle, and might even be fatal to do go.
My only hope was to induce the natives to believe that I was reconciled
to my detention in the valley, and by assuming a tranquil and cheerful
demeanour, to allay the suspicions which I had so unfortunately aroused.
Their confidence revived, they might in a short time remit in some
degree their watchfulness over my movements, and I should then be the
better enabled to avail myself of any opportunity which presented itself
for escape. I determined, therefore, to make the best of a bad
bargain, and to bear up manfully against whatever might betide. In this
endeavour, I succeeded beyond my own expectations. At the period
of Marnoo’s visit, I had been in the valley, as nearly as I could
conjecture, some two months. Although not completely recovered from my
strange illness, which still lingered about me, I was free from pain
and able to take exercise. In short, I had every reason to anticipate a
perfect recovery. Freed from apprehension on this point, and resolved
to regard the future without flinching, I flung myself anew into all the
social pleasures of the valley, and sought to bury all regrets, and
all remembrances of my previous existence in the wild enjoyments it
afforded.

In my various wanderings through the vale, and as I became better
acquainted with the character of its inhabitants, I was more and more
struck with the light-hearted joyousness that everywhere prevailed. The
minds of these simple savages, unoccupied by matters of graver moment,
were capable of deriving the utmost delight from circumstances which
would have passed unnoticed in more intelligent communities. All their
enjoyment, indeed, seemed to be made up of the little trifling incidents
of the passing hour; but these diminutive items swelled altogether to an
amount of happiness seldom experienced by more enlightened individuals,
whose pleasures are drawn from more elevated but rarer sources.

What community, for instance, of refined and intellectual mortals
would derive the least satisfaction from shooting pop-guns? The
mere supposition of such a thing being possible would excite their
indignation, and yet the whole population of Typee did little else for
ten days but occupy themselves with that childish amusement, fairly
screaming, too, with the delight it afforded them.

One day I was frolicking with a little spirited urchin, some six years
old, who chased me with a piece of bamboo about three feet long, with
which he occasionally belaboured me. Seizing the stick from him, the
idea happened to suggest itself, that I might make for the youngster,
out of the slender tube, one of those nursery muskets with which I had
sometimes seen children playing.

Accordingly, with my knife I made two parallel slits in the cane several
inches in length, and cutting loose at one end the elastic strip between
them, bent it back and slipped the point into a little notch made for
the purse. Any small substance placed against this would be projected
with considerable force through the tube, by merely springing the bent
strip out of the notch.

Had I possessed the remotest idea of the sensation this piece of
ordnance was destined to produce, I should certainly have taken out a
patent for the invention. The boy scampered away with it, half delirious
with ecstasy, and in twenty minutes afterwards I might have been seen
surrounded by a noisy crowd--venerable old graybeards--responsible
fathers of families--valiant warriors--matrons--young men--girls and
children, all holding in their hands bits of bamboo, and each clamouring
to be served first.

For three or four hours I was engaged in manufacturing pop-guns, but
at last made over my good-will and interest in the concern to a lad of
remarkably quick parts, whom I soon initiated into the art and mystery.

Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop, now resounded all over the valley. Duels,
skirmishes, pitched battles, and general engagements were to be seen
on every side. Here, as you walked along a path which led through a
thicket, you fell into a cunningly laid ambush, and became a target for
a body of musketeers whose tattooed limbs you could just see peeping
into view through the foliage. There you were assailed by the intrepid
garrison of a house, who levelled their bamboo rifles at you from
between the upright canes which composed its sides. Farther on you were
fired upon by a detachment of sharpshooters, mounted upon the top of a
pi-pi.

Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop! green guavas, seeds, and berries were flying about
in every direction, and during this dangerous state of affairs I was
half afraid that, like the man and his brazen bull, I should fall
a victim to my own ingenuity. Like everything else, however, the
excitement gradually wore away, though ever after occasionally pop-guns
might be heard at all hours of the day.

It was towards the close of the pop-gun war, that I was infinitely
diverted with a strange freak of Marheyo’s.

I had worn, when I quitted the ship, a pair of thick pumps, which, from
the rough usage they had received in scaling precipices and sliding down
gorges, were so dilapidated as to be altogether unfit for use--so, at
least, would have thought the generality of people, and so they most
certainly were, when considered in the light of shoes. But things
unservicable in one way, may with advantage be applied in another,
that is, if one have genius enough for the purpose. This genius Marheyo
possessed in a superlative degree, as he abundantly evinced by the use
to which he put those sorely bruised and battered old shoes.

Every article, however trivial, which belonged to me, the natives
appeared to regard as sacred; and I observed that for several days
after becoming an inmate of the house, my pumps were suffered to remain,
untouched, where I had first happened to throw them. I remembered,
however, that after awhile I had missed them from their accustomed
place; but the matter gave me no concern, supposing that Tinor--like any
other tidy housewife, having come across them in some of her domestic
occupations--had pitched the useless things out of the house. But I was
soon undeceived.

One day I observed old Marheyo bustling about me with unusual activity,
and to such a degree as almost to supersede Kory-Kory in the functions
of his office. One moment he volunteered to trot off with me on his back
to the stream; and when I refused, noways daunted by the repulse, he
continued to frisk about me like a superannuated house-dog. I could not
for the life of me conjecture what possessed the old gentleman, until
all at once, availing himself of the temporary absence of the household,
he went through a variety of of uncouth gestures, pointing eagerly down
to my feet, then up to a little bundle, which swung from the ridge pole
overhead. At last I caught a faint idea of his meaning, and motioned him
to lower the package. He executed the order in the twinkling of an eye,
and unrolling a piece of tappa, displayed to my astonished gaze the
identical pumps which I thought had been destroyed long before.

I immediately comprehended his desire, and very generously gave him the
shoes, which had become quite mouldy, wondering for what earthly purpose
he could want them. The same afternoon I descried the venerable warrior
approaching the house, with a slow, stately gait, ear-rings in ears, and
spear in hand, with this highly ornamental pair of shoes suspended from
his neck by a strip of bark, and swinging backwards and forwards on
his capacious chest. In the gala costume of the tasteful Marheyo, these
calf-skin pendants ever after formed the most striking feature.

But to turn to something a little more important. Although the whole
existence of the inhabitants of the valley seemed to pass away exempt
from toil, yet there were some light employments which, although amusing
rather than laborious as occupations, contributed to their comfort and
luxury. Among these the most important was the manufacture of the native
cloth,--‘tappa’,--so well known, under various modifications, throughout
the whole Polynesian Archipelago. As is generally understood, this
useful and sometimes elegant article is fabricated from the bark
of different trees. But, as I believe that no description of its
manufacture has ever been given, I shall state what I know regarding it.

In the manufacture of the beautiful white tappa generally worn on the
Marquesan Islands, the preliminary operation consists in gathering a
certain quantity of the young branches of the cloth-tree. The exterior
green bark being pulled off as worthless, there remains a slender
fibrous substance, which is carefully stripped from the stick, to which
it closely adheres. When a sufficient quantity of it has been collected,
the various strips are enveloped in a covering of large leaves, which
the natives use precisely as we do wrapping-paper, and which are secured
by a few turns of a line passed round them. The package is then laid in
the bed of some running stream, with a heavy stone placed over it, to
prevent its being swept away. After it has remained for two or three
days in this state, it is drawn out, and exposed, for a short time, to
the action of the air, every distinct piece being attentively inspected,
with a view of ascertaining whether it has yet been sufficiently
affected by the operation. This is repeated again and again, until the
desired result is obtained.

When the substance is in a proper state for the next process, it
betrays evidences of incipient decomposition; the fibres are relaxed and
softened, and rendered perfectly malleable. The different strips are
now extended, one by one, in successive layers, upon some smooth
surface--generally the prostrate trunk of a cocoanut tree--and the heap
thus formed is subjected, at every new increase, to a moderate beating,
with a sort of wooden mallet, leisurely applied. The mallet is made of a
hard heavy wood resembling ebony, is about twelve inches in length, and
perhaps two in breadth, with a rounded handle at one end, and in shape
is the exact counterpart of one of our four-sided razor-strops. The flat
surfaces of the implement are marked with shallow parallel indentations,
varying in depth on the different sides, so as to be adapted to the
several stages of the operation. These marks produce the corduroy sort
of stripes discernible in the tappa in its finished state. After being
beaten in the manner I have described, the material soon becomes blended
in one mass, which, moistened occasionally with water, is at intervals
hammered out, by a kind of gold-beating process, to any degree of
thinness required. In this way the cloth is easily made to vary in
strength and thickness, so as to suit the numerous purposes to which it
is applied.

When the operation last described has been concluded, the new-made tappa
is spread out on the grass to bleach and dry, and soon becomes of a
dazzling whiteness. Sometimes, in the first stages of the manufacture,
the substance is impregnated with a vegetable juice, which gives it
a permanent colour. A rich brown and a bright yellow are occasionally
seen, but the simple taste of the Typee people inclines them to prefer
the natural tint.

The notable wife of Kamehameha, the renowned conqueror and king of the
Sandwich Islands, used to pride herself in the skill she displayed in
dyeing her tappa with contrasting colours disposed in regular figures;
and, in the midst of the innovations of the times, was regarded, towards
the decline of her life, as a lady of the old school, clinging as she
did to the national cloth, in preference to the frippery of the
European calicoes. But the art of printing the tappa is unknown upon the
Marquesan Islands. In passing along the valley, I was often attracted by
the noise of the mallet, which, when employed in the manufacture of
the cloth produces at every stroke of its hard, heavy wood, a clear,
ringing, and musical sound, capable of being heard at a great distance.
When several of these implements happen to be in operation at the same
time, near one another, the effect upon the ear of a person, at a little
distance, is really charming.



CHAPTER TWENTY

HISTORY OF A DAY AS USUALLY SPENT IN TYPEE VALLEY--DANCES OF THE
MARQUESAN GIRLS

NOTHING can be more uniform and undiversified than the life of the
Typees; one tranquil day of ease and happiness follows another in quiet
succession; and with these unsophisicated savages the history of a
day is the history of a life. I will, therefore, as briefly as I can,
describe one of our days in the valley.

To begin with the morning. We were not very early risers--the sun would
be shooting his golden spikes above the Happar mountain, ere I threw
aside my tappa robe, and girding my long tunic about my waist, sallied
out with Fayaway and Kory-Kory, and the rest of the household, and bent
my steps towards the stream. Here we found congregated all those who
dwelt in our section of the valley; and here we bathed with them. The
fresh morning air and the cool flowing waters put both soul and body in
a glow, and after a half-hour employed in this recreation, we sauntered
back to the house--Tinor and Marheyo gathering dry sticks by the way
for fire-wood; some of the young men laying the cocoanut trees under
contribution as they passed beneath them; while Kory-Kory played his
outlandish pranks for my particular diversion, and Fayaway and I, not
arm in arm to be sure, but sometimes hand in hand, strolled along, with
feelings of perfect charity for all the world, and especial good-will
towards each other.

Our morning meal was soon prepared. The islanders are somewhat
abstemious at this repast; reserving the more powerful efforts of
their appetite to a later period of the day. For my own part, with the
assistance of my valet, who, as I have before stated, always officiated
as spoon on these occasions, I ate sparingly from one of Tinor’s
trenchers, of poee-poee; which was devoted exclusively for my own use,
being mixed with the milky meat of ripe cocoanut. A section of a roasted
bread-fruit, a small cake of ‘Amar’, or a mess of ‘Cokoo,’ two or three
bananas, or a mammee-apple; an annuee, or some other agreeable and
nutritious fruit served from day to day to diversify the meal, which was
finished by tossing off the liquid contents of a young cocoanut or two.

While partaking of this simple repast, the inmates of Marheyo’s house,
after the style of the ancient Romans, reclined in sociable groups upon
the divan of mats, and digestion was promoted by cheerful conversation.

After the morning meal was concluded, pipes were lighted; and among them
my own especial pipe, a present from the noble Mehevi.

The islanders, who only smoke a whiff or two at a time, and at long
intervals, and who keep their pipes going from hand to hand continually,
regarded my systematic smoking of four or five pipefuls of tobacco in
succession, as something quite wonderful. When two or three pipes had
circulated freely, the company gradually broke up. Marheyo went to the
little hut he was forever building. Tinor began to inspect her rolls of
tappa, or employed her busy fingers in plaiting grass-mats. The girls
anointed themselves with their fragrant oils, dressed their hair, or
looked over their curious finery, and compared together their ivory
trinkets, fashioned out of boar’s tusks or whale’s teeth. The young men
and warriors produced their spears, paddles, canoe-gear, battle-clubs,
and war-conchs, and occupied themselves in carving, all sorts of figures
upon them with pointed bits of shell or flint, and adorning them,
especially the war-conchs, with tassels of braided bark and tufts of
human hair. Some, immediately after eating, threw themselves once more
upon the inviting mats, and resumed the employment of the previous
night, sleeping as soundly as if they had not closed their eyes for a
week. Others sallied out into the groves, for the purpose of gathering
fruit or fibres of bark and leaves; the last two being in constant
requisition, and applied to a hundred uses. A few, perhaps, among the
girls, would slip into the woods after flowers, or repair to the stream
will; small calabashes and cocoanut shells, in order to polish them
by friction with a smooth stone in the water. In truth these innocent
people seemed to be at no loss for something to occupy their time; and
it would be no light task to enumerate all their employments, or rather
pleasures.

My own mornings I spent in a variety of ways. Sometimes I rambled about
from house to house, sure of receiving a cordial welcome wherever I
went; or from grove to grove, and from one shady place to another, in
company with Kory-Kory and Fayaway, and a rabble rout of merry young
idlers. Sometimes I was too indolent for exercise, and accepting one of
the many invitations I was continually receiving, stretched myself out
on the mats of some hospitable dwelling, and occupied myself pleasantly
either in watching the proceedings of those around me or taking part
in them myself. Whenever I chose to do the latter, the delight of the
islanders was boundless; and there was always a throng of competitors
for the honour of instructing me in any particular craft. I soon became
quite an accomplished hand at making tappa--could braid a grass sling as
well as the best of them--and once, with my knife, carved the handle of
a javelin so exquisitely, that I have no doubt, to this day, Karnoonoo,
its owner, preserves it as a surprising specimen of my skill. As noon
approached, all those who had wandered forth from our habitation, began
to return; and when midday was fairly come scarcely a sound was to be
heard in the valley: a deep sleep fell upon all. The luxurious siesta
was hardly ever omitted, except by old Marheyo, who was so eccentric
a character, that he seemed to be governed by no fixed principles
whatever; but acting just according to the humour of the moment,
slept, ate, or tinkered away at his little hut, without regard to the
proprieties of time or place. Frequently he might have been seen taking
a nap in the sun at noon-day, or a bath in the stream of mid-night.
Once I beheld him perched eighty feet from the ground, in the tuft of a
cocoanut tree, smoking; and often I saw him standing up to the waist
in water, engaged in plucking out the stray hairs of his beard, using a
piece of muscle-shell for tweezers.

The noon-tide slumber lasted generally an hour and a half: very often
longer; and after the sleepers had arisen from their mats they again
had recourse to their pipes, and then made preparations for the most
important meal of the day.

I, however, like those gentlemen of leisure who breakfast at home and
dine at their club, almost invariably, during my intervals of health,
enjoyed the afternoon repast with the bachelor chiefs of the Ti, who
were always rejoiced to see me, and lavishly spread before me all the
good things which their larder afforded. Mehevi generally introduced
among other dainties a baked pig, an article which I have every reason
to suppose was provided for my sole gratification.

The Ti was a right jovial place. It did my heart, as well as my body,
good to visit it. Secure from female intrusion, there was no restraint
upon the hilarity of the warriors, who, like the gentlemen of Europe
after the cloth is drawn and the ladies retire, freely indulged their
mirth.

After spending a considerable portion of the afternoon at the Ti, I
usually found myself, as the cool of the evening came on, either sailing
on the little lake with Fayaway, or bathing in the waters of the
stream with a number of the savages, who, at this hour, always repaired
thither. As the shadows of night approached Marheyo’s household were
once more assembled under his roof: tapers were lit, long curious chants
were raised, interminable stories were told (for which one present was
little the wiser), and all sorts of social festivities served to while
away the time.

The young girls very often danced by moonlight in front of their
dwellings. There are a great variety of these dances, in which, however,
I never saw the men take part. They all consist of active, romping,
mischievous evolutions, in which every limb is brought into requisition.
Indeed, the Marquesan girls dance all over, as it were; not only do
their feet dance, but their arms, hands, fingers, ay, their very eyes,
seem to dance in their heads.

The damsels wear nothing but flowers and their compendious gala tunics;
and when they plume themselves for the dance, they look like a band of
olive-coloured Sylphides on the point of taking wing. In good sooth,
they so sway their floating forms, arch their necks, toss aloft their
naked arms, and glide, and swim, and whirl, that it was almost too much
for a quiet, sober-minded, modest young man like myself.

Unless some particular festivity was going forward, the inmates of
Marheyo’s house retired to their mats rather early in the evening; but
not for the night, since, after slumbering lightly for a while, they
rose again, relit their tapers, partook of the third and last meal of
the day, at which poee-poee alone was eaten, and then, after inhaling a
narcotic whiff from a pipe of tobacco, disposed themselves for the great
business of night, sleep. With the Marquesans it might almost most be
styled the great business of life, for they pass a large portion
of their time in the arms of Somnus. The native strength of their
constitution is no way shown more emphatically than in the quantity of
sleep they can endure. To many of them, indeed, life is little else than
an often interrupted and luxurious nap.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE SPRING OF ARVA WAI--REMARKABLE MONUMENTAL REMAINS--SOME IDEAS WITH
REGARD TO THE HISTORY OF THE PI-PIS FOUND IN THE VALLEY

ALMOST every country has its medicinal springs famed for their healing
virtues. The Cheltenham of Typee is embosomed in the deepest solitude,
and but seldom receives a visitor. It is situated remote from any
dwelling, a little way up the mountain, near the head of the valley; and
you approach it by a pathway shaded by the most beautiful foliage, and
adorned with a thousand fragrant plants. The mineral waters of Arva Wai*
ooze forth from the crevices of a rock, and gliding down its mossy side,
fall at last, in many clustering drops, into a natural basin of stone
fringed round with grass and dewy-looking little violet-coloured
flowers, as fresh and beautiful as the perpetual moisture they enjoy can
make them.

*I presume this might be translated into ‘Strong Waters’. Arva is the
name bestowed upon a root the properties of which are both inebriating
and medicinal. ‘Wai’ is the Marquesan word for water.



The water is held in high estimation by the islanders, some of whom
consider it an agreeable as well as a medicinal beverage; they bring it
from the mountain in their calabashes, and store it away beneath heaps
of leaves in some shady nook near the house. Old Marheyo had a great
love for the waters of the spring. Every now and then he lugged off to
the mountain a great round demijohn of a calabash, and, panting with his
exertions, brought it back filled with his darling fluid.

The water tasted like a solution of a dozen disagreeable things, and was
sufficiently nauseous to have made the fortune of the proprietor, had
the spa been situated in the midst of any civilized community.

As I am no chemist, I cannot give a scientific analysis of the water.
All I know about the matter is, that one day Marheyo in my presence
poured out the last drop from his huge calabash, and I observed at the
bottom of the vessel a small quantity of gravelly sediment very much
resembling our common sand. Whether this is always found in the water,
and gives it its peculiar flavour and virtues, or whether its presence
was merely incidental, I was not able to ascertain.

One day in returning from this spring by a circuitous path, I came upon
a scene which reminded me of Stonehenge and the architectural labours of
the Druids.

At the base of one of the mountains, and surrounded on all sides by
dense groves, a series of vast terraces of stone rises, step by step,
for a considerable distance up the hill side. These terraces cannot
be less than one hundred yards in length and twenty in width. Their
magnitude, however, is less striking than the immense size of the blocks
composing them. Some of the stones, of an oblong shape, are from ten
to fifteen feet in length, and five or six feet thick. Their sides are
quite smooth, but though square, and of pretty regular formation, they
bear no mark of the chisel. They are laid together without cement, and
here and there show gaps between. The topmost terrace and the lower
one are somewhat peculiar in their construction. They have both a
quadrangular depression in the centre, leaving the rest of the terrace
elevated several feet above it. In the intervals of the stones immense
trees have taken root, and their broad boughs stretching far over, and
interlacing together, support a canopy almost impenetrable to the sun.
Overgrowing the greater part of them, and climbing from one to another,
is a wilderness of vines, in whose sinewy embrace many of the stones
lie half-hidden, while in some places a thick growth of bushes entirely
covers them. There is a wild pathway which obliquely crosses two of
these terraces; and so profound is the shade, so dense the vegetation,
that a stranger to the place might pass along it without being aware of
their existence.

These structures bear every indication of a very high antiquity and
Kory-Kory, who was my authority in all matters of scientific research,
gave me to understand that they were coeval with the creation of the
world; that the great gods themselves were the builders; and that they
would endure until time shall be no more.

Kory-Kory’s prompt explanation and his attributing the work to a
divine origin, at once convinced me that neither he nor the rest of his
country-men knew anything about them.

As I gazed upon this monument, doubtless the work of an extinct and
forgotten race, thus buried in the green nook of an island at the ends
of the earth, the existence of which was yesterday unknown, a stronger
feeling of awe came over me than if I had stood musing at the mighty
base of the Pyramid of Cheops. There are no inscriptions, no sculpture,
no clue, by which to conjecture its history; nothing but the dumb
stones. How many generations of the majestic trees which overshadow them
have grown and flourished and decayed since first they were erected!

These remains naturally suggest many interesting reflections. They
establish the great age of the island, an opinion which the builders
of theories concerning, the creation of the various groups in the South
Seas are not always inclined to admit. For my own part, I think it
just as probable that human beings were living in the valleys of the
Marquesas three thousand years ago as that they were inhabiting the land
of Egypt. The origin of the island of Nukuheva cannot be imputed to the
coral insect; for indefatigable as that wonderful creature is, it would
be hardly muscular enough to pile rocks one upon the other more than
three thousand feet above the level of the sea. That the land may have
been thrown up by a submarine volcano is as possible as anything else.
No one can make an affidavit to the contrary, and therefore I still say
nothing against the supposition: indeed, were geologists to assert that
the whole continent of America had in like manner been formed by the
simultaneous explosion of a train of Etnas laid under the water all the
way from the North Pole to the parallel of Cape Horn, I am the last man
in the world to contradict them.

I have already mentioned that the dwellings of the islanders were almost
invariably built upon massive stone foundations, which they call pi-pis.
The dimensions of these, however, as well as of the stones composing
them, are comparatively small: but there are other and larger erections
of a similar description comprising the ‘morais’, or burying grounds,
and festival-places, in nearly all the valleys of the island. Some of
these piles are so extensive, and so great a degree of labour and skill
must have been requisite in constructing them, that I can scarcely
believe they were built by the ancestors of the present inhabitants. If
indeed they were, the race has sadly deteriorated in their knowledge of
the mechanic arts. To say nothing of their habitual indolence, by what
contrivance within the reach of so simple a people could such enormous
masses have been moved or fixed in their places? and how could they with
their rude implements have chiselled and hammered them into shape?

All of these larger pi-pis--like that of the Hoolah Hoolah ground in the
Typee valley--bore incontestible marks of great age; and I am disposed
to believe that their erection may be ascribed to the same race of men
who were the builders of the still more ancient remains I have just
described.

According to Kory-Kory’s account, the pi-pi upon which stands the Hoolah
Hoolah ground was built a great many moons ago, under the direction of
Monoo, a great chief and warrior, and, as it would appear, master-mason
among the Typees. It was erected for the express purpose to which it is
at present devoted, in the incredibly short period of one sun; and was
dedicated to the immortal wooden idols by a grand festival, which lasted
ten days and nights.

Among the smaller pi-pis, upon which stand the dwelling-houses of the
natives, I never observed any which intimated a recent erection. There
are in every part of the valley a great many of these massive stone
foundations which have no houses upon them. This is vastly convenient,
for whenever an enterprising islander chooses to emigrate a few hundred
yards from the place where he was born, all he has to do in order to
establish himself in some new locality, is to select one of the many
unappropriated pi-pis, and without further ceremony pitch his bamboo
tent upon it.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PREPARATIONS FOR A GRAND FESTIVAL IN THE VALLEY--STRANGE DOINGS IN
THE TABOO GROVES--MONUMENT OF CALABASHES--GALA COSTUME OF THE TYPEE
DAMSELS--DEPARTURE FOR THE FESTIVAL

FROM the time that my lameness had decreased I had made a daily practice
of visiting Mehevi at the Ti, who invariably gave me a most cordial
reception. I was always accompanied in these excursions by Fayaway
and the ever-present Kory-Kory. The former, as soon as we reached the
vicinity of the Ti--which was rigorously tabooed to the whole female
sex--withdrew to a neighbouring hut, as if her feminine delicacy
‘restricted’ her from approaching a habitation which might be regarded
as a sort of Bachelor’s Hall.

And in good truth it might well have been so considered. Although it
was the permanent residence of several distinguished chiefs, and of
the noble Mehevi in particular, it was still at certain seasons the
favourite haunt of all the jolly, talkative, and elderly savages of
the vale, who resorted thither in the same way that similar characters
frequent a tavern in civilized countries. There they would remain hour
after hour, chatting, smoking, eating poee-poee, or busily engaged in
sleeping for the good of their constitutions.

This building appeared to be the head-quarters of the valley, where all
flying rumours concentrated; and to have seen it filled with a crowd
of the natives, all males, conversing in animated clusters, while
multitudes were continually coming and going, one would have thought it
a kind of savage Exchange, where the rise and fall of Polynesian Stock
was discussed.

Mehevi acted as supreme lord over the place, spending the greater
portion of his time there: and often when, at particular hours of the
day, it was deserted by nearly every one else except the verd-antique
looking centenarians, who were fixtures in the building, the chief
himself was sure to be found enjoying his ‘otium cum dignitate’--upon
the luxurious mats which covered the floor. Whenever I made my
appearance he invariably rose, and like a gentleman doing the honours of
his mansion, invited me to repose myself wherever I pleased, and calling
out ‘tamaree!’ (boy), a little fellow would appear, and then retiring
for an instant, return with some savoury mess, from which the chief
would press me to regale myself. To tell the truth, Mehevi was indebted
to the excellence of his viands for the honour of my repeated visits--a
matter which cannot appear singular, when it is borne in mind that
bachelors, all the world over, are famous for serving up unexceptionable
repasts.

One day, on drawing near to the Ti, I observed that extensive
preparations were going forward, plainly betokening some approaching
festival. Some of the symptoms reminded me of the stir produced among
the scullions of a large hotel, where a grand jubilee dinner is about to
be given. The natives were hurrying about hither and thither, engaged in
various duties, some lugging off to the stream enormous hollow
bamboos, for the purpose of filling them with water; others chasing
furious-looking hogs through the bushes, in their endeavours to capture
them; and numbers employed in kneading great mountains of poee-poee
heaped up in huge wooden vessels.

After observing these lively indications for a while, I was attracted to
a neighbouring grove by a prodigious squeaking which I heard there. On
reaching the spot I found it proceeded from a large hog which a number
of natives were forcibly holding to the earth, while a muscular fellow,
armed with a bludgeon, was ineffectually aiming murderous blows at the
skull of the unfortunate porker. Again and again he missed his
writhing and struggling victim, but though puffing and panting with
his exertions, he still continued them; and after striking a sufficient
number of blows to have demolished an entire drove of oxen, with one
crashing stroke he laid him dead at his feet.

Without letting any blood from the body, it was immediately carried to a
fire which had been kindled near at hand and four savages taking hold of
the carcass by its legs, passed it rapidly to and fro in the flames.
In a moment the smell of burning bristles betrayed the object of this
procedure. Having got thus far in the matter, the body was removed to a
little distance and, being disembowelled, the entrails were laid aside
as choice parts, and the whole carcass thoroughly washed with water. An
ample thick green cloth, composed of the long thick leaves of a species
of palm-tree, ingeniously tacked together with little pins of bamboo,
was now spread upon the ground, in which the body being carefully
rolled, it was borne to an oven previously prepared to receive it. Here
it was at once laid upon the heated stones at the bottom, and covered
with thick layers of leaves, the whole being quickly hidden from sight
by a mound of earth raised over it.

Such is the summary style in which the Typees convert perverse-minded
and rebellious hogs into the most docile and amiable pork; a morsel
of which placed on the tongue melts like a soft smile from the lips of
Beauty.

I commend their peculiar mode of proceeding to the consideration of all
butchers, cooks, and housewives. The hapless porker whose fate I have
just rehearsed, was not the only one who suffered in that memorable day.
Many a dismal grunt, many an imploring squeak, proclaimed what was going
on throughout the whole extent of the valley; and I verily believe the
first-born of every litter perished before the setting of that fatal
sun.

The scene around the Ti was now most animated. Hogs and poee-poee were
baking in numerous ovens, which, heaped up with fresh earth into slight
elevations, looked like so many ant-hills. Scores of the savages were
vigorously plying their stone pestles in preparing masses of poee-poee,
and numbers were gathering green bread-fruit and young cocoanuts in the
surrounding groves; when an exceeding great multitude, with a view of
encouraging the rest in their labours, stood still, and kept shouting
most lustily without intermission.

It is a peculiarity among these people, that, when engaged in an
employment, they always make a prodigious fuss about it. So seldom do
they ever exert themselves, that when they do work they seem determined
that so meritorious an action shall not escape the observation of those
around if, for example, they have occasion to remove a stone to a little
distance, which perhaps might be carried by two able-bodied men, a whole
swarm gather about it, and, after a vast deal of palavering, lift it
up among them, every one struggling to get hold of it, and bear it off
yelling and panting as if accomplishing some mighty achievement. Seeing
them on these occasions, one is reminded of an infinity of black ants
clustering about and dragging away to some hole the leg of a deceased
fly.

Having for some time attentively observed these demonstrations of good
cheer, I entered the Ti, where Mehevi sat complacently looking out upon
the busy scene, and occasionally issuing his orders. The chief appeared
to be in an extraordinary flow of spirits and gave me to understand that
on the morrow there would be grand doings in the Groves generally, and
at the Ti in particular; and urged me by no means to absent myself. In
commemoration of what event, however, or in honour of what
distinguished personage, the feast was to be given, altogether passed my
comprehension. Mehevi sought to enlighten my ignorance, but he failed as
signally as when he had endeavoured to initiate me into the perplexing
arcana of the taboo.

On leaving the Ti, Kory-Kory, who had as a matter of course accompanied
me, observing that my curiosity remained unabated, resolved to make
everything plain and satisfactory. With this intent, he escorted
me through the Taboo Groves, pointing out to my notice a variety of
objects, and endeavoured to explain them in such an indescribable jargon
of words, that it almost put me in bodily pain to listen to him. In
particular, he led me to a remarkable pyramidical structure some three
yards square at the base, and perhaps ten feet in height, which had
lately been thrown up, and occupied a very conspicuous position. It
was composed principally of large empty calabashes, with a few polished
cocoanut shells, and looked not unlike a cenotaph of skulls. My cicerone
perceived the astonishment with which I gazed at this monument of savage
crockery, and immediately addressed himself in the task of enlightening
me: but all in vain; and to this hour the nature of the monument remains
a complete mystery to me. As, however, it formed so prominent a feature
in the approaching revels, I bestowed upon the latter, in my own mind,
the title of the ‘Feast of Calabashes’.

The following morning, awaking rather late, I perceived the whole of
Marheyo’s family busily engaged in preparing for the festival.

The old warrior himself was arranging in round balls the two grey locks
of hair that were suffered to grow from the crown of his head; his
earrings and spear, both well polished, lay beside him, while the highly
decorative pair of shoes hung suspended from a projecting cane against
the side of the house. The young men were similarly employed; and the
fair damsels, including Fayaway, were anointing themselves with ‘aka’,
arranging their long tresses, and performing other matters connected
with the duties of the toilet.

Having completed their preparations, the girls now exhibited themselves
in gala costume; the most conspicuous feature of which was a necklace
of beautiful white flowers, with the stems removed, and strung closely
together upon a single fibre of tappa. Corresponding ornaments were
inserted in their ears, and woven garlands upon their heads. About their
waist they wore a short tunic of spotless white tappa, and some of them
super-added to this a mantle of the same material, tied in an elaborate
bow upon the left shoulder, and falling about the figure in picturesque
folds.

Thus arrayed, I would have matched the charming Fayaway against any
beauty in the world.

People may say what they will about the taste evinced by our fashionable
ladies in dress. Their jewels, their feathers, their silks, and
their furbelows, would have sunk into utter insignificance beside the
exquisite simplicity of attire adopted by the nymphs of the vale on this
festive occasion. I should like to have seen a gallery of coronation
beauties, at Westminster Abbey, confronted for a moment by this band of
island girls; their stiffness, formality, and affectation, contrasted
with the artless vivacity and unconcealed natural graces of these savage
maidens. It would be the Venus de’ Medici placed beside a milliner’s
doll. It was not long before Kory-Kory and myself were left alone in the
house, the rest of its inmates having departed for the Taboo Groves.
My valet was all impatience to follow them; and was as fidgety about my
dilatory movements as a diner out waiting hat in hand at the bottom
of the stairs for some lagging companion. At last, yielding to his
importunities, I set out for the Ti. As we passed the houses peeping out
from the groves through which our route lay, I noticed that they were
entirely deserted by their inhabitants.

When we reached the rock that abruptly terminated the path, and
concealed from us the festive scene, wild shouts and a confused blending
of voices assured me that the occasion, whatever it might be, had
drawn together a great multitude. Kory-Kory, previous to mounting the
elevation, paused for a moment, like a dandy at a ball-room door, to put
a hasty finish to his toilet. During this short interval, the thought
struck me that I ought myself perhaps to be taking some little pains
with my appearance.

But as I had no holiday raiment, I was not a little puzzled to devise
some means of decorating myself. However, as I felt desirous to create a
sensation, I determined to do all that lay in my power; and knowing that
I could not delight the savages more than by conforming to their style
of dress, I removed from my person the large robe of tappa which I was
accustomed to wear over my shoulders whenever I sallied into the open
air, and remained merely girt about with a short tunic descending from
my waist to my knees.

My quick-witted attendant fully appreciated the compliment I was paying
to the costume of his race, and began more sedulously to arrange the
folds of the one only garment which remained to me. Whilst he was doing
this, I caught sight of a knot of young lasses, who were sitting near us
on the grass surrounded by heaps of flowers which they were forming into
garlands. I motioned to them to bring some of their handywork to me;
and in an instant a dozen wreaths were at my disposal. One of them I
put round the apology for a hat which I had been forced to construct for
myself out of palmetto-leaves, and some of the others I converted into a
splendid girdle. These operations finished, with the slow and dignified
step of a full-dressed beau I ascended the rock.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE FEAST OF CALABASHES

THE whole population of the valley seemed to be gathered within the
precincts of the grove. In the distance could be seen the long front of
the Ti, its immense piazza swarming with men, arrayed in every variety
of fantastic costume, and all vociferating with animated gestures; while
the whole interval between it and the place where I stood was enlivened
by groups of females fancifully decorated, dancing, capering, and
uttering wild exclamations. As soon as they descried me they set up a
shout of welcome; and a band of them came dancing towards me, chanting
as they approached some wild recitative. The change in my garb seemed to
transport them with delight, and clustering about me on all sides, they
accompanied me towards the Ti. When however we drew near it these joyous
nymphs paused in their career, and parting on either side, permitted me
to pass on to the now densely thronged building.

So soon as I mounted to the pi-pi I saw at a glance that the revels were
fairly under way.

What lavish plenty reigned around?--Warwick feasting his retainers with
beef and ale, was a niggard to the noble Mehevi!--All along the piazza
of the Ti were arranged elaborately carved canoe-shaped vessels, some
twenty feet in length, tied with newly made poee-poee, and sheltered
from the sun by the broad leaves of the banana. At intervals were heaps
of green bread-fruit, raised in pyramidical stacks, resembling the
regular piles of heavy shot to be seen in the yard of an arsenal.
Inserted into the interstices of the huge stones which formed the pi-pi
were large boughs of trees; hanging from the branches of which, and
screened from the sun by their foliage, were innumerable little packages
with leafy coverings, containing the meat of the numerous hogs which
had been slain, done up in this manner to make it more accessible to the
crowd. Leaning against the railing on the piazza were an immense
number of long, heavy bamboos, plugged at the lower end, and with their
projecting muzzles stuffed with a wad of leaves. These were filled with
water from the stream, and each of them might hold from four to five
gallons.

The banquet being thus spread, naught remained but for everyone to
help himself at his pleasure. Accordingly not a moment passed but the
transplanted boughs I have mentioned were rifled by the throng of the
fruit they certainly had never borne before. Calabashes of poee-poee
were continually being replenished from the extensive receptacle in
which that article was stored, and multitudes of little fires were
kindled about the Ti for the purpose of roasting the bread-fruit.

Within the building itself was presented a most extraordinary scene. The
immense lounge of mats lying between the parallel rows of the trunks of
cocoanut trees, and extending the entire length of the house, at least
two hundred feet, was covered by the reclining forms of a host of chiefs
and warriors who were eating at a great rate, or soothing the cares of
Polynesian life in the sedative fumes of tobacco. The smoke was inhaled
from large pipes, the bowls of which, made out of small cocoanut shells,
were curiously carved in strange heathenish devices. These were passed
from mouth to mouth by the recumbent smokers, each of whom, taking two
or three prodigious whiffs, handed the pipe to his neighbour; sometimes
for that purpose stretching indolently across the body of some dozing
individual whose exertions at the dinner-table had already induced
sleep.

The tobacco used among the Typees was of a very mild and pleasing
flavour, and as I always saw it in leaves, and the natives appeared
pretty well supplied with it, I was led to believe that it must have
been the growth of the valley. Indeed Kory-Kory gave me to understand
that this was the case; but I never saw a single plant growing on the
island. At Nukuheva, and, I believe, in all the other valleys, the weed
is very scarce, being only obtained in small quantities from foreigners,
and smoking is consequently with the inhabitants of these places a very
great luxury. How it was that the Typees were so well furnished with
it I cannot divine. I should think them too indolent to devote any
attention to its culture; and, indeed, as far as my observation
extended, not a single atom of the soil was under any other cultivation
than that of shower and sunshine. The tobacco-plant, however, like the
sugar-cane, may grow wild in some remote part of the vale.

There were many in the Ti for whom the tobacco did not furnish a
sufficient stimulus, and who accordingly had recourse to ‘arva’, as a
more powerful agent in producing the desired effect.

‘Arva’ is a root very generally dispersed over the South Seas, and from
it is extracted a juice, the effects of which upon the system are at
first stimulating in a moderate degree; but it soon relaxes the muscles,
and exerting a narcotic influence produces a luxurious sleep. In
the valley this beverage was universally prepared in the following
way:--Some half-dozen young boys seated themselves in a circle around
an empty wooden vessel, each one of them being supplied with a certain
quantity of the roots of the ‘arva’, broken into small bits and laid
by his side. A cocoanut goblet of water was passed around the juvenile
company, who rinsing their mouths with its contents, proceeded to the
business before them. This merely consisted in thoroughly masticating
the ‘arva’, and throwing it mouthful after mouthful into the receptacle
provided. When a sufficient quantity had been thus obtained water was
poured upon the mass, and being stirred about with the forefinger of the
right hand, the preparation was soon in readiness for use. The ‘arva’
has medicinal qualities.

Upon the Sandwich Islands it has been employed with no small success in
the treatment of scrofulous affections, and in combating the ravages
of a disease for whose frightful inroads the ill-starred inhabitants of
that group are indebted to their foreign benefactors. But the tenants of
the Typee valley, as yet exempt from these inflictions, generally employ
the ‘arva’ as a minister to social enjoyment, and a calabash of the
liquid circulates among them as the bottle with us.

Mehevi, who was greatly delighted with the change in my costume, gave
me a cordial welcome. He had reserved for me a most delectable mess
of ‘cokoo’, well knowing my partiality for that dish; and had likewise
selected three or four young cocoanuts, several roasted bread-fruit,
and a magnificent bunch of bananas, for my especial comfort and
gratification. These various matters were at once placed before me; but
Kory-Kory deemed the banquet entirely insufficient for my wants until
he had supplied me with one of the leafy packages of pork, which,
notwithstanding the somewhat hasty manner in which it had been prepared,
possessed a most excellent flavour, and was surprisingly sweet and
tender.

Pork is not a staple article of food among the people of the Marquesas;
consequently they pay little attention to the BREEDING of the swine. The
hogs are permitted to roam at large on the groves, where they obtain
no small part of their nourishment from the cocoanuts which continually
fall from the trees. But it is only after infinite labour and
difficulty, that the hungry animal can pierce the husk and shell so as
to get at the meat. I have frequently been amused at seeing one of
them, after crunching the obstinate nut with his teeth for a long time
unsuccessfully, get into a violent passion with it. He would then root
furiously under the cocoanut, and, with a fling of his snout, toss it
before him on the ground. Following it up, he would crunch at it again
savagely for a moment, and then next knock it on one side, pausing
immediately after, as if wondering how it could so suddenly have
disappeared. In this way the persecuted cocoanuts were often chased half
across the valley.

The second day of the Feast of Calabashes was ushered in by still more
uproarious noises than the first. The skins of innumerable sheep seemed
to be resounding to the blows of an army of drummers. Startled from my
slumbers by the din, I leaped up, and found the whole household engaged
in making preparations for immediate departure. Curious to discover of
what strange events these novel sounds might be the precursors, and not
a little desirous to catch a sight of the instruments which produced
the terrific noise, I accompanied the natives as soon as they were in
readiness to depart for the Taboo Groves.

The comparatively open space that extended from the Ti toward the rock,
to which I have before alluded as forming the ascent to the place, was,
with the building itself, now altogether deserted by the men; the whole
distance being filled by bands of females, shouting and dancing under
the influence of some strange excitement.

I was amused at the appearance of four or five old women who, in a state
of utter nudity, with their arms extended flatly down their sides, and
holding themselves perfectly erect, were leaping stiffly into the
air, like so many sticks bobbing to the surface, after being pressed
perpendicularly into the water. They preserved the utmost gravity of
countenance, and continued their extraordinary movements without
a single moment’s cessation. They did not appear to attract the
observation of the crowd around them, but I must candidly confess that
for my own part, I stared at them most pertinaciously.

Desirous of being enlightened in regard to the meaning of this peculiar
diversion, I turned, inquiringly to Kory-Kory; that learned Typee
immediately proceeded to explain the whole matter thoroughly. But all
that I could comprehend from what he said was, that the leaping figures
before me were bereaved widows, whose partners had been slain in battle
many moons previously; and who, at every festival, gave public evidence
in this manner of their calamities. It was evident that Kory-Kory
considered this an all-sufficient reason for so indecorous a custom; but
I must say that it did not satisfy me as to its propriety.

Leaving these afflicted females, we passed on to the Hoolah Hoolah
ground. Within the spacious quadrangle, the whole population of the
valley seemed to be assembled, and the sight presented was truly
remarkable. Beneath the sheds of bamboo which opened towards the
interior of the square reclined the principal chiefs and warriors, while
a miscellaneous throng lay at their ease under the enormous trees which
spread a majestic canopy overhead. Upon the terraces of the gigantic
altars, at each end, were deposited green bread-fruit in baskets of
cocoanut leaves, large rolls of tappa, bunches of ripe bananas, clusters
of mammee-apples, the golden-hued fruit of the artu-tree, and baked
hogs, laid out in large wooden trenchers, fancifully decorated with
freshly plucked leaves, whilst a variety of rude implements of war were
piled in confused heaps before the ranks of hideous idols. Fruits of
various kinds were likewise suspended in leafen baskets, from the tops
of poles planted uprightly, and at regular intervals, along the lower
terraces of both altars. At their base were arranged two parallel rows
of cumbersome drums, standing at least fifteen feet in height, and
formed from the hollow trunks of large trees. Their heads were covered
with shark skins, and their barrels were elaborately carved with various
quaint figures and devices. At regular intervals they were bound round
by a species of sinnate of various colours, and strips of native cloth
flattened upon them here and there. Behind these instruments were built
slight platforms, upon which stood a number of young men who, beating
violently with the palms of their hands upon the drum-heads, produced
those outrageous sounds which had awakened me in the morning. Every few
minutes these musical performers hopped down from their elevation into
the crowd below, and their places were immediately supplied by fresh
recruits. Thus an incessant din was kept up that might have startled
Pandemonium.

Precisely in the middle of the quadrangle were placed perpendicularly
in the ground, a hundred or more slender, fresh-cut poles, stripped of
their bark, and decorated at the end with a floating pennon of white
tappa; the whole being fenced about with a little picket of canes. For
what purpose these angular ornaments were intended I in vain endeavoured
to discover.

Another most striking feature of the performance was exhibited by a
score of old men, who sat cross-legged in the little pulpits, which
encircled the trunks of the immense trees growing in the middle of the
enclosure. These venerable gentlemen, who I presume were the priests,
kept up an uninterrupted monotonous chant, which was partly drowned in
the roar of drums. In the right hand they held a finely woven grass fan,
with a heavy black wooden handle curiously chased: these fans they kept
in continual motion.

But no attention whatever seemed to be paid to the drummers or to the
old priests; the individuals who composed the vast crowd present being
entirely taken up in chanting and laughing with one another, smoking,
drinking ‘arva’, and eating. For all the observation it attracted,
or the good it achieved, the whole savage orchestra might with great
advantage to its own members and the company in general, have ceased the
prodigious uproar they were making.

In vain I questioned Kory-Kory and others of the natives, as to the
meaning of the strange things that were going on; all their explanations
were conveyed in such a mass of outlandish gibberish and gesticulation
that I gave up the attempt in despair. All that day the drums resounded,
the priests chanted, and the multitude feasted and roared till sunset,
when the throng dispersed, and the Taboo Groves were again abandoned to
quiet and repose. The next day the same scene was repeated until night,
when this singular festival terminated.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

IDEAS SUGGESTED BY THE FEAST OF CALABASHES--INACCURACY OF CERTAIN
PUBLISHED ACCOUNTS OF THE ISLANDS--A REASON--NEGLECTED STATE OF
HEATHENISM IN THE VALLEY--EFFIGY OF A DEAD WARRIOR--A SINGULAR
SUPERSTITION--THE PRIEST KOLORY AND THE GOD MOA ARTUA--AMAZING RELIGIOUS
OBSERVANCE--A DILAPIDATED SHRINE--KORY-KORY AND THE IDOL--AN INFERENCE

ALTHOUGH I had been baffled in my attempts to learn the origin of
the Feast of Calabashes, yet it seemed very plain to me that it was
principally, if not wholly, of a religious character. As a religious
solemnity, however, it had not at all corresponded with the horrible
descriptions of Polynesian worship which we have received in some
published narratives, and especially in those accounts of the
evangelized islands with which the missionaries have favoured us. Did
not the sacred character of these persons render the purity of their
intentions unquestionable, I should certainly be led to suppose that
they had exaggerated the evils of Paganism, in order to enhance the
merit of their own disinterested labours.

In a certain work incidentally treating of the ‘Washington, or Northern
Marquesas Islands,’ I have seen the frequent immolation of human victims
upon the altars of their gods, positively and repeatedly charged upon
the inhabitants. The same work gives also a rather minute account of
their religion--enumerates a great many of their superstitions--and
makes known the particular designations of numerous orders of the
priesthood. One would almost imagine from the long list that is given
of cannibal primates, bishops, arch-deacons, prebendaries, and other
inferior ecclesiastics, that the sacerdotal order far outnumbered the
rest of the population, and that the poor natives were more severely
priest-ridden than even the inhabitants of the papal states. These
accounts are likewise calculated to leave upon the reader’s mind an
impression that human victims are daily cooked and served up upon the
altars; that heathenish cruelties of every description are continually
practised; and that these ignorant Pagans are in a state of the
extremest wretchedness in consequence of the grossness of their
superstitions. Be it observed, however, that all this information is
given by a man who, according to his own statement, was only at one of
the islands, and remained there but two weeks, sleeping every night on
board his ship, and taking little kid-glove excursions ashore in the
daytime, attended by an armed party.

Now, all I can say is, that in all my excursions through the valley of
Typee, I never saw any of these alleged enormities. If any of them are
practised upon the Marquesas Islands they must certainly have come to
my knowledge while living for months with a tribe of savages, wholly
unchanged from their original primitive condition, and reputed the most
ferocious in the South Seas.

The fact is, that there is a vast deal of unintentional humbuggery
in some of the accounts we have from scientific men concerning the
religious institutions of Polynesia. These learned tourists generally
obtain the greater part of their information from retired old South-Sea
rovers, who have domesticated themselves among the barbarous tribes of
the Pacific. Jack, who has long been accustomed to the long-bow, and
to spin tough yarns on the ship’s forecastle, invariably officiates as
showman of the island on which he has settled, and having mastered a few
dozen words of the language, is supposed to know all about the people
who speak it. A natural desire to make himself of consequence in the
eyes of the strangers, prompts him to lay claim to a much greater
knowledge of such matters than he actually possesses. In reply to
incessant queries, he communicates not only all he knows but a good deal
more, and if there be any information deficient still he is at no
loss to supply it. The avidity with which his anecdotes are noted
down tickles his vanity, and his powers of invention increase with the
credulity auditors. He knows just the sort of information wanted, and
furnishes it to any extent.

This is not a supposed case; I have met with several individuals like
the one described, and I have been present at two or three of their
interviews with strangers.

Now, when the scientific voyager arrives at home with his collection
of wonders, he attempts, perhaps, to give a description of some of the
strange people he has been visiting. Instead of representing them as
a community of lusty savages, who are leading a merry, idle, innocent
life, he enters into a very circumstantial and learned narrative of
certain unaccountable superstitions and practices, about which he knows
as little as the islanders themselves. Having had little time, and
scarcely any opportunity, to become acquainted with the customs he
pretends to describe, he writes them down one after another in an
off-hand, haphazard style; and were the book thus produced to be
translated into the tongue of the people of whom it purports to give the
history, it would appear quite as wonderful to them as it does to the
American public, and much more improbable.

For my own part, I am free to confess my almost entire inability to
gratify any curiosity that may be felt with regard to the theology of
the valley. I doubt whether the inhabitants themselves could do so. They
are either too lazy or too sensible to worry themselves about abstract
points of religious belief. While I was among them, they never held any
synods or councils to settle the principles of their faith by agitating
them. An unbounded liberty of conscience seemed to prevail. Those
who pleased to do so were allowed to repose implicit faith in an
ill-favoured god with a large bottle-nose and fat shapeless arms crossed
upon his breast; whilst others worshipped an image which, having no
likeness either in heaven or on earth, could hardly be called an idol.
As the islanders always maintained a discreet reserve with regard to
my own peculiar views on religion, I thought it would be excessively
ill-bred of me to pry into theirs.

But, although my knowledge of the religious faith of the Typees was
unavoidably limited, one of their superstitious observances with which I
became acquainted interested me greatly.

In one of the most secluded portions of the valley within a stone’s
cast of Fayaway’s lake--for so I christened the scene of our island
yachting--and hard by a growth of palms, which stood ranged in order
along both banks of the stream, waving their green arms as if to do
honour to its passage, was the mausoleum of a deceased, warrior chief.
Like all the other edifices of any note, it was raised upon a small
pi-pi of stones, which, being of unusual height, was a conspicuous
object from a distance. A light thatching of bleached palmetto-leaves
hung over it like a self supported canopy; for it was not until you
came very near that you saw it was supported by four slender columns of
bamboo rising at each corner to a little more than the height of a man.
A clear area of a few yards surrounded the pi-pi, and was enclosed by
four trunks of cocoanut trees resting at the angles on massive blocks of
stone. The place was sacred. The sign of the inscrutable Taboo was seen
in the shape of a mystic roll of white tappa, suspended by a twisted
cord of the same material from the top of a slight pole planted within
the enclosure*. The sanctity of the spot appeared never to have been
violated. The stillness of the grave was there, and the calm solitude
around was beautiful and touching. The soft shadows of those lofty
palm-trees!--I can see them now--hanging over the little temple, as if
to keep out the intrusive sun.

*White appears to be the sacred colour among the Marquesans.

On all sides as you approached this silent spot you caught sight of the
dead chief’s effigy, seated in the stern of a canoe, which was raised on
a light frame a few inches above the level of the pi-pi. The canoe was
about seven feet in length; of a rich, dark coloured wood, handsomely
carved and adorned in many places with variegated bindings of stained
sinnate, into which were ingeniously wrought a number of sparkling
seashells, and a belt of the same shells ran all round it. The body
of the figure--of whatever material it might have been made--was
effectually concealed in a heavy robe of brown tappa, revealing; only
the hands and head; the latter skilfully carved in wood, and surmounted
by a superb arch of plumes. These plumes, in the subdued and gentle
gales which found access to this sequestered spot, were never for one
moment at rest, but kept nodding and waving over the chief’s brow. The
long leaves of the palmetto drooped over the eaves, and through them you
saw the warrior holding his paddle with both hands in the act of rowing,
leaning forward and inclining his head, as if eager to hurry on his
voyage. Glaring at him forever, and face to face, was a polished human
skull, which crowned the prow of the canoe. The spectral figurehead,
reversed in its position, glancing backwards, seemed to mock the
impatient attitude of the warrior.

When I first visited this singular place with Kory-Kory, he told me--or
at least I so understood him--that the chief was paddling his way to
the realms of bliss, and bread-fruit--the Polynesian heaven--where
every moment the bread-fruit trees dropped their ripened spheres to the
ground, and where there was no end to the cocoanuts and bananas: there
they reposed through the livelong eternity upon mats much finer than
those of Typee; and every day bathed their glowing limbs in rivers
of cocoanut oil. In that happy land there were plenty of plumes and
feathers, and boars’-tusks and sperm-whale teeth, far preferable to all
the shining trinkets and gay tappa of the white men; and, best of all,
women far lovelier than the daughters of earth were there in abundance.
‘A very pleasant place,’ Kory-Kory said it was; ‘but after all, not much
pleasanter, he thought, than Typee.’ ‘Did he not then,’ I asked him,
‘wish to accompany the warrior?’ ‘Oh no: he was very happy where he was;
but supposed that some time or other he would go in his own canoe.’

Thus far, I think, I clearly comprehended Kory-Kory. But there was a
singular expression he made use of at the time, enforced by as singular
a gesture, the meaning of which I would have given much to penetrate.
I am inclined to believe it must have been a proverb he uttered; for I
afterwards heard him repeat the same words several times, and in what
appeared to me to be a somewhat: similar sense. Indeed, Kory-Kory had
a great variety of short, smart-sounding sentences, with which he
frequently enlivened his discourse; and he introduced them with an air
which plainly intimated, that in his opinion, they settled the matter in
question, whatever it might be.

Could it have been then, that when I asked him whether he desired to go
to this heaven of bread-fruit, cocoanuts, and young ladies, which he had
been describing, he answered by saying something equivalent to our
old adage--‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’?--if he did,
Kory-Kory was a discreet and sensible fellow, and I cannot sufficiently
admire his shrewdness.

Whenever, in the course of my rambles through the valley I happened to
be near the chief’s mausoleum, I always turned aside to visit it. The
place had a peculiar charm for me; I hardly know why, but so it was. As
I leaned over the railing and gazed upon the strange effigy and watched
the play of the feathery head-dress, stirred by the same breeze which in
low tones breathed amidst the lofty palm-trees, I loved to yield myself
up to the fanciful superstition of the islanders, and could almost
believe that the grim warrior was bound heavenward. In this mood when
I turned to depart, I bade him ‘God speed, and a pleasant voyage.’ Aye,
paddle away, brave chieftain, to the land of spirits! To the material
eye thou makest but little progress; but with the eye of faith, I see
thy canoe cleaving the bright waves, which die away on those dimly
looming shores of Paradise.

This strange superstition affords another evidence of the fact, that
however ignorant man may be, he still feels within him his immortal
spirit yearning, after the unknown future.

Although the religious theories of the islands were a complete mystery
to me, their practical every-day operation could not be concealed. I
frequently passed the little temples reposing in the shadows of the
taboo groves and beheld the offerings--mouldy fruit spread out upon
a rude altar, or hanging in half-decayed baskets around some uncouth
jolly-looking image; I was present during the continuance of the
festival; I daily beheld the grinning idols marshalled rank and file in
the Hoolah Hoolah ground, and was often in the habit of meeting
those whom I supposed to be the priests. But the temples seemed to be
abandoned to solitude; the festival had been nothing more than a jovial
mingling of the tribe; the idols were quite harmless as any other logs
of wood; and the priests were the merriest dogs in the valley.

In fact religious affairs in Typee were at a very low ebb: all such
matters sat very lightly upon the thoughtless inhabitants; and, in the
celebration of many of their strange rites, they appeared merely to seek
a sort of childish amusement.

A curious evidence of this was given in a remarkable ceremony in which I
frequently saw Mehevi and several other chefs and warriors of note take
part; but never a single female.

Among those whom I looked upon as forming the priesthood of the valley,
there was one in particular who often attracted my notice, and whom
I could not help regarding as the head of the order. He was a noble
looking man, in the prime of his life, and of a most benignant aspect.
The authority this man, whose name was Kolory, seemed to exercise over
the rest, the episcopal part he took in the Feast of Calabashes, his
sleek and complacent appearance, the mystic characters which were
tattooed upon his chest, and above all the mitre he frequently wore,
in the shape of a towering head-dress, consisting of part of a cocoanut
branch, the stalk planted uprightly on his brow, and the leaflets
gathered together and passed round the temples and behind the ears, all
these pointed him out as Lord Primate of Typee. Kolory was a sort of
Knight Templar--a soldier-priest; for he often wore the dress of a
Marquesan warrior, and always carried a long spear, which, instead of
terminating in a paddle at the lower end, after the general fashion of
these weapons, was curved into a heathenish-looking little image. This
instrument, however, might perhaps have been emblematic of his double
functions. With one end in carnal combat he transfixed the enemies of
his tribe; and with the other as a pastoral crook he kept in order his
spiritual flock. But this is not all I have to say about Kolory.

His martial grace very often carried about with him what seemed to me
the half of a broken war-club. It was swathed round with ragged bits of
white tappa, and the upper part, which was intended to represent a
human head, was embellished with a strip of scarlet cloth of European
manufacture. It required little observation to discover that this
strange object was revered as a god. By the side of the big and lusty
images standing sentinel over the altars of the Hoolah Hoolah ground, it
seemed a mere pigmy in tatters. But appearances all the world over are
deceptive. Little men are sometimes very potent, and rags sometimes
cover very extensive pretensions. In fact, this funny little image was
the ‘crack’ god of the island; lording it over all the wooden lubbers
who looked so grim and dreadful; its name was Moa Artua*. And it was in
honour of Moa Artua, and for the entertainment of those who believe in
him, that the curious ceremony I am about to describe was observed.

*The word ‘Artua’, although having some other significations, is in
nearly all the Polynesian dialects used as the general designation of
the gods.



Mehevi and the chieftains of the Ti have just risen from their noontide
slumbers. There are no affairs of state to dispose of; and having eaten
two or three breakfasts in the course of the morning, the magnates of
the valley feel no appetite as yet for dinner. How are their leisure
moments to be occupied? They smoke, they chat, and at last one of their
number makes a proposition to the rest, who joyfully acquiescing, he
darts out of the house, leaps from the pi-pi, and disappears in the
grove. Soon you see him returning with Kolory, who bears the god Moa
Artua in his arms, and carries in one hand a small trough, hollowed out
in the likeness of a canoe. The priest comes along dandling his charge
as if it were a lachrymose infant he was endeavouring to put into a
good humour. Presently entering the Ti, he seats himself on the mats as
composedly as a juggler about to perform his sleight-of-hand tricks; and
with the chiefs disposed in a circle around him, commences his ceremony.
In the first place he gives Moa Artua an affectionate hug, then
caressingly lays him to his breast, and, finally, whispers something in
his ear; the rest of the company listening eagerly for a reply. But
the baby-god is deaf or dumb,--perhaps both, for never a word does, he
utter. At last Kolory speaks a little louder, and soon growing angry,
comes boldly out with what he has to say and bawls to him. He put me in
mind of a choleric fellow, who, after trying in vain to communicated a
secret to a deaf man, all at once flies into a passion and screams it
out so that every one may hear. Still Moa Artua remains as quiet as
ever; and Kolory, seemingly losing his temper, fetches him a box over
the head, strips him of his tappa and red cloth, and laying him in
a state of nudity in a little trough, covers him from sight. At this
proceeding all present loudly applaud and signify their approval by
uttering the adjective ‘motarkee’ with violent emphasis. Kolory however,
is so desirous his conduct should meet with unqualified approbation,
that he inquires of each individual separately whether under existing
circumstances he has not done perfectly right in shutting up Moa Artua.
The invariable response is ‘Aa, Aa’ (yes, yes), repeated over again
and again in a manner which ought to quiet the scruples of the most
conscientious. After a few moments Kolory brings forth his doll again,
and while arraying it very carefully in the tappa and red cloth,
alternately fondles and chides it. The toilet being completed, he once
more speaks to it aloud. The whole company hereupon show the greatest
interest; while the priest holding Moa Artua to his ear interprets to
them what he pretends the god is confidentially communicating to him.
Some items intelligence appear to tickle all present amazingly; for one
claps his hands in a rapture; another shouts with merriment; and a third
leaps to his feet and capers about like a madman.

What under the sun Moa Artua on these occasions had to say to Kolory
I never could find out; but I could not help thinking that the former
showed a sad want of spirit in being disciplined into making those
disclosures, which at first he seemed bent on withholding. Whether the
priest honestly interpreted what he believed the divinity said to him,
or whether he was not all the while guilty of a vile humbug, I shall
not presume to decide. At any rate, whatever as coming from the god
was imparted to those present seemed to be generally of a complimentary
nature: a fact which illustrates the sagacity of Kolory, or else the
timeserving disposition of this hardly used deity.

Moa Artua having nothing more to say, his bearer goes to nursing
him again, in which occupation, however, he is soon interrupted by a
question put by one of the warriors to the god. Kolory hereupon snatches
it up to his ear again, and after listening attentively, once more
officiates as the organ of communication. A multitude of questions and
answers having passed between the parties, much to the satisfaction of
those who propose them, the god is put tenderly to bed in the trough,
and the whole company unite in a long chant, led off by Kolory. This
ended, the ceremony is over; the chiefs rise to their feet in high good
humour, and my Lord Archbishop, after chatting awhile, and regaling
himself with a whiff or two from a pipe of tobacco, tucks the canoe
under his arm and marches off with it.

The whole of these proceedings were like those of a parcel of children
playing with dolls and baby houses.

For a youngster scarcely ten inches high, and with so few early
advantages as he doubtless had had, Moa Artua was certainly a precocious
little fellow if he really said all that was imputed to him; but for
what reason this poor devil of a deity, thus cuffed about, cajoled, and
shut up in a box, was held in greater estimation than the full-grown
and dignified personages of the Taboo Groves, I cannot divine. And yet
Mehevi, and other chiefs of unquestionable veracity--to say nothing of
the Primate himself--assured me over and over again that Moa Artua was
the tutelary deity of Typee, and was more to be held in honour than a
whole battalion of the clumsy idols in the Hoolah Hoolah grounds.

Kory-Kory--who seemed to have devoted considerable attention to the
study of theology, as he knew the names of all the graven images in the
valley, and often repeated them over to me--likewise entertained some
rather enlarged ideas with regard to the character and pretensions of
Moa Artua. He once gave me to understand, with a gesture there was no
misconceiving, that if he (Moa Artua) were so minded he could cause a
cocoanut tree to sprout out of his (Kory-Kory’s) head; and that it
would be the easiest thing in life for him (Moa Artua) to take the whole
island of Nukuheva in his mouth and dive down to the bottom of the sea
with it.

But in sober seriousness, I hardly knew what to make of the religion
of the valley. There was nothing that so much perplexed the illustrious
Cook, in his intercourse with the South Sea islanders, as their sacred
rites. Although this prince of navigators was in many instances assisted
by interpreters in the prosecution of his researches, he still frankly
acknowledges that he was at a loss to obtain anything like a clear
insight into the puzzling arcana of their faith. A similar admission has
been made by other eminent voyagers: by Carteret, Byron, Kotzebue, and
Vancouver.

For my own part, although hardly a day passed while I remained upon the
island that I did not witness some religious ceremony or other, it was
very much like seeing a parcel of ‘Freemasons’ making secret signs to
each other; I saw everything, but could comprehend nothing.

On the whole, I am inclined to believe, that the islanders in the
Pacific have no fixed and definite ideas whatever on the subject of
religion. I am persuaded that Kolory himself would be effectually posed
were he called upon to draw up the articles of his faith and pronounce
the creed by which he hoped to be saved. In truth, the Typees, so far
as their actions evince, submitted to no laws human or divine--always
excepting the thrice mysterious Taboo. The ‘independent electors’ of the
valley were not to be brow-beaten by chiefs, priests, idol or devils.
As for the luckless idols, they received more hard knocks than
supplications. I do not wonder that some of them looked so grim, and
stood so bolt upright as if fearful of looking to the right or the left
lest they should give any one offence. The fact is, they had to
carry themselves ‘PRETTY STRAIGHT,’ or suffer the consequences. Their
worshippers were such a precious set of fickle-minded and irreverent
heathens, that there was no telling when they might topple one of them
over, break it to pieces, and making a fire with it on the very altar
itself, fall to roasting the offerings of bread-fruit, and at them in
spite of its teeth.

In how little reverence these unfortunate deities were held by the
natives was on one occasion most convincingly proved to me.--Walking
with Kory-Kory through the deepest recesses of the groves, I perceived
a curious looking image, about six feet in height which originally had
been placed upright against a low pi-pi, surmounted by a ruinous bamboo
temple, but having become fatigued and weak in the knees, was now
carelessly leaning against it. The idol was partly concealed by the
foliage of a tree which stood near, and whose leafy boughs drooped over
the pile of stones, as if to protect the rude fane from the decay to
which it was rapidly hastening. The image itself was nothing more than
a grotesquely shaped log, carved in the likeness of a portly naked man
with the arms clasped over the head, the jaws thrown wide apart, and its
thick shapeless legs bowed into an arch. It was much decayed. The
lower part was overgrown with a bright silky moss. Thin spears of grass
sprouted from the distended mouth, and fringed the outline of the head
and arms. His godship had literally attained a green old age. All its
prominent points were bruised and battered, or entirely rotted away.
The nose had taken its departure, and from the general appearance of the
head it might have, been supposed that the wooden divinity, in despair
at the neglect of its worshippers, had been trying to beat its own
brains out against the surrounding trees.

I drew near to inspect more closely this strange object of idolatry, but
halted reverently at the distance of two or three paces, out of regard
to the religious prejudices of my valet. As soon, however, as Kory-Kory
perceived that I was in one of my inquiring, scientific moods, to my
astonishment, he sprang to the side of the idol, and pushing it away
from the stones against which it rested, endeavoured to make it stand
upon its legs. But the divinity had lost the use of them altogether; and
while Kory-Kory was trying to prop it up, placing a stick between it
and the pi-pi, the monster fell clumsily to the ground, and would have
infallibly have broken its neck had not Kory-Kory providentially broken
its fall by receiving its whole weight on his own half-crushed back. I
never saw the honest fellow in such a rage before. He leaped furiously
to his feet, and seizing the stick, began beating the poor image: every
moment, or two pausing and talking to it in the most violent manner, as
if upbraiding it for the accident. When his indignation had subsided
a little he whirled the idol about most profanely, so as to give me an
opportunity of examining it on all sides. I am quite sure I never should
have presumed to have taken such liberties with the god myself, and I
was not a little shocked at Kory-Kory’s impiety.

This anecdote speaks for itself. When one of the inferior order of
natives could show such contempt for a venerable and decrepit God of the
Groves, what the state of religion must be among the people in general
is easy to be imagined. In truth, I regard the Typees as a back-slidden
generation. They are sunk in religious sloth, and require a spiritual
revival. A long prosperity of bread-fruit and cocoanuts has rendered
them remiss in the performance of their higher obligations. The wood-rot
malady is spreading among the idols--the fruit upon their altars
is becoming offensive--the temples themselves need rethatching--the
tattooed clergy are altogether too light-hearted and lazy--and their
flocks are going astray.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

GENERAL INFORMATION GATHERED AT THE FESTIVAL--PERSONAL BEAUTY OF
THE TYPEES--THEIR SUPERIORITY OVER THE INHABITANTS OF THE OTHER
ISLANDS--DIVERSITY OF COMPLEXION--A VEGETABLE COSMETIC AND
OINTMENT--TESTIMONY OF VOYAGERS TO THE UNCOMMON BEAUTY OF
THE MARQUESANS--FEW EVIDENCES OF INTERCOURSE WITH CIVILIZED
BEINGS--DILAPIDATED MUSKET--PRIMITIVE SIMPLICITY OF GOVERNMENT--REGAL
DIGNITY OF MEHEVI

ALTHOUGH I had been unable during the late festival to obtain
information on many interesting subjects which had much excited my
curiosity, still that important event had not passed by without adding
materially to my general knowledge of the islanders.

I was especially struck by the physical strength and beauty which
they displayed, by their great superiority in these respects over the
inhabitants of the neighbouring bay of Nukuheva, and by the singular
contrasts they presented among themselves in their various shades of
complexion.

In beauty of form they surpassed anything I had ever seen. Not a single
instance of natural deformity was observable in all the throng attending
the revels. Occasionally I noticed among the men the scars of wounds
they had received in battle; and sometimes, though very seldom, the loss
of a finger, an eye, or an arm, attributable to the same cause. With
these exceptions, every individual appeared free from those blemishes
which sometimes mar the effect of an otherwise perfect form. But their
physical excellence did not merely consist in an exemption from these
evils; nearly every individual of their number might have been taken for
a sculptor’s model.

When I remembered that these islanders derived no advantage from dress,
but appeared in all the naked simplicity of nature, I could not avoid
comparing them with the fine gentlemen and dandies who promenade such
unexceptionable figures in our frequented thoroughfares. Stripped of
the cunning artifices of the tailor, and standing forth in the garb
of Eden--what a sorry, set of round-shouldered, spindle-shanked,
crane-necked varlets would civilized men appear! Stuffed calves,
padded breasts, and scientifically cut pantaloons would then avail them
nothing, and the effect would be truly deplorable.

Nothing in the appearance of the islanders struck me more forcibly
than the whiteness of their teeth. The novelist always compares the
masticators of his heroine to ivory; but I boldly pronounce the teeth
of the Typee to be far more beautiful than ivory itself. The jaws of the
oldest graybeards among them were much better garnished than those of
most of the youths of civilized countries; while the teeth of the young
and middle-aged, in their purity and whiteness, were actually dazzling
to the eye. Their marvellous whiteness of the teeth is to be ascribed
to the pure vegetable diet of these people, and the uninterrupted
healthfulness of their natural mode of life.

The men, in almost every instance, are of lofty stature, scarcely
ever less than six feet in height, while the other sex are uncommonly
diminutive. The early period of life at which the human form arrives
at maturity in this generous tropical climate, likewise deserves to be
mentioned. A little creature, not more than thirteen years of age, and
who in other particulars might be regarded as a mere child, is often
seen nursing her own baby, whilst lads who, under less ripening skies,
would be still at school, are here responsible fathers of families.

On first entering the Typee Valley, I had been struck with the marked
contrast presented by its inhabitants with those of the bay I had
previously left. In the latter place, I had not been favourably
impressed with the personal appearance of the male portion of the
population; although with the females, excepting in some truly
melancholy instances, I had been wonderfully pleased. I had observed
that even the little intercourse Europeans had carried on with the
Nukuheva natives had not failed to leave its traces amongst them. One of
the most dreadful curses under which humanity labours had commenced its
havocks, and betrayed, as it ever does among the South Sea islanders,
the most aggravated symptoms. From this, as from all other foreign
inflictions, the yet uncontaminated tenants of the Typee Valley were
wholly exempt; and long may they continue so. Better will it be for them
for ever to remain the happy and innocent heathens and barbarians
that they now are, than, like the wretched inhabitants of the Sandwich
Islands, to enjoy the mere name of Christians without experiencing any
of the vital operations of true religion, whilst, at the same time, they
are made the victims of the worst vices and evils of civilized life.

Apart, however, from these considerations, I am inclined to believe that
there exists a radical difference between the two tribes, if indeed
they are not distinct races of men. To those who have merely touched at
Nukuheva Bay, without visiting other portions of the island, it would
hardly appear credible the diversities presented between the various
small clans inhabiting so diminutive a spot. But the hereditary
hostility which has existed between them for ages, fully accounts for
this.

Not so easy, however, is it to assign an adequate cause for the endless
variety of complexions to be seen in the Typee Valley. During the
festival, I had noticed several young females whose skins were almost as
white as any Saxon damsel’s; a slight dash of the mantling brown being
all that marked the difference. This comparative fairness of complexion,
though in a great degree perfectly natural, is partly the result of an
artificial process, and of an entire exclusion from the sun. The juice
of the ‘papa’ root found in great abundance at the head of the valley,
is held in great esteem as a cosmetic, with which many of the females
daily anoint their whole person. The habitual use of it whitens and
beautifies the skin. Those of the young girls who resort to this method
of heightening their charms, never expose themselves selves to the
rays of the sun; an observance, however, that produces little or no
inconvenience, since there are but few of the inhabited portions of the
vale which are not shaded over with a spreading canopy of boughs, so
that one may journey from house to house, scarcely deviating from the
direct course, and yet never once see his shadow cast upon the ground.

The ‘papa’, when used, is suffered to remain upon the skin for several
hours; being of a light green colour, it consequently imparts for
the time a similar hue to the complexion. Nothing, therefore, can be
imagined more singular than the appearance of these nearly naked damsels
immediately after the application of the cosmetic. To look at one of
them you would almost suppose she was some vegetable in an unripe state;
and that, instead of living in the shade for ever, she ought to be
placed out in the sun to ripen.

All the islanders are more or less in the habit of anointing themselves;
the women preferring the ‘aker’ to ‘papa’, and the men using the oil
of the cocoanut. Mehevi was remarkable fond of mollifying his entire
cuticle with this ointment. Sometimes he might be seen, with his whole
body fairly reeking with the perfumed oil of the nut, looking as if he
had just emerged from a soap-boiler’s vat, or had undergone the process
of dipping in a tallow-chandlery. To this cause perhaps, united to their
frequent bathing and extreme cleanliness, is ascribable, in a great
measure, the marvellous purity and smoothness of skin exhibited by the
natives in general.

The prevailing tint among the women of the valley was a light olive, and
of this style of complexion Fayaway afforded the most beautiful example.
Others were still darker; while not a few were of a genuine golden
colour, and some of a swarthy hue.

As agreeing with much previously mentioned in this narrative I may
here observe that Mendanna, their discoverer, in his account of the
Marquesas, described the natives as wondrously beautiful to behold, and
as nearly resembling the people of southern Europe. The first of these
islands seen by Mendanna was La Madelena, which is not far distant from
Nukuheva; and its inhabitants in every respect resemble those dwelling
on that and the other islands of the group. Figueroa, the chronicler of
Mendanna’s voyage, says, that on the morning the land was descried,
when the Spaniards drew near the shore, there sallied forth, in rude
progression, about seventy canoes, and at the same time many of the
inhabitants (females I presume) made towards the ships by swimming. He
adds, that ‘in complexion they were nearly white; of good stature,
and finely formed; and on their faces and bodies were delineated
representations of fishes and other devices’. The old Don then goes on
to say, ‘There came, among others, two lads paddling their canoe, whose
eyes were fixed on the ship; they had beautiful faces and the most
promising animation of countenance; and were in all things so becoming,
that the pilot-mayor Quiros affirmed, nothing in his life ever caused
him so much regret as the leaving such fine creatures to be lost in that
country.’* More than two hundred years have gone by since the passage of
which the above is a translation was written; and it appears to me
now, as I read it, as fresh and true as if written but yesterday. The
islanders are still the same; and I have seen boys in the Typee Valley
of whose ‘beautiful faces’ and promising ‘animation of countenance’ no
one who has not beheld them can form any adequate idea. Cook, in the
account of his voyage, pronounces the Marquesans as by far the most
splendid islanders in the South Seas. Stewart, the chaplain of the U.S.
ship Vincennes, in his ‘Scenes in the South Seas’, expresses, in more
than one place, his amazement at the surpassing loveliness of the women;
and says that many of the Nukuheva damsels reminded him forcibly of the
most celebrated beauties in his own land. Fanning, a Yankee mariner of
some reputation, likewise records his lively impressions of the physical
appearance of these people; and Commodore David Porter of the U.S.
frigate Essex, is said to have been vastly smitten by the beauty of the
ladies. Their great superiority over all other Polynesians cannot fail
to attract the notice of those who visit the principal groups in the
Pacific. The voluptuous Tahitians are the only people who at all deserve
to be compared with them; while the dark-haired Hawaiians and
the woolly-headed Feejees are immeasurably inferior to them. The
distinguishing characteristic of the Marquesan islanders, and that
which at once strikes you, is the European cast of their features--a
peculiarity seldom observable among other uncivilized people. Many of
their faces present profiles classically beautiful, and in the valley of
Typee I saw several who, like the stranger Marnoo, were in every respect
models of beauty.

* This passage, which is cited as an almost literal translation from the
original, I found in a small volume entitled ‘Circumnavigation of the
Globe, in which volume are several extracts from ‘Dalrymple’s Historical
Collections’. The last-mentioned work I have never seen, but it is said
to contain a very correct English version of great part of the learned
Doctor Christoval Suaverde da Figueroa’s History of Mendanna’s Voyage,
published at Madrid, A.D. 1613.



Some of the natives present at the Feast of Calabashes had displayed a
few articles of European dress; disposed however, about their persons
after their own peculiar fashion. Among these I perceived two pieces of
cotton-cloth which poor Toby and myself had bestowed upon our youthful
guides the afternoon we entered the valley. They were evidently reserved
for gala days; and during those of the festival they rendered the young
islanders who wore them very distinguished characters. The small number
who were similarly adorned, and the great value they appeared to place
upon the most common and most trivial articles, furnished ample evidence
of the very restricted intercourse they held with vessels touching at
the island. A few cotton handkerchiefs, of a gay pattern, tied about the
neck, and suffered to fall over the shoulder; strips of fanciful calico,
swathed about the loins, were nearly all I saw.

Indeed, throughout the valley, there were few things of any kind to
be seen of European origin. All I ever saw, besides the articles just
alluded to, were the six muskets preserved in the Ti, and three or four
similar implements of warfare hung up in other houses; some small
canvas bags, partly filled with bullets and powder, and half a dozen old
hatchet-heads, with the edges blunted and battered to such a degree
as to render them utterly useless. These last seemed to be regarded as
nearly worthless by the natives; and several times they held up, one
of them before me, and throwing it aside with a gesture of disgust,
manifested their contempt for anything that could so soon become
unserviceable.

But the muskets, the powder, and the bullets were held in most
extravagant esteem. The former, from their great age and the
peculiarities they exhibited, were well worthy a place in any
antiquarian’s armoury. I remember in particular one that hung in the
Ti, and which Mehevi--supposing as a matter of course that I was able to
repair it--had put into my hands for that purpose. It was one of those
clumsy, old-fashioned, English pieces known generally as Tower Hill
muskets, and, for aught I know, might have been left on the island by
Wallace, Carteret, Cook, or Vancouver. The stock was half rotten and
worm-eaten; the lock was as rusty and about as well adapted to its
ostensible purpose as an old door-hinge; the threading of the screws
about the trigger was completely worn away; while the barrel shook in
the wood. Such was the weapon the chief desired me to restore to its
original condition. As I did not possess the accomplishments of a
gunsmith, and was likewise destitute of the necessary tools, I was
reluctantly obliged to signify my inability to perform the task. At this
unexpected communication Mehevi regarded me, for a moment, as if he half
suspected I was some inferior sort of white man, who after all did not
know much more than a Typee. However, after a most laboured explanation
of the matter, I succeeded in making him understand the extreme
difficulty of the task. Scarcely satisfied with my apologies, however,
he marched off with the superannuated musket in something of a huff, as
if he would no longer expose it to the indignity of being manipulated by
such unskilful fingers.

During the festival I had not failed to remark the simplicity of manner,
the freedom from all restraint, and, to certain degree, the equality
of condition manifested by the natives in general. No one appeared to
assume any arrogant pretensions. There was little more than a slight
difference in costume to distinguish the chiefs from the other natives.
All appeared to mix together freely, and without any reserve; although
I noticed that the wishes of a chief, even when delivered in the mildest
tone, received the same immediate obedience which elsewhere would have
been only accorded to a peremptory command. What may be the extent
of the authority of the chiefs over the rest of the tribe, I will not
venture to assert; but from all I saw during my stay in the valley, I
was induced to believe that in matters concerning the general welfare
it was very limited. The required degree of deference towards them,
however, was willingly and cheerfully yielded; and as all authority is
transmitted from father to son, I have no doubt that one of the effects
here, as elsewhere, of high birth, is to induce respect and obedience.

The civil institutions of the Marquesas Islands appear to be in this,
as in other respects, directly the reverse of those of the Tahitian and
Hawaiian groups, where the original power of the king and chiefs was far
more despotic than that of any tyrant in civilized countries. At Tahiti
it used to be death for one of the inferior orders to approach, without
permission, under the shadow, of the king’s house; or to fail in paying
the customary reverence when food destined for the king was borne past
them by his messengers. At the Sandwich Islands, Kaahumanu, the gigantic
old dowager queen--a woman of nearly four hundred pounds weight, and
who is said to be still living at Mowee--was accustomed, in some of her
terrific gusts of temper, to snatch up an ordinary sized man who had
offended her, and snap his spine across her knee. Incredible as this
may seem, it is a fact. While at Lahainaluna--the residence of this
monstrous Jezebel--a humpbacked wretch was pointed out to me, who, some
twenty-five years previously, had had the vertebrae of his backbone very
seriously discomposed by his gentle mistress.

The particular grades of rank existing among the chiefs of Typee, I
could not in all cases determine. Previous to the Feast of Calabashes
I had been puzzled what particular station to assign to Mehevi. But the
important part he took upon that occasion convinced me that he had no
superior among the inhabitants of the valley. I had invariably noticed a
certain degree of deference paid to him by all with whom I had ever seen
him brought in contact; but when I remembered that my wanderings had
been confined to a limited portion of the valley, and that towards
the sea a number of distinguished chiefs resided, some of whom had
separately visited me at Marheyo’s house, and whom, until the Festival,
I had never seen in the company of Mehevi, I felt disposed to believe
that his rank after all might not be particularly elevated.

The revels, however, had brought together all the warriors whom I had
seen individually and in groups at different times and places. Among
them Mehevi moved with an easy air of superiority which was not to be
mistaken; and he whom I had only looked at as the hospitable host of the
Ti, and one of the military leaders of the tribe, now assumed in my eyes
the dignity of royal station. His striking costume, no less than his
naturally commanding figure, seemed indeed to give him pre-eminence over
the rest. The towering helmet of feathers that he wore raised him
in height above all who surrounded him; and though some others were
similarly adorned, the length and luxuriance of their plumes were
inferior to his.

Mehevi was in fact the greatest of the chiefs--the head of his clan--the
sovereign of the valley; and the simplicity of the social institutions
of the people could not have been more completely proved than by the
fact, that after having been several weeks in the valley, and almost in
daily intercourse with Mehevi, I should have remained until the time of
the festival ignorant of his regal character. But a new light had now
broken in upon me. The Ti was the palace--and Mehevi the king. Both the
one and the other of a most simple and patriarchal nature: it must be
allowed, and wholly unattended by the ceremonious pomp which usually
surrounds the purple.

After having made this discovery I could not avoid congratulating myself
that Mehevi had from the first taken me as it were under his royal
protection, and that he still continued to entertain for me the warmest
regard, as far at least as I was enabled to judge from appearances. For
the future I determined to pay most assiduous court to him, hoping that
eventually through his kindness I might obtain my liberty.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

KING MEHEVI--ALLUSION TO HIS HAWAIIAN MAJESTY--CONDUCT OF MARHEYO AND
MEHEVI IN CERTAIN DELICATE MATTERS--PECULIAR SYSTEM OF MARRIAGE--NUMBER
OF POPULATION--UNIFORMITY--EMBALMING--PLACES OF SEPULTURE--FUNERAL
OBSEQUIES AT NUKUHEVA-NUMBER OF INHABITANTS IN TYPEE--LOCATION OF THE
DWELLINGS--HAPPINESS ENJOYED IN THE VALLEY--A WARNING--SOME IDEAS WITH
REGARD TO THE PRESENT STATE OF THE HAWAIIANS--STORY OF A MISSIONARY’S
WIFE--FASHIONABLE EQUIPAGES AT OAHU--REFLECTIONS

KING MEHEVI!--A goodly sounding title--and why should I not bestow
it upon the foremost man in the valley of Typee? The republican
missionaries of Oahu cause to be gazetted in the Court Journal,
published at Honolulu, the most trivial movement of ‘his gracious
majesty’ King Kammehammaha III, and ‘their highnesses the princes of the
blood royal’.* And who is his ‘gracious majesty’, and what the
quality of this blood royal’?--His ‘gracious majesty’ is a fat, lazy,
negro-looking blockhead, with as little character as power. He has
lost the noble traits of the barbarian, without acquiring the redeeming
graces of a civilized being; and, although a member of the Hawiian
Temperance Society, is a most inveterate dram-drinker.

*Accounts like these are sometimes copied into English and American
journals. They lead the reader to infer that the arts and customs of
civilized life are rapidly refining the natives of the Sandwich Islands.
But let no one be deceived by these accounts. The chiefs swagger about
in gold lace and broadcloth, while the great mass of the common people
are nearly as primitive in their appearance as in the days of Cook. In
the progress of events at these islands, the two classes are receding
from each other; the chiefs are daily becoming more luxurious and
extravagant in their style of living, and the common people more and
more destitute of the necessaries and decencies of life. But the end
to which both will arrive at last will be the same: the one are fast
destroying themselves by sensual indulgences, and the other are
fast being destroyed by a complication of disorders, and the want of
wholesome food. The resources of the domineering chiefs are wrung from
the starving serfs, and every additional bauble with which they bedeck
themselves is purchased by the sufferings of their bondsmen; so that the
measure of gew-gaw refinement attained by the chiefs is only an index
to the actual state in which the greater portion of the population lie
grovelling.



The ‘blood royal’ is an extremely thick, depraved fluid; formed
principally of raw fish, bad brandy, and European sweetmeats, and is
charged with a variety of eruptive humours, which are developed in
sundry blotches and pimples upon the august face of ‘majesty itself’,
and the angelic countenances of the ‘princes and princesses of the blood
royal’!

Now, if the farcical puppet of a chief magistrate in the Sandwich
Islands be allowed the title of King, why should it be withheld from
the noble savage Mehevi, who is a thousand times more worthy of the
appellation? All hail, therefore, Mehevi, King of the Cannibal Valley,
and long life and prosperity to his Typeean majesty! May Heaven for many
a year preserve him, the uncompromising foe of Nukuheva and the French,
if a hostile attitude will secure his lovely domain from the remorseless
inflictions of South Sea civilization.

Previously to seeing the Dancing Widows I had little idea that there
were any matrimonial relations subsisting in Typee, and I should as soon
have thought of a Platonic affection being cultivated between the sexes,
as of the solemn connection of man and wife. To be sure, there were old
Marheyo and Tinor, who seemed to have a sort of nuptial understanding
with one another; but for all that, I had sometimes observed a
comical-looking old gentleman dressed in a suit of shabby tattooing, who
had the audacity to take various liberties with the lady, and that too
in the very presence of the old warrior her husband, who looked on
as good-naturedly as if nothing was happening. This behaviour, until
subsequent discoveries enlightened me, puzzled me more than anything
else I witnessed in Typee.

As for Mehevi, I had supposed him a confirmed bachelor, as well as most
of the principal chiefs. At any rate, if they had wives and families,
they ought to have been ashamed of themselves; for sure I am, they never
troubled themselves about any domestic affairs. In truth, Mehevi seemed
to be the president of a club of hearty fellows, who kept ‘Bachelor’s
Hall’ in fine style at the Ti. I had no doubt but that they regarded
children as odious incumbrances; and their ideas of domestic felicity
were sufficiently shown in the fact, that they allowed no meddlesome
housekeepers to turn topsy-turvy those snug little arrangements they had
made in their comfortable dwelling. I strongly suspected however, that
some of these jolly bachelors were carrying on love intrigues with
the maidens of the tribe; although they did not appear publicly to
acknowledge them. I happened to pop upon Mehevi three or four times when
he was romping--in a most undignified manner for a warrior king--with
one of the prettiest little witches in the valley. She lived with an
old woman and a young man, in a house near Marheyo’s; and although in
appearance a mere child herself, had a noble boy about a year old, who
bore a marvellous resemblance to Mehevi, whom I should certainly have
believed to have been the father, were it not that the little fellow
had no triangle on his face--but on second thoughts, tattooing is not
hereditary. Mehevi, however, was not the only person upon whom the
damsel Moonoony smiled--the young fellow of fifteen, who permanently
resided in the home with her, was decidedly in her good graces. I
sometimes beheld both him and the chief making love at the same time. Is
it possible, thought I, that the valiant warrior can consent to give
up a corner in the thing he loves? This too was a mystery which, with
others of the same kind, was afterwards satisfactorily explained.

During the second day of the Feast of Calabashes, Kory-Kory--being
determined that I should have some understanding on these matters--had,
in the course of his explanations, directed my attention to
a peculiarity I had frequently remarked among many of the
females;--principally those of a mature age and rather matronly
appearance. This consisted in having the right hand and the left foot
most elaborately tattooed; whilst the rest of the body was wholly free
from the operation of the art, with the exception of the minutely dotted
lips and slight marks on the shoulders, to which I have previously
referred as comprising the sole tattooing exhibited by Fayaway, in
common with other young girls of her age. The hand and foot thus
embellished were, according to Kory-Kory, the distinguishing badge of
wedlock, so far as that social and highly commendable institution is
known among those people. It answers, indeed, the same purpose as the
plain gold ring worn by our fairer spouses.

After Kory-Kory’s explanation of the subject, I was for some time
studiously respectful in the presence of all females thus distinguished,
and never ventured to indulge in the slightest approach to flirtation
with any of their number. Married women, to be sure!--I knew better than
to offend them.

A further insight, however, into the peculiar domestic customs of the
inmates of the valley did away in a measure with the severity of my
scruples, and convinced me that I was deceived in some at least of my
conclusions. A regular system of polygamy exists among the islanders;
but of a most extraordinary nature,--a plurality of husbands, instead of
wives! and this solitary fact speaks volumes for the gentle disposition
of the male population.

Where else, indeed, could such a practice exist, even for a single
day?--Imagine a revolution brought about in a Turkish seraglio, and
the harem rendered the abode of bearded men; or conceive some beautiful
woman in our own country running distracted at the sight of her numerous
lovers murdering one another before her eyes, out of jealousy for the
unequal distribution of her favours!--Heaven defend us from such a state
of things!--We are scarcely amiable and forbearing enough to submit to
it.

I was not able to learn what particular ceremony was observed in forming
the marriage contract, but am inclined to think that it must have been
of a very simple nature. Perhaps the mere ‘popping the question’, as
it is termed with us, might have been followed by an immediate nuptial
alliance. At any rate, I have more than one reason to believe that
tedious courtships are unknown in the valley of Typee.

The males considerably outnumber the females. This holds true of many
of the islands of Polynesia, although the reverse of what is the case in
most civilized countries. The girls are first wooed and won, at a very
tender age, by some stripling in the household in which they reside.
This, however, is a mere frolic of the affections, and no formal
engagement is contracted. By the time this first love has a little
subsided, a second suitor presents himself, of graver years, and carries
both boy and girl away to his own habitation. This disinterested and
generous-hearted fellow now weds the young couple--marrying damsel
and lover at the same time--and all three thenceforth live together
as harmoniously as so many turtles. I have heard of some men who in
civilized countries rashly marry large families with their wives, but
had no idea that there was any place where people married supplementary
husbands with them. Infidelity on either side is very rare. No man
has more than one wife, and no wife of mature years has less than two
husbands,--sometimes she has three, but such instances are not
frequent. The marriage tie, whatever it may be, does not appear to be
indissoluble; for separations occasionally happen. These, however,
when they do take place, produce no unhappiness, and are preceded by no
bickerings; for the simple reason, that an ill-used wife or a henpecked
husband is not obliged to file a bill in Chancery to obtain a divorce.
As nothing stands in the way of a separation, the matrimonial yoke sits
easily and lightly, and a Typee wife lives on very pleasant and sociable
terms with her husband. On the whole, wedlock, as known among these
Typees, seems to be of a more distinct and enduring nature than
is usually the case with barbarous people. A baneful promiscuous
intercourse of the sexes is hereby avoided, and virtue, without being
clamorously invoked, is, as it were, unconsciously practised.

The contrast exhibited between the Marquesas and other islands of the
Pacific in this respect, is worthy of being noticed. At Tahiti the
marriage tie was altogether unknown; and the relation of husband
and wife, father and son, could hardly be said to exist. The Arreory
Society--one of the most singular institutions that ever existed in any
part of the world--spread universal licentiousness over the island. It
was the voluptuous character of these people which rendered the disease
introduced among them by De Bougainville’s ships, in 1768, doubly
destructive. It visited them like a plague, sweeping them off by
hundreds.

Notwithstanding the existence of wedlock among the Typees, the
Scriptural injunction to increase and multiply seems to be but
indifferently attended to. I never saw any of those large families in
arithmetical or step-ladder progression which one often meets with at
home. I never knew of more than two youngsters living together in the
same home, and but seldom even that number. As for the women, it was
very plain that the anxieties of the nursery but seldom disturbed the
serenity of their souls; and they were never seen going about the valley
with half a score of little ones tagging at their apron-strings, or
rather at the bread-fruit-leaf they usually wore in the rear.

The ratio of increase among all the Polynesian nations is very small;
and in some places as yet uncorrupted by intercourse with Europeans,
the births would appear not very little to outnumber the deaths; the
population in such instances remaining nearly the same for several
successive generations, even upon those islands seldom or never
desolated by wars, and among people with whom the crime of infanticide
is altogether unknown. This would seem expressively ordained by
Providence to prevent the overstocking of the islands with a race too
indolent to cultivate the ground, and who, for that reason alone, would,
by any considerable increase in their numbers, be exposed to the most
deplorable misery. During the entire period of my stay in the valley of
Typee, I never saw more than ten or twelve children under the age of six
months, and only became aware of two births.

It is to the absence of the marriage tie that the late rapid decrease
of the population of the Sandwich Islands and of Tahiti is in part to be
ascribed. The vices and diseases introduced among these unhappy people
annually swell the ordinary mortality of the islands, while, from the
same cause, the originally small number of births is proportionally
decreased. Thus the progress of the Hawaiians and Tahitians to utter
extinction is accelerated in a sort of compound ratio.

I have before had occasion to remark, that I never saw any of the
ordinary signs of a pace of sepulture in the valley, a circumstance
which I attributed, at the time, to my living in a particular part
of it, and being forbidden to extend my rambles to any considerable
distance towards the sea. I have since thought it probable, however,
that the Typees, either desirous of removing from their sight the
evidences of mortality, or prompted by a taste for rural beauty, may
have some charming cemetery situation in the shadowy recesses along
the base of the mountains. At Nukuheva, two or three large quadrangular
‘pi-pis’, heavily flagged, enclosed with regular stone walls, and shaded
over and almost hidden from view by the interlacing branches of
enormous trees, were pointed out to me as burial-places. The bodies, I
understood, were deposited in rude vaults beneath the flagging, and were
suffered to remain there without being disinterred. Although nothing
could be more strange and gloomy than the aspect of these places, where
the lofty trees threw their dark shadows over rude blocks of stone,
a stranger looking at them would have discerned none of the ordinary
evidences of a place of sepulture.

During my stay in the valley, as none of its inmates were so
accommodating as to die and be buried in order to gratify my curiosity
with regard to their funeral rites, I was reluctantly obliged to
remain in ignorance of them. As I have reason to believe, however, the
observances of the Typees in these matters are the same with those of
all the other tribes in the island, I will here relate a scene I chanced
to witness at Nukuheva.

A young man had died, about daybreak, in a house near the beach. I had
been sent ashore that morning, and saw a good deal of the preparations
they were making for his obsequies. The body, neatly wrapped in a new
white tappa, was laid out in an open shed of cocoanut boughs, upon a
bier constructed of elastic bamboos ingeniously twisted together. This
was supported about two feet from the ground, by large canes planted
uprightly in the earth. Two females, of a dejected appearance, watched
by its side, plaintively chanting and beating the air with large grass
fans whitened with pipe-clay. In the dwelling-house adjoining a numerous
company we assembled, and various articles of food were being prepared
for consumption. Two or three individuals, distinguished by head-dresses
of beautiful tappa, and wearing a great number of ornaments, appeared
to officiate as masters of the ceremonies. By noon the entertainment had
fairly begun and we were told that it would last during the whole of
the two following days. With the exception of those who mourned by
the corpse, every one seemed disposed to drown the sense of the late
bereavement in convivial indulgence. The girls, decked out in their
savage finery, danced; the old men chanted; the warriors smoked and
chatted; and the young and lusty, of both sexes, feasted plentifully,
and seemed to enjoy themselves as pleasantly as they could have done had
it been a wedding.

The islanders understand the art of embalming, and practise it with such
success that the bodies of their great chiefs are frequently preserved
for many years in the very houses where they died. I saw three of these
in my visit to the Bay of Tior. One was enveloped in immense folds of
tappa, with only the face exposed, and hung erect against the side of
the dwelling. The others were stretched out upon biers of bamboo, in
open, elevated temples, which seemed consecrated to their memory. The
heads of enemies killed in battle are invariably preserved and hung up
as trophies in the house of the conqueror. I am not acquainted with the
process which is in use, but believe that fumigation is the principal
agency employed. All the remains which I saw presented the appearance of
a ham after being suspended for some time in a smoky chimney.

But to return from the dead to the living. The late festival had drawn
together, as I had every reason to believe, the whole population of the
vale, and consequently I was enabled to make some estimate with regard
to its numbers. I should imagine that there were about two thousand
inhabitants in Typee; and no number could have been better adapted to
the extent of the valley. The valley is some nine miles in length,
and may average one in breadth; the houses being distributed at wide
intervals throughout its whole extent, principally, however, towards the
head of the vale. There are no villages; the houses stand here and there
in the shadow of the groves, or are scattered along the banks of the
winding stream; their golden-hued bamboo sides and gleaming white thatch
forming a beautiful contrast to the perpetual verdure in which they are
embowered. There are no roads of any kind in the valley. Nothing but a
labyrinth of footpaths twisting and turning among the thickets without
end.

The penalty of the Fall presses very lightly upon the valley of Typee;
for, with the one solitary exception of striking a light, I scarcely saw
any piece of work performed there which caused the sweat to stand upon
a single brow. As for digging and delving for a livelihood, the thing is
altogether unknown. Nature has planted the bread-fruit and the banana,
and in her own good time she brings them to maturity, when the idle
savage stretches forth his hand, and satisfies his appetite.

Ill-fated people! I shudder when I think of the change a few years
will produce in their paradisaical abode; and probably when the most
destructive vices, and the worst attendances on civilization, shall have
driven all peace and happiness from the valley, the magnanimous
French will proclaim to the world that the Marquesas Islands have been
converted to Christianity! and this the Catholic world will doubtless
consider as a glorious event. Heaven help the ‘Isles of the Sea’!--The
sympathy which Christendom feels for them, has, alas! in too many
instances proved their bane.

How little do some of these poor islanders comprehend when they look
around them, that no inconsiderable part of their disasters originate
in certain tea-party excitements, under the influence of which
benevolent-looking gentlemen in white cravats solicit alms, and old
ladies in spectacles, and young ladies in sober russet gowns, contribute
sixpences towards the creation of a fund, the object of which is to
ameliorate the spiritual condition of the Polynesians, but whose end has
almost invariably been to accomplish their temporal destruction!

Let the savages be civilized, but civilize them with benefits, and not
with evils; and let heathenism be destroyed, but not by destroying the
heathen. The Anglo-Saxon hive have extirpated Paganism from the greater
part of the North American continent; but with it they have likewise
extirpated the greater portion of the Red race. Civilization is
gradually sweeping from the earth the lingering vestiges of Paganism,
and at the same time the shrinking forms of its unhappy worshippers.

Among the islands of Polynesia, no sooner are the images overturned, the
temples demolished, and the idolators converted into NOMINAL Christians,
that disease, vice, and premature death make their appearance. The
depopulated land is then recruited from the rapacious, hordes of
enlightened individuals who settle themselves within its borders,
and clamorously announce the progress of the Truth. Neat villas, trim
gardens, shaven lawns, spires, and cupolas arise, while the poor savage
soon finds himself an interloper in the country of his fathers, and
that too on the very site of the hut where he was born. The spontaneous
fruits of the earth, which God in his wisdom had ordained for the
support of the indolent natives, remorselessly seized upon and
appropriated by the stranger, are devoured before the eyes of the
starving inhabitants, or sent on board the numerous vessels which now
touch at their shores.

When the famished wretches are cut off in this manner from their natural
supplies, they are told by their benefactors to work and earn their
support by the sweat of their brows! But to no fine gentleman born to
hereditary opulence, does this manual labour come more unkindly than
to the luxurious Indian when thus robbed of the bounty of heaven.
Habituated to a life of indolence, he cannot and will not exert himself;
and want, disease, and vice, all evils of foreign growth, soon terminate
his miserable existence.

But what matters all this? Behold the glorious result!--The abominations
of Paganism have given way to the pure rites of the Christian
worship,--the ignorant savage has been supplanted by the refined
European! Look at Honolulu, the metropolis of the Sandwich Islands!--A
community of disinterested merchants, and devoted self-exiled heralds of
the Cross, located on the very spot that twenty years ago was defiled by
the presence of idolatry. What a subject for an eloquent Bible-meeting
orator! Nor has such an opportunity for a display of missionary rhetoric
been allowed to pass by unimproved!--But when these philanthropists send
us such glowing accounts of one half of their labours, why does their
modesty restrain them from publishing the other half of the good they
have wrought?--Not until I visited Honolulu was I aware of the fact that
the small remnant of the natives had been civilized into draught-horses;
and evangelized into beasts of burden. But so it is. They have been
literally broken into the traces, and are harnessed to the vehicles of
their spiritual instructors like so many dumb brutes!

          . . . . . . .

Lest the slightest misconception should arise from anything thrown out
in this chapter, or indeed in any other part of the volume, let me here
observe that against the cause of missions in, the abstract no Christian
can possibly be opposed: it is in truth a just and holy cause. But
if the great end proposed by it be spiritual, the agency employed to
accomplish that end is purely earthly; and, although the object in
view be the achievement of much good, that agency may nevertheless be
productive of evil. In short, missionary undertaking, however it may
blessed of heaven, is in itself but human; and subject, like everything
else, to errors and abuses. And have not errors and abuses crept into
the most sacred places, and may there not be unworthy or incapable
missionaries abroad, as well as ecclesiastics of similar character
at home? May not the unworthiness or incapacity of those who assume
apostolic functions upon the remote islands of the sea more easily
escape detection by the world at large than if it were displayed in
the heart of a city? An unwarranted confidence in the sanctity of its
apostles--a proneness to regard them as incapable of guile--and
an impatience of the least suspicion to their rectitude as men or
Christians, have ever been prevailing faults in the Church. Nor is this
to be wondered at: for subject as Christianity is to the assaults of
unprincipled foes, we are naturally disposed to regard everything like
an exposure of ecclesiastical misconduct as the offspring of malevolence
or irreligious feeling. Not even this last consideration, however shall
deter me from the honest expression of my sentiments.

There is something apparently wrong in the practical operations of
the Sandwich Islands Mission. Those who from pure religious motives
contribute to the support of this enterprise should take care to
ascertain that their donations, flowing through many devious channels,
at last effect their legitimate object, the conversion of the Hawaiians.
I urge this not because I doubt the moral probity of those who disburse
the funds, but because I know that they are not rightly applied. To read
pathetic accounts of missionary hardships, and glowing descriptions of
conversion, and baptisms, taking place beneath palm-trees, is one thing;
and to go to the Sandwich Islands and see the missionaries dwelling
in picturesque and prettily furnished coral-rock villas, whilst the
miserable natives are committing all sorts of immorality around them, is
quite another.

In justice to the missionaries, however, I will willingly admit, that
where-ever evils may have resulted from their collective mismanagement
of the business of the mission, and from the want of vital piety evinced
by some of their number, still the present deplorable condition of the
Sandwich Islands is by no means wholly chargeable against them. The
demoralizing influence of a dissolute foreign population, and the
frequent visits of all descriptions of vessels, have tended not a little
to increase the evils alluded to. In a word, here, as in every case
where civilization has in any way been introduced among those whom we
call savages, she has scattered her vices, and withheld her blessings.

As wise a man as Shakespeare has said, that the bearer of evil tidings
hath but a losing office; and so I suppose will it prove with me, in
communicating to the trusting friends of the Hawiian Mission what has
been disclosed in various portions of this narrative. I am persuaded,
however, that as these disclosures will by their very nature attract
attention, so they will lead to something which will not be without
ultimate benefit to the cause of Christianity in the Sandwich Islands.

I have but one more thing to add in connection with this subject--those
things which I have stated as facts will remain facts, in spite of
whatever the bigoted or incredulous may say or write against them. My
reflections, however, on those facts may not be free from error. If such
be the case, I claim no further indulgence than should be conceded to
every man whose object is to do good.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE SOCIAL CONDITION AND GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE TYPEES

I HAVE already mentioned that the influence exerted over the people
of the valley by their chiefs was mild in the extreme; and as to any
general rule or standard of conduct by which the commonality were
governed in their intercourse with each other, so far as my observation
extended, I should be almost tempted to say, that none existed on the
island, except, indeed, the mysterious ‘Taboo’ be considered as such.
During the time I lived among the Typees, no one was ever put upon his
trial for any offence against the public. To all appearance there
were no courts of law or equity. There was no municipal police for the
purpose of apprehending vagrants and disorderly characters. In
short, there were no legal provisions whatever for the well-being and
conservation of society, the enlightened end of civilized legislation.
And yet everything went on in the valley with a harmony and smoothness
unparalleled, I will venture to assert, in the most select, refined, and
pious associations of mortals in Christendom. How are we to explain this
enigma? These islanders were heathens! savages! ay, cannibals! and how
came they without the aid of established law, to exhibit, in so eminent
a degree, that social order which is the greatest blessing and highest
pride of the social state?

It may reasonably be inquired, how were these people governed? how were
their passions controlled in their everyday transactions? It must have
been by an inherent principle of honesty and charity towards each other.
They seemed to be governed by that sort of tacit common-sense law which,
say what they will of the inborn lawlessness of the human race, has
its precepts graven on every breast. The grand principles of virtue and
honour, however they may be distorted by arbitrary codes, are the same
all the world over: and where these principles are concerned, the right
or wrong of any action appears the same to the uncultivated as to the
enlightened mind. It is to this indwelling, this universally diffused
perception of what is just and noble, that the integrity of the
Marquesans in their intercourse with each other, is to be attributed.
In the darkest nights they slept securely, with all their worldly wealth
around them, in houses the doors of which were never fastened. The
disquieting ideas of theft or assassination never disturbed them.

Each islander reposed beneath his own palmetto thatching, or sat under
his own bread-fruit trees, with none to molest or alarm him. There was
not a padlock in the valley, nor anything that answered the purpose
of one: still there was no community of goods. This long spear, so
elegantly carved, and highly polished, belongs to Wormoonoo: it is far
handsomer than the one which old Marheyo so greatly prizes; it is the
most valuable article belonging to its owner. And yet I have seen it
leaning against a cocoanut tree in the grove, and there it was found
when sought for. Here is a sperm-whale tooth, graven all over with
cunning devices: it is the property of Karluna; it is the most precious
of the damsel’s ornaments. In her estimation its price is far above
rubies--and yet there hangs the dental jewel by its cord of braided
bark, in the girl’s house, which is far back in the valley; the door is
left open, and all the inmates have gone off to bathe in the stream.*

*The strict honesty which the inhabitants of nearly all the Polynesian
Islands manifest toward each other, is in striking contrast with the
thieving propensities some of them evince in their intercourse with
foreigners. It would almost seem that, according to their peculiar code
of morals, the pilfering of a hatchet or a wrought nail from a European,
is looked upon as a praiseworthy action. Or rather, it may be presumed,
that bearing in mind the wholesale forays made upon them by their
nautical visitors, they consider the property of the latter as a fair
object of reprisal. This consideration, while it serves to reconcile an
apparent contradiction in the moral character of the islanders, should
in some measure alter that low opinion of it which the reader of South
Sea voyages is too apt to form.



So much for the respect in which ‘personal property’ is held in Typee;
how secure an investment of ‘real property’ may be, I cannot take upon
me to say. Whether the land of the valley was the joint property of its
inhabitants, or whether it was parcelled out among a certain number of
landed proprietors who allowed everybody to ‘squat’ and ‘poach’ as
much as he or she pleased, I never could ascertain. At any rate, musty
parchments and title-deeds there were none on the island; and I am half
inclined to believe that its inhabitants hold their broad valleys in fee
simple from Nature herself; to have and to hold, so long as grass grows
and water runs; or until their French visitors, by a summary mode of
conveyancing, shall appropriate them to their own benefit and behoof.

Yesterday I saw Kory-Kory hie him away, armed with a long pole, with
which, standing on the ground, he knocked down the fruit from the
topmost boughs of the trees, and brought them home in his basket of
cocoanut leaves. Today I see an islander, whom I know to reside in a
distant part of the valley, doing the self-same thing. On the sloping
bank of the stream are a number of banana-trees I have often seen a
score or two of young people making a merry foray on the great golden
clusters, and bearing them off, one after another, to different parts
of the vale, shouting and trampling as they went. No churlish old
curmudgeon could have been the owner of that grove of bread-fruit trees,
or of these gloriously yellow bunches of bananas.

From what I have said it will be perceived that there is a vast
difference between ‘personal property’ and ‘real estate’ in the valley
of Typee. Some individuals, of course, are more wealthy than others.
For example, the ridge-pole of Marheyo’s house bends under the weight of
many a huge packet of tappa; his long couch is laid with mats placed one
upon the other seven deep. Outside, Tinor has ranged along in her
bamboo cupboard--or whatever the place may be called--a goodly array of
calabashes and wooden trenchers. Now, the house just beyond the grove,
and next to Marheyo’s, occupied by Ruaruga, is not quite so well
furnished. There are only three moderate-sized packages swinging
overhead: there are only two layers of mats beneath; and the calabashes
and trenchers are not so numerous, nor so tastefully stained and carved.
But then, Ruaruga has a house--not so pretty a one, to be sure--but just
as commodious as Marheyo’s; and, I suppose, if he wished to vie with
his neighbour’s establishment, he could do so with very little trouble.
These, in short, constituted the chief differences perceivable in the
relative wealth of the people in Typee.

Civilization does not engross all the virtues of humanity: she has not
even her full share of them. They flourish in greater abundance and
attain greater strength among many barbarous people. The hospitality
of the wild Arab, the courage of the North American Indian, and the
faithful friendship of some of the Polynesian nations, far surpass
anything of a similar kind among the polished communities of Europe. If
truth and justice, and the better principles of our nature, cannot
exist unless enforced by the statute-book, how are we to account for the
social condition of the Typees? So pure and upright were they in all the
relations of life, that entering their valley, as I did, under the most
erroneous impressions of their character, I was soon led to exclaim in
amazement: ‘Are these the ferocious savages, the blood-thirsty cannibals
of whom I have heard such frightful tales! They deal more kindly with
each other, and are more humane than many who study essays on virtue and
benevolence, and who repeat every night that beautiful prayer breathed
first by the lips of the divine and gentle Jesus.’ I will frankly
declare that after passing a few weeks in this valley of the Marquesas,
I formed a higher estimate of human nature than I had ever before
entertained. But alas! since then I have been one of the crew of a
man-of-war, and the pent-up wickedness of five hundred men has nearly
overturned all my previous theories.

There was one admirable trait in the general character of the Typees
which, more than anything else, secured my admiration: it was the
unanimity of feeling they displayed on every occasion. With them
there hardly appeared to be any difference of opinion upon any subject
whatever. They all thought and acted alike. I do not conceive that they
could support a debating society for a single night: there would be
nothing to dispute about; and were they to call a convention to take
into consideration the state of the tribe, its session would be a
remarkably short one. They showed this spirit of unanimity in every
action of life; everything was done in concert and good fellowship. I
will give an instance of this fraternal feeling.

One day, in returning with Kory-Kory from my accustomed visit to the
Ti, we passed by a little opening in the grove; on one side of which,
my attendant informed me, was that afternoon to be built a dwelling of
bamboo. At least a hundred of the natives were bringing materials to the
ground, some carrying in their hands one or two of the canes which were
to form the sides, others slender rods of the habiscus, strung with
palmetto leaves, for the roof. Every one contributed something to the
work; and by the united, but easy, and even indolent, labours of all,
the entire work was completed before sunset. The islanders, while
employed in erecting this tenement, reminded me of a colony of beavers
at work. To be sure, they were hardly as silent and demure as those
wonderful creatures, nor were they by any means as diligent. To tell the
truth they were somewhat inclined to be lazy, but a perfect tumult of
hilarity prevailed; and they worked together so unitedly, and seemed
actuated by such an instinct of friendliness, that it was truly
beautiful to behold.

Not a single female took part in this employment: and if the degree of
consideration in which the ever-adorable sex is held by the men be--as
the philosophers affirm--a just criterion of the degree of refinement
among a people, then I may truly pronounce the Typees to be as polished
a community as ever the sun shone upon. The religious restrictions of
the taboo alone excepted, the women of the valley were allowed every
possible indulgence. Nowhere are the ladies more assiduously courted;
nowhere are they better appreciated as the contributors to our highest
enjoyments; and nowhere are they more sensible of their power. Far
different from their condition among many rude nations, where the women
are made to perform all the work while their ungallant lords and masters
lie buried in sloth, the gentle sex in the valley of Typee were exempt
from toil, if toil it might be called that, even in the tropical
climate, never distilled one drop of perspiration. Their light household
occupations, together with the manufacture of tappa, the platting of
mats, and the polishing of drinking-vessels, were the only employments
pertaining to the women. And even these resembled those pleasant
avocations which fill up the elegant morning leisure of our fashionable
ladies at home. But in these occupations, slight and agreeable though
they were, the giddy young girls very seldom engaged. Indeed these
wilful care-killing damsels were averse to all useful employment.

Like so many spoiled beauties, they ranged through the groves--bathed
in the stream--danced--flirted--played all manner of mischievous pranks,
and passed their days in one merry round of thoughtless happiness.

During my whole stay on the island I never witnessed a single quarrel,
nor anything that in the slightest degree approached even to a dispute.
The natives appeared to form one household, whose members were bound
together by the ties of strong affection. The love of kindred I did not
so much perceive, for it seemed blended in the general love; and where
all were treated as brothers and sisters, it was hard to tell who were
actually related to each other by blood.

Let it not be supposed that I have overdrawn this picture. I have
not done so. Nor let it be urged, that the hostility of this tribe
to foreigners, and the hereditary feuds they carry on against their
fellow-islanders beyond the mountains, are facts which contradict me.
Not so; these apparent discrepancies are easily reconciled. By many a
legendary tale of violence and wrong, as well as by events which have
passed before their eyes, these people have been taught to look upon
white men with abhorrence. The cruel invasion of their country by Porter
has alone furnished them with ample provocation; and I can sympathize
in the spirit which prompts the Typee warrior to guard all the passes to
his valley with the point of his levelled spear, and, standing upon
the beach, with his back turned upon his green home, to hold at bay the
intruding European.

As to the origin of the enmity of this particular clan towards the
neighbouring tribes, I cannot so confidently speak. I will not say that
their foes are the aggressors, nor will I endeavour to palliate their
conduct. But surely, if our evil passions must find vent, it is far
better to expend them on strangers and aliens, than in the bosom of
the community in which we dwell. In many polished countries civil
contentions, as well as domestic enmities, are prevalent, and the same
time that the most atrocious foreign wars are waged. How much less
guilty, then, are our islanders, who of these three sins are only
chargeable with one, and that the least criminal!

The reader will ere long have reason to suspect that the Typees are not
free from the guilt of cannibalism; and he will then, perhaps, charge me
with admiring a people against whom so odious a crime is chargeable. But
this only enormity in their character is not half so horrible as it
is usually described. According to the popular fictions, the crews of
vessels, shipwrecked on some barbarous coast, are eaten alive like so
many dainty joints by the uncivil inhabitants; and unfortunate voyagers
are lured into smiling and treacherous bays; knocked on the head with
outlandish war-clubs; and served up without any prelimary dressing. In
truth, so horrific and improbable are these accounts, that many sensible
and well-informed people will not believe that any cannibals exist; and
place every book of voyages which purports to give any account of them,
on the same shelf with Blue Beard and Jack the Giant-Killer. While
others, implicitly crediting the most extravagant fictions, firmly
believe that there are people in the world with tastes so depraved that
they would infinitely prefer a single mouthful of material humanity to
a good dinner of roast beef and plum pudding. But here, Truth, who loves
to be centrally located, is again found between the two extremes; for
cannibalism to a certain moderate extent is practised among several of
the primitive tribes in the Pacific, but it is upon the bodies of slain
enemies alone, and horrible and fearful as the custom is, immeasurably
as it is to be abhorred and condemned, still I assert that those who
indulge in it are in other respects humane and virtuous.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

FISHING PARTIES--MODE OF DISTRIBUTING THE FISH--MIDNIGHT
BANQUET--TIME-KEEPING TAPERS--UNCEREMONIOUS STYLE OF EATING THE FISH

THERE was no instance in which the social and kindly dispositions of the
Typees were more forcibly evinced than in the manner the conducted their
great fishing parties. Four times during my stay in the valley the young
men assembled near the full of the moon, and went together on these
excursions. As they were generally absent about forty-eight hours, I was
led to believe that they went out towards the open sea, some distance
from the bay. The Polynesians seldom use a hook and line, almost always
employing large well-made nets, most ingeniously fabricated from the
twisted fibres of a certain bark. I examined several of them which had
been spread to dry upon the beach at Nukuheva. They resemble very much
our own seines, and I should think they were nearly as durable.

All the South Sea Islanders are passionately fond of fish; but none
of them can be more so than the inhabitants of Typee. I could not
comprehend, therefore, why they so seldom sought it in their waters, for
it was only at stated times that the fishing parties were formed, and
these occasions were always looked forward to with no small degree of
interest.

During their absence the whole population of the place were in a
ferment, and nothing was talked of but ‘pehee, pehee’ (fish, fish).
Towards the time when they were expected to return the vocal telegraph
was put into operation--the inhabitants, who were scattered throughout
the length of the valley, leaped upon rocks and into trees, shouting
with delight at the thoughts of the anticipated treat. As soon as the
approach of the party was announced, there was a general rush of the
men towards the beach; some of them remaining, however, about the Ti in
order to get matters in readiness for the reception of the fish, which
were brought to the Taboo Groves in immense packages of leaves, each one
of them being suspended from a pole carried on the shoulders of two men.

I was present at the Ti on one of these occasions, and the sight was
most interesting. After all the packages had arrived, they were laid in
a row under the verandah of the building and opened.

The fish were all quite small, generally about the size of a herring,
and of every variety. About one-eighth of the whole being reserved
for the use of the Ti itself, the remainder was divided into numerous
smaller packages, which were immediately dispatched in every direction
to the remotest parts of the valley. Arrived at their destination, these
were in turn portioned out, and equally distributed among the various
houses of each particular district. The fish were under a strict Taboo,
until the distribution was completed, which seemed to be effected in the
most impartial manner. By the operation of this system every man, woman,
and child in the vale, were at one and the same time partaking of this
favourite article of food.

Once I remember the party arrived at midnight; but the unseasonableness
of the tour did not repress the impatience of the islanders. The
carriers dispatched from the Ti were to be seen hurrying in all
directions through the deep groves; each individual preceded by a boy
bearing a flaming torch of dried cocoanut boughs, which from time to
time was replenished from the materials scattered along the path. The
wild glare of these enormous flambeaux, lighting up with a startling
brilliancy the innermost recesses of the vale, and seen moving rapidly
along beneath the canopy of leaves, the savage shout of the excited
messengers sounding the news of their approach, which was answered
on all sides, and the strange appearance of their naked bodies, seen
against the gloomy background, produced altogether an effect upon my
mind that I shall long remember.

It was on this same occasion that Kory-Kory awakened me at the dead
hour of night, and in a sort of transport communicated the intelligence
contained in the words ‘pehee perni’ (fish come). As I happened to have
been in a remarkably sound and refreshing slumber, I could not imagine
why the information had not been deferred until morning, indeed, I felt
very much inclined to fly into a passion and box my valet’s ears; but on
second thoughts I got quietly up, and on going outside the house was not
a little interested by the moving illumination which I beheld.

When old Marheyo received his share of the spoils, immediate
preparations were made for a midnight banquet; calabashes of poee-poee
were filled to the brim; green bread-fruit were roasted; and a huge cake
of ‘amar’ was cut up with a sliver of bamboo and laid out on an immense
banana-leaf.

At this supper we were lighted by several of the native tapers, held in
the hands of young girls. These tapers are most ingeniously made. There
is a nut abounding in the valley, called by the Typees ‘armor’, closely
resembling our common horse-chestnut. The shell is broken, and the
contents extracted whole. Any number of these are strung at pleasure
upon the long elastic fibre that traverses the branches of the cocoanut
tree. Some of these tapers are eight or ten feet in length; but being
perfectly flexible, one end is held in a coil, while the other is
lighted. The nut burns with a fitful bluish flame, and the oil that it
contains is exhausted in about ten minutes. As one burns down, the next
becomes ignited, and the ashes of the former are knocked into a cocoanut
shell kept for the purpose. This primitive candle requires continual
attention, and must be constantly held in the hand. The person so
employed marks the lapse of time by the number of nuts consumed, which
is easily learned by counting the bits of tappa distributed at regular
intervals along the string.

I grieve to state so distressing a fact, but the inhabitants of
Typee were in the habit of devouring fish much in the same way that
a civilized being would eat a radish, and without any more previous
preparation. They eat it raw; scales, bones, gills, and all the inside.
The fish is held by the tail, and the head being introduced into the
mouth, the animal disappears with a rapidity that would at first nearly
lead one to imagine it had been launched bodily down the throat.

Raw fish! Shall I ever forget my sensations when I first saw my island
beauty devour one. Oh, heavens! Fayaway, how could you ever have
contracted so vile a habit? However, after the first shock had subsided,
the custom grew less odious in my eyes, and I soon accustomed myself to
the sight. Let no one imagine, however, that the lovely Fayaway was in
the habit of swallowing great vulgar-looking fishes: oh, no; with her
beautiful small hand she would clasp a delicate, little, golden-hued
love of a fish and eat it as elegantly and as innocently as though it
were a Naples biscuit. But alas! it was after all a raw fish; and all I
can say is, that Fayaway ate it in a more ladylike manner than any other
girl of the valley.

When at Rome do as the Romans do, I held to be so good a proverb, that
being in Typee I made a point of doing as the Typees did. Thus I
ate poee-poee as they did; I walked about in a garb striking for its
simplicity; and I reposed on a community of couches; besides doing many
other things in conformity with their peculiar habits; but the farthest
I ever went in the way of conformity, was on several occasions to regale
myself with raw fish. These being remarkably tender, and quite small,
the undertaking was not so disagreeable in the main, and after a few
trials I positively began to relish them; however, I subjected them to a
slight operation with a knife previously to making my repast.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

NATURAL HISTORY OF THE VALLEY--GOLDEN LIZARDS--TAMENESS OF THE
BIRDS--MOSQUITOES--FLIES--DOGS--A SOLITARY CAT--THE CLIMATE--THE
COCOANUT TREE--SINGULAR MODES OF CLIMBING IT--AN AGILE YOUNG
CHIEF--FEARLESSNESS OF THE CHILDREN--TOO-TOO AND THE COCOANUT TREE--THE
BIRDS OF THE VALLEY

I THINK I must enlighten the reader a little about the natural history
of the valley.

Whence, in the name of Count Buffon and Baron Cuvier, came those dogs
that I saw in Typee? Dogs!--Big hairless rats rather; all with smooth,
shining speckled hides--fat sides, and very disagreeable faces. Whence
could they have come? That they were not the indigenous production of
the region, I am firmly convinced. Indeed they seemed aware of their
being interlopers, looking fairly ashamed, and always trying to hide
themselves in some dark corner. It was plain enough they did not feel at
home in the vale--that they wished themselves well out of it, and back
to the ugly country from which they must have come.

Scurvy curs! they were my abhorrence; I should have liked nothing
better than to have been the death of every one of them. In fact, on one
occasion, I intimated the propriety of a canine crusade to Mehevi; but
the benevolent king would not consent to it. He heard me very patiently;
but when I had finished, shook his head, and told me in confidence that
they were ‘taboo’.

As for the animal that made the fortune of the ex-lord-mayor
Whittington, I shall never forget the day that I was lying in the house
about noon, everybody else being fast asleep; and happening to raise
my eyes, met those of a big black spectral cat, which sat erect in the
doorway, looking at me with its frightful goggling green orbs, like one
of those monstrous imps that torment some of Teniers’ saints! I am one
of those unfortunate persons to whom the sight of these animals are, at
any time an insufferable annoyance.

Thus constitutionally averse to cats in general, the unexpected
apparition of this one in particular utterly confounded me. When I had
a little recovered from the fascination of its glance, I started up; the
cat fled, and emboldened by this, I rushed out of the house in pursuit;
but it had disappeared. It was the only time I ever saw one in the
valley, and how it got there I cannot imagine. It is just possible that
it might have escaped from one of the ships at Nukuheva. It was in vain
to seek information on the subject from the natives, since none of them
had seen the animal, the appearance of which remains a mystery to me to
this day.

Among the few animals which are to be met with in Typee, there was none
which I looked upon with more interest than a beautiful golden-hued
species of lizard. It measured perhaps five inches from head to tail,
and was most gracefully proportioned. Numbers of those creatures were
to be seen basking in the sunshine upon the thatching of the houses, and
multitudes at all hours of the day showed their glittering sides as they
ran frolicking between the spears of grass or raced in troops up and
down the tall shafts of the cocoanut trees. But the remarkable beauty
of these little animals and their lively ways were not their only claims
upon my admiration. They were perfectly tame and insensible to fear.
Frequently, after seating myself upon the ground in some shady place
during the heat of the day, I would be completely overrun with them.
If I brushed one off my arm, it would leap perhaps into my hair: when I
tried to frighten it away by gently pinching its leg, it would turn for
protection to the very hand that attacked it.

The birds are also remarkably tame. If you happened to see one perched
upon a branch within reach of your arm, and advanced towards it, it did
not fly away immediately, but waited quietly looking at you, until you
could almost touch it, and then took wing slowly, less alarmed at your
presence, it would seem, than desirous of removing itself from your
path. Had salt been less scarce in the valley than it was, this was the
very place to have gone birding with it. I remember that once, on an
uninhabited island of the Gallipagos, a bird alighted on my outstretched
arm, while its mate chirped from an adjoining tree. Its tameness, far
from shocking me, as a similar occurrence did Selkirk, imparted to
me the most exquisite thrill of delight I ever experienced, and with
somewhat of the same pleasure did I afterwards behold the birds and
lizards of the valley show their confidence in the kindliness of man.

Among the numerous afflictions which the Europeans have entailed upon
some of the natives of the South Seas, is the accidental introduction
among them of that enemy of all repose and ruffler of even tempers--the
Mosquito. At the Sandwich Islands and at two or three of the Society
group, there are now thriving colonies of these insects, who promise ere
long to supplant altogether the aboriginal sand-flies. They sting, buzz,
and torment, from one end of the year to the other, and by incessantly
exasperating the natives materially obstruct the benevolent labours of
the missionaries.

From this grievous visitation, however the Typees are as yet wholly
exempt; but its place is unfortunately in some degree supplied by the
occasional presence of a minute species of fly, which, without stinging,
is nevertheless productive of no little annoyance. The tameness of the
birds and lizards is as nothing when compared to the fearless confidence
of this insect. He will perch upon one of your eye-lashes, and go to
roost there if you do not disturb him, or force his way through your
hair, or along the cavity of the nostril, till you almost fancy he is
resolved to explore the very brain itself. On one occasion I was so
inconsiderate as to yawn while a number of them were hovering around
me. I never repeated the act. Some half-dozen darted into the open
apartment, and began walking about its ceiling; the sensation was
dreadful. I involuntarily closed my mouth, and the poor creatures being
enveloped in inner darkness, must in their consternation have stumbled
over my palate, and been precipitated into the gulf beneath. At any
rate, though I afterwards charitably held my mouth open for at least
five minutes, with a view of affording egress to the stragglers, none of
them ever availed themselves of the opportunity.

There are no wild animals of any kind on the island unless it be decided
that the natives themselves are such. The mountains and the interior
present to the eye nothing but silent solitudes, unbroken by the roar
of beasts of prey, and enlivened by few tokens even of minute animated
existence. There are no venomous reptiles, and no snakes of any
description to be found in any of the valleys.

In a company of Marquesan natives the weather affords no topic of
conversation. It can hardly be said to have any vicissitudes. The rainy
season, it is true, brings frequent showers, but they are intermitting
and refreshing. When an islander bound on some expedition rises from his
couch in the morning, he is never solicitous to peep out and see how the
sky looks, or ascertain from what quarter the wind blows. He is always
sure of a ‘fine day’, and the promise of a few genial showers he hails
with pleasure. There is never any of that ‘remarkable weather’ on the
islands which from time immemorial has been experienced in America, and
still continues to call forth the wondering conversational exclamations
of its elderly citizens. Nor do there even occur any of those eccentric
meteorological changes which elsewhere surprise us. In the valley of
Typee ice-creams would never be rendered less acceptable by sudden
frosts, nor would picnic parties be deferred on account of inauspicious
snowstorms: for there day follows day in one unvarying round of summer
and sunshine, and the whole year is one long tropical month of June just
melting into July.

It is this genial climate which causes the cocoanuts to flourish as they
do. This invaluable fruit, brought to perfection by the rich soil of the
Marquesas, and home aloft on a stately column more than a hundred feet
from the ground, would seem at first almost inaccessible to the simple
natives. Indeed the slender, smooth, and soaring shaft, without a single
limb or protuberance of any kind to assist one in mounting it, presents
an obstacle only to be overcome by the surprising agility and ingenuity
of the islanders. It might be supposed that their indolence would lead
them patiently to await the period when the ripened nuts, slowly parting
from their stems, fall one by one to the ground. This certainly would
be the case, were it not that the young fruit, encased in a soft green
husk, with the incipient meat adhering in a jelly-like pellicle to its
sides, and containing a bumper of the most delicious nectar, is what
they chiefly prize. They have at least twenty different terms to express
as many progressive stages in the growth of the nut. Many of them reject
the fruit altogether except at a particular period of its growth, which,
incredible as it may appear, they seemed to me to be able to ascertain
within an hour or two. Others are still more capricious in their
tastes; and after gathering together a heap of the nuts of all ages, and
ingeniously tapping them, will first sip from one and then from another,
as fastidiously as some delicate wine-bibber experimenting glass in hand
among his dusty demi-johns of different vintages.

Some of the young men, with more flexible frames than their comrades,
and perhaps with more courageous souls, had a way of walking up
the trunk of the cocoanut trees which to me seemed little less than
miraculous; and when looking at them in the act, I experienced that
curious perplexity a child feels when he beholds a fly moving feet
uppermost along a ceiling.

I will endeavour to describe the way in which Narnee, a noble young
chief, sometimes performed this feat for my peculiar gratification; but
his preliminary performances must also be recorded. Upon my signifying
my desire that he should pluck me the young fruit of some particular
tree, the handsome savage, throwing himself into a sudden attitude of
surprise, feigns astonishment at the apparent absurdity of the request.
Maintaining this position for a moment, the strange emotions depicted on
his countenance soften down into one of humorous resignation to my will,
and then looking wistfully up to the tufted top of the tree, he
stands on tip-toe, straining his neck and elevating his arm, as though
endeavouring to reach the fruit from the ground where he stands. As
if defeated in this childish attempt, he now sinks to the earth
despondingly, beating his breast in well-acted despair; and then,
starting to his feet all at once, and throwing back his head, raises
both hands, like a school-boy about to catch a falling ball. After
continuing this for a moment or two, as if in expectation that the fruit
was going to be tossed down to him by some good spirit in the tree-top,
he turns wildly round in another fit of despair, and scampers off to the
distance of thirty or forty yards. Here he remains awhile, eyeing the
tree, the very picture of misery; but the next moment, receiving, as it
were, a flash of inspiration, he rushes again towards it, and clasping
both arms about the trunk, with one elevated a little above the other,
he presses the soles of his feet close together against the tree,
extending his legs from it until they are nearly horizontal, and his
body becomes doubled into an arch; then, hand over hand and foot over
foot, he rises from the earth with steady rapidity, and almost before
you are aware of it, has gained the cradled and embowered nest of nuts,
and with boisterous glee flings the fruit to the ground.

This mode of walking the tree is only practicable where the trunk
declines considerably from the perpendicular. This, however, is almost
always the case; some of the perfectly straight shafts of the trees
leaning at an angle of thirty degrees.

The less active among the men, and many of the children of the valley
have another method of climbing. They take a broad and stout piece of
bark, and secure each end of it to their ankles, so that when the feet
thus confined are extended apart, a space of little more than twelve
inches is left between them. This contrivance greatly facilitates
the act of climbing. The band pressed against the tree, and closely
embracing it, yields a pretty firm support; while with the arms clasped
about the trunk, and at regular intervals sustaining the body, the feet
are drawn up nearly a yard at a time, and a corresponding elevation of
the hands immediately succeeds. In this way I have seen little children,
scarcely five years of age, fearlessly climbing the slender pole of
a young cocoanut tree, and while hanging perhaps fifty feet from the
ground, receiving the plaudits of their parents beneath, who clapped
their hands, and encouraged them to mount still higher.

What, thought I, on first witnessing one of these exhibitions, would
the nervous mothers of America and England say to a similar display of
hardihood in any of their children? The Lacedemonian nation might have
approved of it, but most modern dames would have gone into hysterics at
the sight.

At the top of the cocoanut tree the numerous branches, radiating on
all sides from a common centre, form a sort of green and waving
basket, between the leaflets of which you just discern the nuts thickly
clustering together, and on the loftier trees looking no bigger from
the ground than bunches of grapes. I remember one adventurous little
fellow--Too-Too was the rascal’s name--who had built himself a sort of
aerial baby-house in the picturesque tuft of a tree adjoining Marheyo’s
habitation. He used to spend hours there,--rustling among the branches,
and shouting with delight every time the strong gusts of wind rushing
down from the mountain side, swayed to and fro the tall and flexible
column on which he was perched. Whenever I heard Too-Too’s musical voice
sounding strangely to the ear from so great a height, and beheld him
peeping down upon me from out his leafy covert, he always recalled to my
mind Dibdin’s lines--

    ‘There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
     To look out for the life of poor Jack.’

Birds--bright and beautiful birds--fly over the valley of Typee. You
see them perched aloft among the immovable boughs of the majestic
bread-fruit trees, or gently swaying on the elastic branches of the
Omoo; skimming over the palmetto thatching of the bamboo huts; passing
like spirits on the wing through the shadows of the grove, and sometimes
descending into the bosom of the valley in gleaming flights from the
mountains. Their plumage is purple and azure, crimson and white, black
and gold; with bills of every tint: bright bloody red, jet black, and
ivory white, and their eyes are bright and sparkling; they go sailing
through the air in starry throngs; but, alas! the spell of dumbness is
upon them all--there is not a single warbler in the valley!

I know not why it was, but the sight of these birds, generally the
ministers of gladness, always oppressed me with melancholy. As in their
dumb beauty they hovered by me whilst I was walking, or looked down upon
me with steady curious eyes from out the foliage, I was almost inclined
to fancy that they knew they were gazing upon a stranger, and that they
commiserated his fate.



CHAPTER THIRTY

A PROFESSOR OF THE FINE ARTS--HIS PERSECUTIONS--SOMETHING ABOUT
TATTOOING AND TABOOING--TWO ANECDOTES IN ILLUSTRATION OF THE LATTER--A
FEW THOUGHTS ON THE TYPEE DIALECT

IN one of my strolls with Kory-Kory, in passing along the border of a
thick growth of bushes, my attention was arrested by a singular noise.
On entering the thicket I witnessed for the first time the operation of
tattooing as performed by these islanders.

I beheld a man extended flat upon his back on the ground, and, despite
the forced composure of his countenance, it was evident that he was
suffering agony. His tormentor bent over him, working away for all the
world like a stone-cutter with mallet and chisel. In one hand he held a
short slender stick, pointed with a shark’s tooth, on the upright end of
which he tapped with a small hammer-like piece of wood, thus puncturing
the skin, and charging it with the colouring matter in which the
instrument was dipped. A cocoanut shell containing this fluid was placed
upon the ground. It is prepared by mixing with a vegetable juice the
ashes of the ‘armor’, or candle-nut, always preserved for the purpose.
Beside the savage, and spread out upon a piece of soiled tappa, were
a great number of curious black-looking little implements of bone and
wood, used in the various divisions of his art. A few terminated in a
single fine point, and, like very delicate pencils, were employed in
giving the finishing touches, or in operating upon the more sensitive
portions of the body, as was the case in the present instance. Others
presented several points distributed in a line, somewhat resembling the
teeth of a saw. These were employed in the coarser parts of the work,
and particularly in pricking in straight marks. Some presented their
points disposed in small figures, and being placed upon the body,
were, by a single blow of the hammer, made to leave their indelible
impression. I observed a few the handles of which were mysteriously
curved, as if intended to be introduced into the orifice of the ear,
with a view perhaps of beating the tattoo upon the tympanum. Altogether
the sight of these strange instruments recalled to mind that display
of cruel-looking mother-of-pearl-handled things which one sees in their
velvet-lined cases at the elbow of a dentist.

The artist was not at this time engaged on an original sketch, his
subject being a venerable savage, whose tattooing had become somewhat
faded with age and needed a few repairs, and accordingly he was merely
employed in touching up the works of some of the old masters of the
Typee school, as delineated upon the human canvas before him. The parts
operated upon were the eyelids, where a longitudinal streak, like the
one which adorned Kory-Kory, crossed the countenance of the victim.

In spite of all the efforts of the poor old man, sundry twitchings and
screwings of the muscles of the face denoted the exquisite sensibility
of these shutters to the windows of his soul, which he was now having
repainted. But the artist, with a heart as callous as that of an army
surgeon, continued his performance, enlivening his labours with a wild
chant, tapping away the while as merrily as a woodpecker.

So deeply engaged was he in his work, that he had not observed our
approach, until, after having, enjoyed an unmolested view of the
operation, I chose to attract his attention. As soon as he perceived me,
supposing that I sought him in his professional capacity, he seized hold
of me in a paroxysm of delight, and was an eagerness to begin the work.
When, however, I gave him to understand that he had altogether mistaken
my views, nothing could exceed his grief and disappointment. But
recovering from this, he seemed determined not to credit my assertion,
and grasping his implements, he flourished them about in fearful
vicinity to my face, going through an imaginary performance of his art,
and every moment bursting into some admiring exclamation at the beauty
of his designs.

Horrified at the bare thought of being rendered hideous for life if the
wretch were to execute his purpose upon me, I struggled to get away
from him, while Kory-Kory, turning traitor, stood by, and besought me
to comply with the outrageous request. On my reiterated refusals the
excited artist got half beside himself, and was overwhelmed with sorrow
at losing so noble an opportunity of distinguishing himself in his
profession.

The idea of engrafting his tattooing upon my white skin filled him
with all a painter’s enthusiasm; again and again he gazed into my
countenance, and every fresh glimpse seemed to add to the vehemence
of his ambition. Not knowing to what extremities he might proceed,
and shuddering at the ruin he might inflict upon my figure-head, I now
endeavoured to draw off his attention from it, and holding out my arm
in a fit of desperation, signed to him to commence operations. But he
rejected the compromise indignantly, and still continued his attack on
my face, as though nothing short of that would satisfy him. When his
forefinger swept across my features, in laying out the borders of those
parallel bands which were to encircle my countenance, the flesh fairly
crawled upon my bones. At last, half wild with terror and indignation, I
succeeded in breaking away from the three savages, and fled towards old
Marheyo’s house, pursued by the indomitable artist, who ran after me,
implements in hand. Kory-Kory, however, at last interfered and drew him
off from the chase.

This incident opened my eyes to a new danger; and I now felt convinced
that in some luckless hour I should be disfigured in such a manner as
never more to have the FACE to return to my countrymen, even should an
opportunity offer.

These apprehensions were greatly increased by the desire which King
Mehevi and several of the inferior chiefs now manifested that I should
be tattooed. The pleasure of the king was first signified to me some
three days after my casual encounter with Karky the artist. Heavens!
what imprecations I showered upon that Karky. Doubtless he had plotted a
conspiracy against me and my countenance, and would never rest until his
diabolical purpose was accomplished. Several times I met him in various
parts of the valley, and, invariably, whenever he descried me, he came
running after me with his mallet and chisel, flourishing them about my
face as if he longed to begin. What an object he would have made of me!

When the king first expressed his wish to me, I made known to him my
utter abhorrence of the measure, and worked myself into such a state of
excitement, that he absolutely stared at me in amazement. It evidently
surpassed his majesty’s comprehension how any sober-minded and
sensible individual could entertain the least possible objection to so
beautifying an operation.

Soon afterwards he repeated his suggestion, and meeting with a little
repulse, showed some symptoms of displeasure at my obduracy. On his a
third time renewing his request, I plainly perceived that something must
be done, or my visage was ruined for ever; I therefore screwed up my
courage to the sticking point, and declared my willingness to have both
arms tattooed from just above the wrist to the shoulder. His majesty was
greatly pleased at the proposition, and I was congratulating myself with
having thus compromised the matter, when he intimated that as a thing of
course my face was first to undergo the operation. I was fairly driven
to despair; nothing but the utter ruin of my ‘face divine’, as the
poets call it, would, I perceived, satisfy the inexorable Mehevi and his
chiefs, or rather, that infernal Karky, for he was at the bottom of it
all.

The only consolation afforded me was a choice of patterns: I was at
perfect liberty to have my face spanned by three horizontal bars, after
the fashion of my serving-man’s; or to have as many oblique stripes
slanting across it; or if, like a true courtier, I chose to model my
style on that of royalty, I might wear a sort of freemason badge upon
my countenance in the shape of a mystic triangle. However, I would have
none of these, though the king most earnestly impressed upon my mind
that my choice was wholly unrestricted. At last, seeing my unconquerable
repugnance, he ceased to importune me.

But not so some other of the savages. Hardly a day passed but I was
subjected to their annoying requests, until at last my existence
became a burden to me; the pleasures I had previously enjoyed no longer
afforded me delight, and all my former desire to escape from the valley
now revived with additional force.

A fact which I soon afterwards learned augmented my apprehension. The
whole system of tattooing was, I found, connected with their religion;
and it was evident, therefore, that they were resolved to make a convert
of me.

In the decoration of the chiefs it seems to be necessary to exercise the
most elaborate pencilling; while some of the inferior natives looked
as if they had been daubed over indiscriminately with a house-painter’s
brush. I remember one fellow who prided himself hugely upon a great
oblong patch, placed high upon his back, and who always reminded me of
a man with a blister of Spanish flies, stuck between his shoulders.
Another whom I frequently met had the hollow of his eyes tattooed in two
regular squares and his visual organs being remarkably brilliant, they
gleamed forth from out this setting like a couple of diamonds inserted
in ebony.

Although convinced that tattooing was a religious observance, still the
nature of the connection between it and the superstitious idolatry of
the people was a point upon which I could never obtain any information.
Like the still more important system of the ‘Taboo’, it always appeared
inexplicable to me.

There is a marked similarity, almost an identity, between the religious
institutions of most of the Polynesian islands, and in all exists the
mysterious ‘Taboo’, restricted in its uses to a greater or less extent.
So strange and complex in its arrangements is this remarkable system,
that I have in several cases met with individuals who, after residing
for years among the islands in the Pacific, and acquiring a considerable
knowledge of the language, have nevertheless been altogether unable to
give any satisfactory account of its operations. Situated as I was
in the Typee valley, I perceived every hour the effects of this
all-controlling power, without in the least comprehending it. Those
effects were, indeed, wide-spread and universal, pervading the most
important as well as the minutest transactions of life. The savage, in
short, lives in the continual observance of its dictates, which guide
and control every action of his being.

For several days after entering the valley I had been saluted at least
fifty times in the twenty-four hours with the talismanic word ‘Taboo’
shrieked in my ears, at some gross violation of its provisions, of which
I had unconsciously been guilty. The day after our arrival I happened to
hand some tobacco to Toby over the head of a native who sat between
us. He started up, as if stung by an adder; while the whole company,
manifesting an equal degree of horror, simultaneously screamed out
‘Taboo!’ I never again perpetrated a similar piece of ill-manners,
which, indeed, was forbidden by the canons of good breeding, as well as
by the mandates of the taboo. But it was not always so easy to perceive
wherein you had contravened the spirit of this institution. I was many
times called to order, if I may use the phrase, when I could not for the
life of me conjecture what particular offence I had committed.

One day I was strolling through a secluded portion of the valley, and
hearing the musical sound of the cloth-mallet at a little distance, I
turned down a path that conducted me in a few moments to a house where
there were some half-dozen girls employed in making tappa. This was an
operation I had frequently witnessed, and had handled the bark in all
the various stages of its preparation. On the present occasion the
females were intent upon their occupation, and after looking up and
talking gaily to me for a few moments, they resumed their employment. I
regarded them for a while in silence, and then carelessly picking up a
handful of the material that lay around, proceeded unconsciously to pick
it apart. While thus engaged, I was suddenly startled by a scream, like
that of a whole boarding-school of young ladies just on the point of
going into hysterics. Leaping up with the idea of seeing a score of
Happar warriors about to perform anew the Sabine atrocity, I found
myself confronted by the company of girls, who, having dropped their
work, stood before me with starting eyes, swelling bosoms, and fingers
pointed in horror towards me.

Thinking that some venomous reptile must be concealed in the bark which
I held in my hand, I began cautiously to separate and examine it. Whilst
I did so the horrified girls re-doubled their shrieks. Their wild cries
and frightened motions actually alarmed me, and throwing down the tappa,
I was about to rush from the house, when in the same instant their
clamours ceased, and one of them, seizing me by the arm, pointed to the
broken fibres that had just fallen from my grasp, and screamed in my
ears the fatal word Taboo!

I subsequently found out that the fabric they were engaged in making was
of a peculiar kind, destined to be worn on the heads of the females, and
through every stage of its manufacture was guarded by a rigorous taboo,
which interdicted the whole masculine gender from even so much as
touching it.

Frequently in walking through the groves I observed bread-fruit and
cocoanut trees, with a wreath of leaves twined in a peculiar fashion
about their trunks. This was the mark of the taboo. The trees
themselves, their fruit, and even the shadows they cast upon the ground,
were consecrated by its presence. In the same way a pipe, which the king
had bestowed upon me, was rendered sacred in the eyes of the natives,
none of whom could I ever prevail upon to smoke from it. The bowl was
encircled by a woven band of grass, somewhat resembling those Turks’
heads occasionally worked in the handles of our whip-stalks.

A similar badge was once braided about my wrist by the royal hand
of Mehevi himself, who, as soon as he had concluded the operation,
pronounced me ‘Taboo’. This occurred shortly after Toby’s disappearance;
and, were it not that from the first moment I had entered the valley
the natives had treated me with uniform kindness, I should have supposed
that their conduct afterwards was to be ascribed to the fact that I had
received this sacred investiture.

The capricious operations of the taboo are not its least remarkable
feature: to enumerate them all would be impossible. Black hogs--infants
to a certain age--women in an interesting situation--young men while the
operation of tattooing their faces is going on--and certain parts of the
valley during the continuance of a shower--are alike fenced about by the
operation of the taboo.

I witnessed a striking instance of its effects in the bay of Tior,
my visit to which place has been alluded to in a former part of this
narrative. On that occasion our worthy captain formed one of the party.
He was a most insatiable sportsman. Outward bound, and off the pitch of
Cape Horn, he used to sit on the taffrail, and keep the steward loading
three or four old fowling pieces, with which he would bring down
albatrosses, Cape pigeons, jays, petrels, and divers other marine fowl,
who followed chattering in our wake. The sailors were struck aghast at
his impiety, and one and all attributed our forty days’ beating about
that horrid headland to his sacrilegious slaughter of these inoffensive
birds.

At Tior he evinced the same disregard for the religious prejudices of
the islanders, as he had previously shown for the superstitions of the
sailors. Having heard that there were a considerable number of fowls in
the valley the progeny of some cocks and hens accidentally left there by
an English vessel, and which, being strictly tabooed, flew about almost
in a wild state--he determined to break through all restraints, and
be the death of them. Accordingly, he provided himself with a most
formidable looking gun, and announced his landing on the beach by
shooting down a noble cock that was crowing what proved to be his own
funeral dirge, on the limb of an adjoining tree. ‘Taboo’, shrieked the
affrighted savages. ‘Oh, hang your taboo,’ says the nautical sportsman;
‘talk taboo to the marines’; and bang went the piece again, and down
came another victim. At this the natives ran scampering through the
groves, horror-struck at the enormity of the act.

All that afternoon the rocky sides of the valley rang with successive
reports, and the superb plumage of many a beautiful fowl was ruffled by
the fatal bullet. Had it not been that the French admiral, with a large
party, was then in the glen, I have no doubt that the natives, although
their tribe was small and dispirited, would have inflicted summary
vengeance upon the man who thus outraged their most sacred institutions;
as it was, they contrived to annoy him not a little.

Thirsting with his exertions, the skipper directed his steps to
a stream; but the savages, who had followed at a little distance,
perceiving his object, rushed towards him and forced him away from its
bank--his lips would have polluted it. Wearied at last, he sought to
enter a house that he might rest for a while on the mats; its inmates
gathered tumultuously about the door and denied him admittance. He
coaxed and blustered by turns, but in vain; the natives were neither
to be intimidated nor appeased, and as a final resort he was obliged
to call together his boat’s crew, and pull away from what he termed the
most infernal place he ever stepped upon.

Lucky was it for him and for us that we were not honoured on our
departure by a salute of stones from the hands of the exasperated Tiors.
In this way, on the neighbouring island of Ropo, were killed, but a few
weeks previously, and for a nearly similar offence, the master and three
of the crew of the K---.

I cannot determine with anything approaching to certainty, what power
it is that imposes the taboo. When I consider the slight disparity
of condition among the islanders--the very limited and inconsiderable
prerogatives of the king and chiefs--and the loose and indefinite
functions of the priesthood, most of whom were hardly to be
distinguished from the rest of their countrymen, I am wholly at a loss
where to look for the authority which regulates this potent institution.
It is imposed upon something today, and withdrawn tomorrow; while its
operations in other cases are perpetual. Sometimes its restrictions only
affect a single individual--sometimes a particular family--sometimes
a whole tribe; and in a few instances they extend not merely over the
various clans on a single island, but over all the inhabitants of an
entire group. In illustration of this latter peculiarity, I may cite
the law which forbids a female to enter a canoe--a prohibition which
prevails upon all the northern Marquesas Islands.

The word itself (taboo) is used in more than one signification. It
is sometimes used by a parent to his child, when in the exercise
of parental authority he forbids it to perform a particular action.
Anything opposed to the ordinary customs of the islanders, although not
expressly prohibited, is said to be ‘taboo’.

The Typee language is one very difficult to be acquired; it bears a
close resemblance to the other Polynesian dialects, all of which show a
common origin. The duplication of words, as ‘lumee lumee’, ‘poee poee’,
‘muee muee’, is one of their peculiar features. But another, and a more
annoying one, is the different senses in which one and the same word is
employed; its various meanings all have a certain connection, which
only makes the matter more puzzling. So one brisk, lively little word
is obliged, like a servant in a poor family, to perform all sorts of
duties; for instance, one particular combination of syllables expresses
the ideas of sleep, rest, reclining, sitting, leaning, and all other
things anywise analogous thereto, the particular meaning being shown
chiefly by a variety of gestures and the eloquent expression of the
countenance.

The intricacy of these dialects is another peculiarity. In the
Missionary College at Lahainaluna, on Mowee, one of the Sandwich
Islands, I saw a tabular exhibition of a Hawiian verb, conjugated
through all its moods and tenses. It covered the side of a considerable
apartment, and I doubt whether Sir William Jones himself would not have
despaired of mastering it.



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

STRANGE CUSTOM OF THE ISLANDERS--THEIR CHANTING, AND THE PECULIARITY OF
THEIR VOICE--RAPTURE OF THE KING AT FIRST HEARING A SONG--A NEW DIGNITY
CONFERRED ON THE AUTHOR--MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS IN THE VALLEY--ADMIRATION
OF THE SAVAGES AT BEHOLDING A PUGILISTIC PERFORMANCE--SWIMMING
INFANT--BEAUTIFUL TRESSES OF THE GIRLS--OINTMENT FOR THE HAIR

SADLY discursive as I have already been, I must still further entreat
the reader’s patience, as I am about to string together, without any
attempt at order, a few odds and ends of things not hitherto mentioned,
but which are either curious in themselves or peculiar to the Typees.

There was one singular custom observed in old Marheyo’s domestic
establishment, which often excited my surprise. Every night, before
retiring, the inmates of the house gathered together on the mats, and
so squatting upon their haunches, after the universal practice of
these islanders, would commence a low, dismal and monotonous chant,
accompanying the voice with the instrumental melody produced by two
small half-rotten sticks tapped slowly together, a pair of which
were held in the hands of each person present. Thus would they employ
themselves for an hour or two, sometimes longer. Lying in the gloom
which wrapped the further end of the house, I could not avoid looking
at them, although the spectacle suggested nothing but unpleasant
reflection. The flickering rays of the ‘armor’ nut just served to reveal
their savage lineaments, without dispelling the darkness that hovered
about them.

Sometimes when, after falling into a kind of doze, and awaking suddenly
in the midst of these doleful chantings, my eye would fall upon the
wild-looking group engaged in their strange occupation, with their naked
tattooed limbs, and shaven heads disposed in a circle, I was almost
tempted to believe that I gazed upon a set of evil beings in the act of
working at a frightful incantation.

What was the meaning or purpose of this custom, whether it was practiced
merely as a diversion, or whether it was a religious exercise, a sort of
family prayers, I never could discover.

The sounds produced by the natives on these occasions were of a most
singular description; and had I not actually been present, I never would
have believed that such curious noises could have been produced by human
beings.

To savages generally is imputed a guttural articulation. This however,
is not always the case, especially among the inhabitants of the
Polynesian Archipelago. The labial melody with which the Typee girls
carry on an ordinary conversation, giving a musical prolongation to the
final syllable of every sentence, and chirping out some of the words
with a liquid, bird-like accent, was singularly pleasing.

The men however, are not quite so harmonious in their utterance, and
when excited upon any subject, would work themselves up into a sort of
wordy paroxysm, during which all descriptions of rough-sided sounds
were projected from their mouths, with a force and rapidity which was
absolutely astonishing.

      . . . . .  .  .  .

Although these savages are remarkably fond of chanting, still they
appear to have no idea whatever of singing, at least as the art is
practised in other nations.

I shall never forget the first time I happened to roar out a stave
in the presence of noble Mehevi. It was a stanza from the ‘Bavarian
broom-seller’. His Typeean majesty, with all his court, gazed upon me in
amazement, as if I had displayed some preternatural faculty which Heaven
had denied to them. The King was delighted with the verse; but the
chorus fairly transported him. At his solicitation I sang it again and
again, and nothing could be more ludicrous than his vain attempts to
catch the air and the words. The royal savage seemed to think that by
screwing all the features of his face into the end of his nose he
might possibly succeed in the undertaking, but it failed to answer the
purpose; and in the end he gave it up, and consoled himself by listening
to my repetition of the sounds fifty times over.

Previous to Mehevi’s making the discovery, I had never been aware that
there was anything of the nightingale about me; but I was now promoted
to the place of court-minstrel, in which capacity I was afterwards
perpetually called upon to officiate.

      . . . . .  .  .  .

Besides the sticks and the drums, there are no other musical instruments
among the Typees, except one which might appropriately be denominated a
nasal flute. It is somewhat longer than an ordinary fife; is made of
a beautiful scarlet-coloured reed; and has four or five stops, with
a large hole near one end, which latter is held just beneath the left
nostril. The other nostril being closed by a peculiar movement of the
muscles about the nose, the breath is forced into the tube, and produces
a soft dulcet sound which is varied by the fingers running at random
over the stops. This is a favourite recreation with the females and one
in which Fayaway greatly excelled. Awkward as such an instrument may
appear, it was, in Fayaway’s delicate little hands, one of the most
graceful I have ever seen. A young lady, in the act of tormenting a
guitar strung about her neck by a couple of yards of blue ribbon, is not
half so engaging.

      . . . . .  .  .  .

Singing was not the only means I possessed of diverting the royal Mehevi
and his easy-going subject. Nothing afforded them more pleasure than to
see me go through the attitude of pugilistic encounter. As not one of
the natives had soul enough in him to stand up like a man, and allow me
to hammer away at him, for my own personal gratification and that of
the king, I was necessitated to fight with an imaginary enemy, whom I
invariably made to knock under to my superior prowess. Sometimes when
this sorely battered shadow retreated precipitately towards a group of
the savages, and, following him up, I rushed among them dealing my
blows right and left, they would disperse in all directions much to the
enjoyment of Mehevi, the chiefs, and themselves.

The noble art of self-defence appeared to be regarded by them as the
peculiar gift of the white man; and I make little doubt that they
supposed armies of Europeans were drawn up provided with nothing else
but bony fists and stout hearts, with which they set to in column, and
pummelled one another at the word of command.

      . . . . .  .  .  .

One day, in company with Kory-Kory, I had repaired to the stream for the
purpose of bathing, when I observed a woman sitting upon a rock in
the midst of the current, and watching with the liveliest interest the
gambols of something, which at first I took to be an uncommonly large
species of frog that was sporting in the water near her. Attracted by
the novelty of the sight, I waded towards the spot where she sat, and
could hardly credit the evidence of my senses when I beheld a little
infant, the period of whose birth could not have extended back many
days, paddling about as if it had just risen to the surface, after being
hatched into existence at the bottom. Occasionally, the delighted parent
reached out her hand towards it, when the little thing, uttering a faint
cry, and striking out its tiny limbs, would sidle for the rock, and the
next moment be clasped to its mother’s bosom. This was repeated again
and again, the baby remaining in the stream about a minute at a time.
Once or twice it made wry faces at swallowing a mouthful of water, and
choked a spluttered as if on the point of strangling. At such times
however, the mother snatched it up and by a process scarcely to be
mentioned obliged it to eject the fluid. For several weeks afterwards
I observed this woman bringing her child down to the stream regularly
every day, in the cool of the morning and evening and treating it to a
bath. No wonder that the South Sea Islanders are so amphibious a race,
when they are thus launched into the water as soon as they see the
light. I am convinced that it is as natural for a human being to swim as
it is for a duck. And yet in civilized communities how many able-bodied
individuals die, like so many drowning kittens, from the occurrence of
the most trivial accidents!

       . . . . .  .  .  .

The long luxuriant and glossy tresses of the Typee damsels often
attracted my admiration. A fine head of hair is the pride and joy of
every woman’s heart. Whether against the express will of Providence, it
is twisted upon the crown of the head and there coiled away like a rope
on a ship’s deck; whether it be stuck behind the ears and hangs down
like the swag of a small window-curtain; or whether it be permitted to
flow over the shoulders in natural ringlets, it is always the pride of
the owner, and the glory of the toilette.

The Typee girls devote much of their time to the dressing of their fair
and redundant locks. After bathing, as they sometimes do five or six
times every day, the hair is carefully dried, and if they have been in
the sea, invariably washed in fresh water, and anointed with a highly
scented oil extracted from the meat of the cocoanut. This oil is
obtained in great abundance by the following very simple process:

A large vessel of wood, with holes perforated in the bottom, is filled
with the pounded meat, and exposed to the rays of the sun. As the
oleaginous matter exudes, it falls in drops through the apertures into a
wide-mouthed calabash placed underneath. After a sufficient quantity has
thus been collected, the oil undergoes a purifying process, and is then
poured into the small spherical shells of the nuts of the moo-tree,
which are hollowed out to receive it. These nuts are then hermetically
sealed with a resinous gum, and the vegetable fragrance of their green
rind soon imparts to the oil a delightful odour. After the lapse of a
few weeks the exterior shell of the nuts becomes quite dry and hard, and
assumes a beautiful carnation tint; and when opened they are found to
be about two-thirds full of an ointment of a light yellow colour and
diffusing the sweetest perfume. This elegant little odorous globe would
not be out of place even upon the toilette of a queen. Its merits as a
preparation for the hair are undeniable--it imparts to it a superb gloss
and a silky fineness.



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

APPREHENSIONS OF EVIL--FRIGHTFUL DISCOVERY--SOME REMARKS
ON CANNIBALISM--SECOND BATTLE WITH THE HAPPARS--SAVAGE
SPECTACLE--MYSTERIOUS FEAST--SUBSEQUENT DISCLOSURES

FROM the time of my casual encounter with Karky the artist, my life was
one of absolute wretchedness. Not a day passed but I was persecuted by
the solicitations of some of the natives to subject myself to the odious
operation of tattooing. Their importunities drove me half wild, for I
felt how easily they might work their will upon me regarding this or
anything else which they took into their heads. Still, however, the
behaviour of the islanders towards me was as kind as ever. Fayaway was
quite as engaging; Kory-Kory as devoted; and Mehevi the king just as
gracious and condescending as before. But I had now been three months in
their valley, as nearly as I could estimate; I had grown familiar with
the narrow limits to which my wandering had been confined; and I began
bitterly to feel the state of captivity in which I was held. There
was no one with whom I could freely converse; no one to whom I could
communicate my thoughts; no one who could sympathize with my sufferings.
A thousand times I thought how much more endurable would have been my
lot had Toby still been with me. But I was left alone, and the thought
was terrible to me. Still, despite my griefs, I did all in my power
to appear composed and cheerful, well knowing that by manifesting any
uneasiness, or any desire to escape, I should only frustrate my object.

It was during the period I was in this unhappy frame of mind that the
painful malady under which I had been labouring--after having almost
completely subsided--began again to show itself, and with symptoms as
violent as ever. This added calamity nearly unmanned me; the recurrence
of the complaint proved that without powerful remedial applications
all hope of cure was futile; and when I reflected that just beyond the
elevations, which bound me in, was the medical relief I needed, and that
although so near, it was impossible for me to avail myself of it, the
thought was misery.

In this wretched situation, every circumstance which evinced the
savage nature of the beings at whose mercy I was, augmented the fearful
apprehensions that consumed me. An occurrence which happened about this
time affected me most powerfully.

I have already mentioned that from the ridge-pole of Marheyo’s house
were suspended a number of packages enveloped in tappa. Many of these I
had often seen in the hands of the natives, and their contents had been
examined in my presence. But there were three packages hanging
very nearly over the place where I lay, which from their remarkable
appearance had often excited my curiosity. Several times I had asked
Kory-Kory to show me their contents, but my servitor, who, in almost
every other particular had acceded to my wishes, refused to gratify me
in this.

One day, returning unexpectedly from the ‘Ti’, my arrival seemed to
throw the inmates of the house into the greatest confusion. They were
seated together on the mats, and by the lines which extended from the
roof to the floor I immediately perceived that the mysterious packages
were for some purpose or another under inspection. The evident alarm
the savages betrayed filled me with forebodings of evil, and with an
uncontrollable desire to penetrate the secret so jealously guarded.
Despite the efforts of Marheyo and Kory-Kory to restrain me, I forced
my way into the midst of the circle, and just caught a glimpse of three
human heads, which others of the party were hurriedly enveloping in the
coverings from which they had been taken.

One of the three I distinctly saw. It was in a state of perfect
preservation, and from the slight glimpse I had of it, seemed to have
been subjected to some smoking operation which had reduced it to the
dry, hard, and mummy-like appearance it presented. The two long scalp
locks were twisted up into balls upon the crown of the head in the same
way that the individual had worn them during life. The sunken cheeks
were rendered yet more ghastly by the rows of glistening teeth which
protruded from between the lips, while the sockets of the eyes--filled
with oval bits of mother-of-pearl shell, with a black spot in the
centre--heightened the hideousness of its aspect.

Two of the three were heads of the islanders; but the third, to my
horror, was that of a white man. Although it had been quickly removed
from my sight, still the glimpse I had of it was enough to convince me
that I could not be mistaken.

Gracious God! what dreadful thoughts entered my head; in solving this
mystery perhaps I had solved another, and the fate of my lost companion
might be revealed in the shocking spectacle I had just witnessed. I
longed to have torn off the folds of cloth and satisfied the awful
doubts under which I laboured. But before I had recovered from the
consternation into which I had been thrown, the fatal packages were
hoisted aloft, and once more swung over my head. The natives now
gathered round me tumultuously, and laboured to convince me that what
I had just seen were the heads of three Happar warriors, who had been
slain in battle. This glaring falsehood added to my alarm, and it was
not until I reflected that I had observed the packages swinging from
their elevation before Toby’s disappearance, that I could at all recover
my composure.

But although this horrible apprehension had been dispelled, I had
discovered enough to fill me, in my present state of mind, with the most
bitter reflections. It was plain that I had seen the last relic of some
unfortunate wretch, who must have been massacred on the beach by the
savages, in one of those perilous trading adventures which I have before
described.

It was not, however, alone the murder of the stranger that overcame me
with gloom. I shuddered at the idea of the subsequent fate his inanimate
body might have met with. Was the same doom reserved for me? Was I
destined to perish like him--like him perhaps, to be devoured and my
head to be preserved as a fearful memento of the events? My imagination
ran riot in these horrid speculations, and I felt certain that the
worst possible evils would befall me. But whatever were my misgivings, I
studiously concealed them from the islanders, as well as the full extent
of the discovery I had made.

Although the assurances which the Typees had often given me, that they
never eat human flesh, had not convinced me that such was the case, yet,
having been so long a time in the valley without witnessing anything
which indicated the existence of the practice, I began to hope that it
was an event of very rare occurrence, and that I should be spared the
horror of witnessing it during my stay among them: but, alas, these
hopes were soon destroyed.

It is a singular fact, that in all our accounts of cannibal tribes we
have seldom received the testimony of an eye-witness account to this
revolting practice. The horrible conclusion has almost always been
derived from the second-hand evidence of Europeans, or else from the
admissions of the savages themselves, after they have in some degree
become civilized. The Polynesians are aware of the detestation in which
Europeans hold this custom, and therefore invariably deny its existence,
and with the craft peculiar to savages, endeavour to conceal every trace
of it.

The excessive unwillingness betrayed by the Sandwich Islanders, even at
the present day, to allude to the unhappy fate of Cook, has often been
remarked. And so well have they succeeded in covering the event with
mystery, that to this very hour, despite all that has been said and
written on the subject, it still remains doubtful whether they wreaked
upon his murdered body the vengeance they sometimes inflicted upon their
enemies.

At Kealakekau, the scene of that tragedy, a strip of ship’s copper
nailed against an upright post in the ground used to inform
the traveller that beneath reposed the ‘remains’ of the great
circumnavigator. But I am strongly inclined to believe not only the
corpse was refused Christian burial, but that the heart which was
brought to Vancouver some time after the event, and which the Hawaiians
stoutly maintained was that of Captain Cook, was no such thing; and that
the whole affair was a piece of imposture which was sought to be palmed
off upon the credulous Englishman.

A few years since there was living on the island of Maui (one of the
Sandwich group) an old chief, who, actuated by a morbid desire for
notoriety, gave himself out among the foreign residents of the place
as the living tomb of Captain Cook’s big toe!--affirming that at the
cannibal entertainment which ensued after the lamented Briton’s death,
that particular portion of his body had fallen to his share. His
indignant countrymen actually caused him to be prosecuted in the native
courts, on a charge nearly equivalent to what we term defamation of
character; but the old fellow persisting in his assertion, and no
invalidating proof being adduced, the plaintiffs were cast in the suit,
and the cannibal reputation of the defendant firmly established. This
result was the making of his fortune; ever afterwards he was in the
habit of giving very profitable audiences to all curious travellers who
were desirous of beholding the man who had eaten the great navigator’s
great toe.

About a week after my discovery of the contents of the mysterious
packages, I happened to be at the Ti, when another war-alarm was
sounded, and the natives rushing to their arms, sallied out to resist
a second incursion of the Happar invaders. The same scene was again
repeated, only that on this occasion I heard at least fifteen reports of
muskets from the mountains during the time that the skirmish lasted.
An hour or two after its termination, loud paeans chanted through the
valley announced the approach of the victors. I stood with Kory-Kory
leaning against the railing of the pi-pi awaiting their advance, when
a tumultuous crowd of islanders emerged with wild clamours from
the neighbouring groves. In the midst of them marched four men, one
preceding the other at regular intervals of eight or ten feet, with
poles of a corresponding length, extending from shoulder to shoulder,
to which were lashed with thongs of bark three long narrow bundles,
carefully wrapped in ample coverings of freshly plucked palm-leaves,
tacked together with slivers of bamboo. Here and there upon these green
winding-sheets might be seen the stains of blood, while the warriors who
carried the frightful burdens displayed upon their naked limbs similar
sanguinary marks. The shaven head of the foremost had a deep gash upon
it, and the clotted gore which had flowed from the wound remained in dry
patches around it. The savage seemed to be sinking under the weight
he bore. The bright tattooing upon his body was covered with blood
and dust; his inflamed eyes rolled in their sockets, and his whole
appearance denoted extraordinary suffering and exertion; yet sustained
by some powerful impulse, he continued to advance, while the throng
around him with wild cheers sought to encourage him. The other three men
were marked about the arms and breasts with several slight wounds, which
they somewhat ostentatiously displayed.

These four individuals, having been the most active in the late
encounter, claimed the honour of bearing the bodies of their slain
enemies to the Ti. Such was the conclusion I drew from my own
observations, and, as far as I could understand, from the explanation
which Kory-Kory gave me.

The royal Mehevi walked by the side of these heroes. He carried in one
hand a musket, from the barrel of which was suspended a small canvas
pouch of powder, and in the other he grasped a short javelin, which he
held before him and regarded with fierce exultation. This javelin he had
wrested from a celebrated champion of the Happars, who had ignominiously
fled, and was pursued by his foes beyond the summit of the mountain.

When within a short distance of the Ti, the warrior with the wounded
head, who proved to be Narmonee, tottered forward two or three steps,
and fell helplessly to the ground; but not before another had caught the
end of the pole from his shoulder, and placed it upon his own.

The excited throng of islanders, who surrounded the person of the king
and the dead bodies of the enemy, approached the spot where I stood,
brandishing their rude implements of warfare, many of which were bruised
and broken, and uttering continual shouts of triumph. When the crowd
drew up opposite the Ti, I set myself to watch their proceedings most
attentively; but scarcely had they halted when my servitor, who had left
my side for an instant, touched my arm and proposed our returning to
Marheyo’s house. To this I objected; but, to my surprise, Kory-Kory
reiterated his request, and with an unusual vehemence of manner. Still,
however, I refused to comply, and was retreating before him, as in his
importunity he pressed upon me, when I felt a heavy hand laid upon my
shoulder, and turning round, encountered the bulky form of Mow-Mow, a
one-eyed chief, who had just detached himself from the crowd below, and
had mounted the rear of the pi-pi upon which we stood. His cheek had
been pierced by the point of a spear, and the wound imparted a still
more frightful expression to his hideously tattooed face, already
deformed by the loss of an eye. The warrior, without uttering a
syllable, pointed fiercely in the direction of Marheyo’s house, while
Kory-Kory, at the same time presenting his back, desired me to mount.

I declined this offer, but intimated my willingness to withdraw, and
moved slowly along the piazza, wondering what could be the cause of this
unusual treatment. A few minutes’ consideration convinced me that the
savages were about to celebrate some hideous rite in connection with
their peculiar customs, and at which they were determined I should not
be present. I descended from the pi-pi, and attended by Kory-Kory, who
on this occasion did not show his usual commiseration for my lameness,
but seemed only anxious to hurry me on, walked away from the place. As I
passed through the noisy throng, which by this time completely environed
the Ti, I looked with fearful curiosity at the three packages, which now
were deposited upon the ground; but although I had no doubt as to their
contents, still their thick coverings prevented my actually detecting
the form of a human body.

The next morning, shortly after sunrise, the same thundering sounds
which had awakened me from sleep on the second day of the Feast of
Calabashes, assured me that the savages were on the eve of celebrating
another, and, as I fully believed, a horrible solemnity.

All the inmates of the house, with the exception of Marheyo, his son,
and Tinor, after assuming their gala dresses, departed in the direction
of the Taboo Groves.

Although I did not anticipate a compliance with my request, still, with
a view of testing the truth of my suspicions, I proposed to Kory-Kory
that, according to our usual custom in the morning, we should take a
stroll to the Ti: he positively refused; and when I renewed the request,
he evinced his determination to prevent my going there; and, to divert
my mind from the subject, he offered to accompany me to the stream. We
accordingly went, and bathed. On our coming back to the house, I was
surprised to find that all its inmates had returned, and were lounging
upon the mats as usual, although the drums still sounded from the
groves.

The rest of the day I spent with Kory-Kory and Fayaway, wandering about
a part of the valley situated in an opposite direction from the Ti,
and whenever I so much as looked towards that building, although it was
hidden from view by intervening trees, and at the distance of more than
a mile, my attendant would exclaim, ‘Taboo, taboo!’

At the various houses where we stopped, I found many of the inhabitants
reclining at their ease, or pursuing some light occupation, as if
nothing unusual were going forward; but amongst them all I did not
perceive a single chief or warrior. When I asked several of the people
why they were not at the ‘Hoolah Hoolah’ (the feast), their uniformly
answered the question in a manner which implied that it was not intended
for them, but for Mehevi, Narmonee, Mow-Mow, Kolor, Womonoo, Kalow,
running over, in their desire to make me comprehend their meaning, the
names of all the principal chiefs.

Everything, in short, strengthened my suspicions with regard to the
nature of the festival they were now celebrating; and which amounted
almost to a certainty. While in Nukuheva I had frequently been informed
that the whole tribe were never present at these cannibal banquets, but
the chiefs and priests only; and everything I now observed agreed with
the account.

The sound of the drums continued without intermission the whole day, and
falling continually upon my ear, caused me a sensation of horror which I
am unable to describe. On the following day, hearing none of those
noisy indications of revelry, I concluded that the inhuman feast was
terminated; and feeling a kind of morbid curiosity to discover whether
the Ti might furnish any evidence of what had taken place there, I
proposed to Kory-Kory to walk there. To this proposition he replied
by pointing with his finger to the newly risen sun, and then up to the
zenith, intimating that our visit must be deferred until noon. Shortly
after that hour we accordingly proceeded to the Taboo Groves, and as
soon as we entered their precincts, I looked fearfully round in, quest
of some memorial of the scene which had so lately been acted there; but
everything appeared as usual. On reaching the Ti, we found Mehevi and a
few chiefs reclining on the mats, who gave me as friendly a reception as
ever. No allusions of any kind were made by them to the recent events;
and I refrained, for obvious reasons, from referring to them myself.

After staying a short time I took my leave. In passing along the piazza,
previously to descending from the pi-pi, I observed a curiously carved
vessel of wood, of considerable size, with a cover placed over it, of
the same material, and which resembled in shape a small canoe. It was
surrounded by a low railing of bamboos, the top of which was scarcely
a foot from the ground. As the vessel had been placed in its present
position since my last visit, I at once concluded that it must have
some connection with the recent festival, and, prompted by a curiosity
I could not repress, in passing it I raised one end of the cover; at the
same moment the chiefs, perceiving my design, loudly ejaculated, ‘Taboo!
taboo!’

But the slight glimpse sufficed; my eyes fell upon the disordered
members of a human skeleton, the bones still fresh with moisture, and
with particles of flesh clinging to them here and there!

Kory-Kory, who had been a little in advance of me, attracted by
the exclamations of the chiefs, turned round in time to witness the
expression of horror on my countenance. He now hurried towards me,
pointing at the same time to the canoe, and exclaiming rapidly,
‘Puarkee! puarkee!’ (Pig, pig). I pretended to yield to the deception,
and repeated the words after him several times, as though acquiescing
in what he said. The other savages, either deceived by my conduct
or unwilling to manifest their displeasure at what could not now be
remedied, took no further notice of the occurrence, and I immediately
left the Ti.

All that night I lay awake, revolving in my mind the fearful situation
in which I was placed. The last horrid revelation had now been made, and
the full sense of my condition rushed upon my mind with a force I had
never before experienced.

Where, thought I, desponding, is there the slightest prospect of escape?
The only person who seemed to possess the ability to assist me was the
stranger Marnoo; but would he ever return to the valley? and if he did,
should I be permitted to hold any communication with him? It seemed as
if I were cut off from every source of hope, and that nothing remained
but passively to await whatever fate was in store for me. A thousand
times I endeavoured to account for the mysterious conduct of the
natives.

For what conceivable purpose did they thus retain me a captive? What
could be their object in treating me with such apparent kindness, and
did it not cover some treacherous scheme? Or, if they had no other
design than to hold me a prisoner, how should I be able to pass away my
days in this narrow valley, deprived of all intercourse with civilized
beings, and for ever separated from friends and home?

One only hope remained to me. The French could not long defer a visit
to the bay, and if they should permanently locate any of their troops
in the valley, the savages could not for any length of time conceal my
existence from them. But what reason had I to suppose that I should be
spared until such an event occurred, an event which might be postponed
by a hundred different contingencies?



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE STRANGER AGAIN ARRIVES IN THE VALLEY--SINGULAR INTERVIEW WITH
HIM--ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE--FAILURE--MELANCHOLY SITUATION--SYMPATHY OF
MARHEYO

‘MARNOO, Marnoo pemi!’ Such were the welcome sounds which fell upon my
ear some ten days after the events related in the preceding chapter.
Once more the approach of the stranger was heralded, and the
intelligence operated upon me like magic. Again I should be able to
converse with him in my own language; and I resolve at all hazards to
concert with him some scheme, however desperate, to rescue me from a
condition that had now become insupportable.

As he drew near, I remembered with many misgivings the inauspicious
termination of our former interview, and when he entered the house, I
watched with intense anxiety the reception he met with from its inmates.
To my joy, his appearance was hailed with the liveliest pleasure; and
accosting me kindly, he seated himself by my side, and entered into
conversation with the natives around him. It soon appeared however,
that on this occasion he had not any intelligence of importance to
communicate. I inquired of him from whence he had just come? He replied
from Pueearka, his native valley, and that he intended to return to it
the same day.

At once it struck me that, could I but reach that valley under his
protection, I might easily from thence reach Nukuheva by water; and
animated by the prospect which this plan held, out I disclosed it in
a few brief words to the stranger, and asked him how it could be best
accomplished. My heart sunk within me, when in his broken English he
answered me that it could never be effected. ‘Kanaka no let you go
nowhere,’ he said; ‘you taboo. Why you no like to stay? Plenty moee-moee
(sleep)--plenty ki-ki (eat)--plenty wahenee (young girls)--Oh, very good
place Typee! Suppose you no like this bay, why you come? You no hear
about Typee? All white men afraid Typee, so no white men come.’

These words distressed me beyond belief; and when I had again related to
him the circumstances under which I had descended into the valley, and
sought to enlist his sympathies in my behalf by appealing to the bodily
misery I had endure, he listened with impatience, and cut me short by
exclaiming passionately, ‘Me no hear you talk any more; by by Kanaka
get mad, kill you and me too. No you see he no want you to speak at
all?--you see--ah! by by you no mind--you get well, he kill you, eat
you, hang you head up there, like Happar Kanaka.--Now you listen--but no
talk any more. By by I go;--you see way I go--Ah! then some night Kanaka
all moee-moee (sleep)--you run away, you come Pueearka. I speak Pueearka
Kanaka--he no harm you--ah! then I take you my canoe Nukuheva--and you
run away ship no more.’ With these words, enforced by a vehemence of
gesture I cannot describe, Marnoo started from my side, and immediately
engaged in conversation with some of the chiefs who had entered the
house.

It would have been idle for me to have attempted resuming the interview
so peremptorily terminated by Marnoo, who was evidently little disposed
to compromise his own safety by any rash endeavour to ensure mine.
But the plan he had suggested struck me as one which might possibly be
accomplished, and I resolved to act upon it as speedily as possible.

Accordingly, when he arose to depart, I accompanied him with the natives
outside of the house, with a view of carefully noting the path he
would take in leaving the valley. Just before leaping from the pi-pi he
clasped my hand, and looking significantly at me, exclaimed, ‘Now you
see--you do what I tell you--ah! then you do good;--you no do so--ah!
then you die.’ The next moment he waved his spear to the islanders, and
following the route that conducted to a defile in the mountains lying
opposite the Happar side, was soon out of sight.

A mode of escape was now presented to me, but how was I to avail myself
of it? I was continually surrounded by the savages; I could not stir
from one house to another without being attended by some of them; and
even during the hours devoted to slumber, the slightest movement which I
made seemed to attract the notice of those who shared the mats with me.
In spite of these obstacles, however, I determined forthwith to make the
attempt. To do so with any prospect of success, it was necessary that
I should have at least two hours start before the islanders should
discover my absence; for with such facility was any alarm spread through
the valley, and so familiar, of course, were the inhabitants with the
intricacies of the groves, that I could not hope, lame and feeble as I
was, and ignorant of the route, to secure my escape unless I had this
advantage. It was also by night alone that I could hope to accomplish my
object, and then only by adopting the utmost precaution.

The entrance to Marheyo’s habitation was through a low narrow opening
in its wicker-work front. This passage, for no conceivable reason that I
could devise, was always closed after the household had retired to rest,
by drawing a heavy slide across it, composed of a dozen or more bits of
wood, ingeniously fastened together by seizings of sinnate. When any of
the inmates chose to go outside, the noise occasioned by the removing of
this rude door awakened every body else; and on more than one occasion
I had remarked that the islanders were nearly as irritable as more
civilized beings under similar circumstances.

The difficulty thus placed in my way I, determined to obviate in the
following manner. I would get up boldly in the course of the night, and
drawing the slide, issue from the house, and pretend that my object was
merely to procure a drink from the calabash, which always stood
without the dwelling on the corner of the pi-pi. On re-entering I would
purposely omit closing the passage after me, and trusting that the
indolence of the savages would prevent them from repairing my neglect,
would return to my mat, and waiting patiently until all were again
asleep, I would then steal forth, and at once take the route to
Pueearka.

The very night which followed Marnoo’s departure, I proceeded to put
this project into execution. About midnight, as I imagined, I arose and
drew the slide. The natives, just as I had expected, started up, while
some of them asked, ‘Arware poo awa, Tommo?’ (where are you going,
Tommo?) ‘Wai’ (water) I laconically answered, grasping the calabash. On
hearing my reply they sank back again, and in a minute or two I returned
to my mat, anxiously awaiting the result of the experiment.

One after another the savages, turning restlessly, appeared to resume
their slumbers, and rejoicing at the stillness which prevailed, I was
about to rise again from my couch, when I heard a slight rustling--a
dark form was intercepted between me and the doorway--the slide was
drawn across it, and the individual, whoever he was, returned to
his mat. This was a sad blow to me; but as it might have aroused the
suspicions of the islanders to have made another attempt that night, I
was reluctantly obliged to defer it until the next. Several times after
I repeated the same manoeuvre, but with as little success as before.
As my pretence for withdrawing from the house was to allay my thirst,
Kory-Kory either suspecting some design on my part, or else prompted
by a desire to please me, regularly every evening placed a calabash of
water by my side.

Even, under these inauspicious circumstances I again and again renewed
the attempt, but when I did so, my valet always rose with me, as if
determined I should not remove myself from his observation. For
the present, therefore, I was obliged to abandon the attempt; but I
endeavoured to console myself with the idea that by this mode I might
yet effect my escape.

Shortly after Marnoo’s visit I was reduced to such a state that it was
with extreme difficulty I could walk, even with the assistance of a
spear, and Kory-Kory, as formerly, was obliged to carry me daily to the
stream.

For hours and hours during the warmest part of the day I lay upon my
mat, and while those around me were nearly all dozing away in careless
ease, I remained awake, gloomily pondering over the fate which it
appeared now idle for me to resist, when I thought of the loved friends
who were thousands and thousands of miles from the savage island in
which I was held a captive, when I reflected that my dreadful fate would
for ever be concealed from them, and that with hope deferred they might
continue to await my return long after my inanimate form had blended
with the dust of the valley--I could not repress a shudder of anguish.

How vividly is impressed upon my mind every minute feature of the scene
which met my view during those long days of suffering and sorrow. At my
request my mats were always spread directly facing the door, opposite
which, and at a little distance, was the hut of boughs that Marheyo was
building.

Whenever my gentle Fayaway and Kory-Kory, laying themselves down beside
me, would leave me awhile to uninterrupted repose, I took a strange
interest in the slightest movements of the eccentric old warrior. All
alone during the stillness of the tropical mid-day, he would pursue his
quiet work, sitting in the shade and weaving together the leaflets of
his cocoanut branches, or rolling upon his knee the twisted fibres of
bark to form the cords with which he tied together the thatching of
his tiny house. Frequently suspending his employment, and noticing my
melancholy eye fixed upon him, he would raise his hand with a gesture
expressive of deep commiseration, and then moving towards me slowly,
would enter on tip-toes, fearful of disturbing the slumbering natives,
and, taking the fan from my hand, would sit before me, swaying it gently
to and fro, and gazing earnestly into my face.

Just beyond the pi-pi, and disposed in a triangle before the entrance
of the house, were three magnificent bread-fruit trees. At this moment I
can recap to my mind their slender shafts, and the graceful inequalities
of their bark, on which my eye was accustomed to dwell day after day in
the midst of my solitary musings. It is strange how inanimate objects
will twine themselves into our affections, especially in the hour of
affliction. Even now, amidst all the bustle and stir of the proud and
busy city in which I am dwelling, the image of those three trees seems
to come as vividly before my eyes as if they were actually present, and
I still feel the soothing quiet pleasure which I then had in watching
hour after hour their topmost boughs waving gracefully in the breeze.



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE ESCAPE

NEARLY three weeks had elapsed since the second visit of Marnoo, and it
must have been more than four months since I entered the valley, when
one day about noon, and whilst everything was in profound silence,
Mow-Mow, the one-eyed chief, suddenly appeared at the door, and leaning
towards me as I lay directly facing him, said in a low tone, ‘Toby pemi
ena’ (Toby has arrived here). Gracious heaven! What a tumult of emotions
rushed upon me at this startling intelligence! Insensible to the pain
that had before distracted me, I leaped to my feet, and called wildly
to Kory-Kory who was reposing by my side. The startled islanders sprang
from their mats; the news was quickly communicated to them; and the
next moment I was making my way to the Ti on the back of Kory-Kory; and
surrounded by the excited savages.

All that I could comprehend of the particulars which Mow-Mow rehearsed
to his audience as we proceeded, was that my long-lost companion had
arrived in a boat which had just entered the bay. These tidings made
me most anxious to be carried at once to the sea, lest some untoward
circumstance should prevent our meeting; but to this they would not
consent, and continued their course towards the royal abode. As we
approached it, Mehevi and several chiefs showed themselves from the
piazza, and called upon us loudly to come to them.

As soon as we had approached, I endeavoured to make them understand that
I was going down to the sea to meet Toby. To this the king objected, and
motioned Kory-Kory to bring me into the house. It was in vain to resist;
and in a few moments I found myself within the Ti, surrounded by a noisy
group engaged in discussing the recent intelligence. Toby’s name was
frequently repeated, coupled with violent exclamations of astonishment.
It seemed as if they yet remained in doubt with regard to the fact of
his arrival, at at every fresh report that was brought from the shore
they betrayed the liveliest emotions.

Almost frenzied at being held in this state of suspense, I passionately
besought Mehevi to permit me to proceed. Whether my companion had
arrived or not, I felt a presentiment that my own fate was about to be
decided. Again and again I renewed my petition to Mehevi. He regarded me
with a fixed and serious eye, but at length yielding to my importunity,
reluctantly granted my request.

Accompanied by some fifty of the natives, I now rapidly continued my
journey; every few moments being transferred from the back of one
to another, and urging my bearer forward all the while with earnest
entreaties. As I thus hurried forward, no doubt as to the truth of the
information I had received ever crossed my mind.

I was alive only to the one overwhelming idea, that a chance of
deliverance was now afforded me, if the jealous opposition of the
savages could be overcome.

Having been prohibited from approaching the sea during the whole of my
stay in the valley, I had always associated with it the idea of escape.
Toby too--if indeed he had ever voluntarily deserted me--must have
effected this flight by the sea; and now that I was drawing near to
it myself, I indulged in hopes which I had never felt before. It was
evident that a boat had entered the bay, and I saw little reason to
doubt the truth of the report that it had brought my companion. Every
time therefore that we gained an elevation, I looked eagerly around,
hoping to behold him. In the midst of an excited throng, who by their
violent gestures and wild cries appeared to be under the influence of
some excitement as strong as my own, I was now borne along at a rapid
trot, frequently stooping my head to avoid the branches which crossed
the path, and never ceasing to implore those who carried me to
accelerate their already swift pace.

In this manner we had proceeded about four or five miles, when we were
met by a party of some twenty islanders, between whom and those who
accompanied me ensued an animated conference. Impatient of the delay
occasioned by this interruption, I was beseeching the man who carried me
to proceed without his loitering companions, when Kory-Kory, running
to my side, informed me, in three fatal words, that the news had all
proved, false--that Toby had not arrived--‘Toby owlee pemi’. Heaven only
knows how, in the state of mind and body I then was, I ever sustained
the agony which this intelligence caused me; not that the news was
altogether unexpected; but I had trusted that the fact might not have
been made known until we should have arrived upon the beach. As it was,
I at once foresaw the course the savages would pursue. They had only
yielded thus far to my entreaties, that I might give a joyful welcome to
my long-lost comrade; but now that it was known he had not arrived they
would at once oblige me to turn back.

My anticipations were but too correct. In spite of the resistance I
made, they carried me into a house which was near the spot, and left me
upon the mats. Shortly afterwards several of those who had accompanied
me from the Ti, detaching themselves from the others, proceeded in
the direction of the sea. Those who remained--among whom were Marheyo,
Mow-Mow, Kory-Kory, and Tinor--gathered about the dwelling, and appeared
to be awaiting their return.

This convinced me that strangers--perhaps some of my own countrymen--had
for some cause or other entered the bay. Distracted at the idea of their
vicinity, and reckless of the pain which I suffered, I heeded not the
assurances of the islanders, that there were no boats at the beach, but
starting to my feet endeavoured to gain the door. Instantly the passage
was blocked up by several men, who commanded me to resume my seat. The
fierce looks of the irritated savages admonished me that I could gain
nothing by force, and that it was by entreaty alone that I could hope to
compass my object.

Guided by this consideration, I turned to Mow-Mow, the only chief
present whom I had been much in the habit of seeing, and carefully
concealing, my real design, tried to make him comprehend that I still
believed Toby to have arrived on the shore, and besought him to allow me
to go forward to welcome him.

To all his repeated assertions, that my companion had not been seen,
I pretended to turn a deaf ear, while I urged my solicitations with an
eloquence of gesture which the one-eyed chief appeared unable to resist.
He seemed indeed to regard me as a forward child, to whose wishes he had
not the heart to oppose force, and whom he must consequently humour. He
spoke a few words to the natives, who at once retreated from the door,
and I immediately passed out of the house.

Here I looked earnestly round for Kory-Kory; but that hitherto faithful
servitor was nowhere to be seen. Unwilling to linger even for a single
instant when every moment might be so important, I motioned to a
muscular fellow near me to take me upon his back; to my surprise he
angrily refused. I turned to another, but with a like result. A third
attempt was as unsuccessful, and I immediately perceived what had
induced Mow-Mow to grant my request, and why the other natives conducted
themselves in so strange a manner. It was evident that the chief had
only given me liberty to continue my progress towards the sea, because
he supposed that I was deprived of the means of reaching it.

Convinced by this of their determination to retain me a captive, I
became desperate; and almost insensible to the pain which I suffered,
I seized a spear which was leaning against the projecting eaves of the
house, and supporting myself with it, resumed the path that swept by
the dwelling. To my surprise, I was suffered to proceed alone; all
the natives remaining in front of the house, and engaging in earnest
conversation, which every moment became more loud and vehement; and to
my unspeakable delight, I perceived that some difference of opinion
had arisen between them; that two parties, in short, were formed, and
consequently that in their divided counsels there was some chance of my
deliverance.

Before I had proceeded a hundred yards I was again surrounded by the
savages, who were still in all the heat of argument, and appeared every
moment as if they would come to blows. In the midst of this tumult
old Marheyo came to my side, and I shall never forget the benevolent
expression of his countenance. He placed his arm upon my shoulder, and
emphatically pronounced the only two English words I had taught him
‘Home’ and ‘Mother’. I at once understood what he meant, and eagerly
expressed my thanks to him. Fayaway and Kory-Kory were by his side, both
weeping violently; and it was not until the old man had twice repeated
the command that his son could bring himself to obey him, and take me
again upon his back. The one-eyed chief opposed his doing so, but he was
overruled, and, as it seemed to me, by some of his own party.

We proceeded onwards, and never shall I forget the ecstasy I felt when I
first heard the roar of the surf breaking upon the beach. Before long
I saw the flashing billows themselves through the opening between the
trees. Oh glorious sight and sound of ocean! with what rapture did I
hail you as familiar friends! By this time the shouts of the crowd
upon the beach were distinctly audible, and in the blended confusion
of sounds I almost fancied I could distinguish the voices of my own
countrymen.

When we reached the open space which lay between the groves and the sea,
the first object that met my view was an English whale-boat, lying with
her bow pointed from the shore, and only a few fathoms distant from it.
It was manned by five islanders, dressed in shirt tunics of calico. My
first impression was that they were in the very act of pulling out from
the bay; and that, after all my exertions, I had come too late. My soul
sunk within me: but a second glance convinced me that the boat was only
hanging off to keep out of the surf; and the next moment I heard my own
name shouted out by a voice from the midst of the crowd.

Looking in the direction of the sound, I perceived, to my indescribable
joy, the tall figure of Karakoee, an Oahu Kanaka, who had often been
aboard the ‘Dolly’, while she lay in Nukuheva. He wore the green
shooting-jacket with gilt buttons, which had been given to him by an
officer of the Reine Blanche--the French flag-ship--and in which I had
always seen him dressed. I now remembered the Kanaka had frequently told
me that his person was tabooed in all the valleys of the island, and the
sight of him at such a moment as this filled my heart with a tumult of
delight.

Karakoee stood near the edge of the water with a large roll of
cotton-cloth thrown over one arm, and holding two or three canvas bags
of powder, while with the other hand he grasped a musket, which he
appeared to be proffering to several of the chiefs around him. But they
turned with disgust from his offers and seemed to be impatient at
his presence, with vehement gestures waving him off to his boat, and
commanding him to depart.

The Kanaka, however, still maintained his ground, and I at once
perceived that he was seeking to purchase my freedom. Animated by the
idea, I called upon him loudly to come to me; but he replied, in broken
English, that the islanders had threatened to pierce him with their
spears, if he stirred a foot towards me. At this time I was still
advancing, surrounded by a dense throng of the natives, several of whom
had their hands upon me, and more than one javelin was threateningly
pointed at me. Still I perceived clearly that many of those least
friendly towards me looked irresolute and anxious. I was still some
thirty yards from Karakoee when my farther progress was prevented by the
natives, who compelled me to sit down upon the ground, while they still
retained their hold upon my arms. The din and tumult now became tenfold,
and I perceived that several of the priests were on the spot, all of
whom were evidently urging Mow-Mow and the other chiefs to prevent my
departure; and the detestable word ‘Roo-ne! Roo-ne!’ which I had heard
repeated a thousand times during the day, was now shouted out on every
side of me. Still I saw that the Kanaka continued his exertions in my
favour--that he was boldly debating the matter with the savages, and was
striving to entice them by displaying his cloth and powder, and snapping
the lock of his musket. But all he said or did appeared only to augment
the clamours of those around him, who seemed bent upon driving him into
the sea.

When I remembered the extravagant value placed by these people upon the
articles which were offered to them in exchange for me, and which
were so indignantly rejected, I saw a new proof of the same fixed
determination of purpose they had all along manifested with regard
to me, and in despair, and reckless of consequences, I exerted all my
strength, and shaking myself free from the grasp of those who held me, I
sprang upon my feet and rushed towards Karakoee.

The rash attempt nearly decided my fate; for, fearful that I might slip
from them, several of the islanders now raised a simultaneous shout,
and pressing upon Karakoee, they menaced him with furious gestures, and
actually forced him into the sea. Appalled at their violence, the poor
fellow, standing nearly to the waist in the surf, endeavoured to pacify
them; but at length fearful that they would do him some fatal violence,
he beckoned to his comrades to pull in at once, and take him into the
boat.

It was at this agonizing moment, when I thought all hope was ended, that
a new contest arose between the two parties who had accompanied me to
the shore; blows were struck, wounds were given, and blood flowed. In
the interest excited by the fray, every one had left me except Marheyo,
Kory-Kory and poor dear Fayaway, who clung to me, sobbing indignantly.
I saw that now or never was the moment. Clasping my hands together, I
looked imploringly at Marheyo, and move towards the now almost deserted
beach. The tears were in the old man’s eyes, but neither he nor
Kory-Kory attempted to hold me, and I soon reached the Kanaka, who had
anxiously watched my movements; the rowers pulled in as near as they
dared to the edge of the surf; I gave one parting embrace to Fayaway,
who seemed speechless with sorrow, and the next instant I found myself
safe in the boat, and Karakoee by my side, who told the rowers at once
to give way. Marheyo and Kory-Kory, and a great many of the women,
followed me into the water, and I was determined, as the only mark of
gratitude I could show, to give them the articles which had been brought
as my ransom. I handed the musket to Kory-Kory, with a rapid gesture
which was equivalent to a ‘Deed of Gift’; threw the roll of cotton to
old Marheyo, pointing as I did so to poor Fayaway, who had retired from
the edge of the water and was sitting down disconsolate on the shingles;
and tumbled the powder-bags out to the nearest young ladies, all of whom
were vastly willing to take them. This distribution did not occupy ten
seconds, and before it was over the boat was under full way; the Kanaka
all the while exclaiming loudly against what he considered a useless
throwing away of valuable property.

Although it was clear that my movements had been noticed by several of
the natives, still they had not suspended the conflict in which they
were engaged, and it was not until the boat was above fifty yards from
the shore that Mow-Mow and some six or seven other warriors rushed into
the sea and hurled their javelins at us. Some of the weapons passed
quite as close to us as was desirable, but no one was wounded, and the
men pulled away gallantly. But although soon out of the reach of the
spears, our progress was extremely slow; it blew strong upon the shore,
and the tide was against us; and I saw Karakoee, who was steering the
boat, give many a look towards a jutting point of the bay round which we
had to pass.

For a minute or two after our departure, the savages, who had formed
into different groups, remained perfectly motionless and silent. All
at-once the enraged chief showed by his gestures that he had resolved
what course he would take. Shouting loudly to his companions, and
pointing with his tomahawk towards the headland, he set off at full
speed in that direction, and was followed by about thirty of the
natives, among whom were several of the priests, all yelling out
‘Roo-ne! Roo-ne!’ at the very top of their voices. Their intention was
evidently to swim off from the headland and intercept us in our course.
The wind was freshening every minute, and was right in our teeth, and it
was one of those chopping angry seas in which it is so difficult to
row. Still the chances seemed in our favour, but when we came within a
hundred yards of the point, the active savages were already dashing into
the water, and we all feared that within five minutes’ time we should
have a score of the infuriated wretches around us. If so our doom
was sealed, for these savages, unlike the feeble swimmer of civilized
countries, are, if anything, more formidable antagonists in the water
than when on the land. It was all a trial of strength; our natives
pulled till their oars bent again, and the crowd of swimmers shot
through the water despite its roughness, with fearful rapidity.

By the time we had reached the headland, the savages were spread right
across our course. Our rowers got out their knives and held them ready
between their teeth, and I seized the boat-hook. We were all aware that
if they succeeded in intercepting us they would practise upon us the
manoeuvre which has proved so fatal to many a boat’s crew in these seas.
They would grapple the oars, and seizing hold of the gunwhale, capsize
the boat, and then we should be entirely at their mercy.

After a few breathless moments discerned Mow-Mow. The athletic islander,
with his tomahawk between his teeth, was dashing the water before him
till it foamed again. He was the nearest to us, and in another instant
he would have seized one of the oars. Even at the moment I felt horror
at the act I was about to commit; but it was no time for pity or
compunction, and with a true aim, and exerting all my strength, I dashed
the boat-hook at him. It struck him just below the throat, and forced
him downwards. I had no time to repeat the blow, but I saw him rise
to the surface in the wake of the boat, and never shall I forget the
ferocious expression of his countenance.

Only one other of the savages reached the boat. He seized the gunwhale,
but the knives of our rowers so mauled his wrists, that he was forced to
quit his hold, and the next minute we were past them all, and in safety.
The strong excitement which had thus far kept me up, now left me, and I
fell back fainting into the arms of Karakoee.

           . . . . . . . .

The circumstances connected with my most unexpected escape may be very
briefly stated. The captain of an Australian vessel, being in distress
for men in these remote seas, had put into Nukuheva in order to recruit
his ship’s company; but not a single man was to be obtained; and the
barque was about to get under weigh, when she was boarded by Karakoee,
who informed the disappointed Englishman that an American sailor
was detained by the savages in the neighbouring bay of Typee; and he
offered, if supplied with suitable articles of traffic, to undertake his
release. The Kanaka had gained his intelligence from Marnoo, to whom,
after all, I was indebted for my escape. The proposition was acceded to;
and Karakoee, taking with him five tabooed natives of Nukuheva, again
repaired aboard the barque, which in a few hours sailed to that part of
the island, and threw her main-top-sail aback right off the entrance
to the Typee bay. The whale-boat, manned by the tabooed crew, pulled
towards the head of the inlet, while the ship lay ‘off and on’ awaiting
its return.

The events which ensued have already been detailed, and little more
remains to be related. On reaching the ‘Julia’ I was lifted over the
side, and my strange appearance and remarkable adventure occasioned the
liveliest interest. Every attention was bestowed upon me that humanity
could suggest. But to such a state was I reduced, that three months
elapsed before I recovered my health.

The mystery which hung over the fate of my friend and companion Toby has
never been cleared up. I still remain ignorant whether he succeeded in
leaving the valley, or perished at the hands of the islanders.




THE STORY OF TOBY

THE morning my comrade left me, as related in the narrative, he was
accompanied by a large party of the natives, some of them carrying fruit
and hogs for the purposes of traffic, as the report had spread that
boats had touched at the bay.

As they proceeded through the settled parts of the valley, numbers
joined them from every side, running with animated cries from every
pathway. So excited were the whole party, that eager as Toby was to gain
the beach, it was almost as much as he could do to keep up with them.
Making the valley ring with their shouts, they hurried along on a swift
trot, those in advance pausing now and then, and flourishing their
weapons to urge the rest forward.

Presently they came to a place where the paths crossed a bend of the
main stream of the valley. Here a strange sound came through the grove
beyond, and the Islanders halted. It was Mow-Mow, the one-eyed chief,
who had gone on before; he was striking his heavy lance against the
hollow bough of a tree.

This was a signal of alarm;--for nothing was now heard but shouts
of ‘Happar! Happar!’--the warriors tilting with their spears and
brandishing them in the air, and the women and boys shouting to each
other, and picking up the stones in the bed of the stream. In a moment
or two Mow-Mow and two or three other chiefs ran out from the grove, and
the din increased ten fold.

Now, thought Toby, for a fray; and being unarmed, he besought one of the
young men domiciled with Marheyo for the loan of his spear. But he was
refused; the youth roguishly telling him that the weapon was very good
for him (the Typee), but that a white man could fight much better with
his fists.

The merry humour of this young wag seemed to be shared by the rest, for
in spite of their warlike cries and gestures, everybody was capering
and laughing, as if it was one of the funniest things in the world to be
awaiting the flight of a score or two of Happar javelins from an ambush
in the thickets.

While my comrade was in vain trying to make out the meaning of all this,
a good number of the natives separated themselves from the rest and ran
off into the grove on one side, the others now keeping perfectly still,
as if awaiting the result. After a little while, however, Mow-Mow, who
stood in advance, motioned them to come on stealthily, which they did,
scarcely rustling a leaf. Thus they crept along for ten or fifteen
minutes, every now and then pausing to listen.

Toby by no means relished this sort of skulking; if there was going to
be a fight, he wanted it to begin at once. But all in good time,--for
just then, as they went prowling into the thickest of the wood, terrific
howls burst upon them on all sides, and volleys of darts and stones flew
across the path. Not an enemy was to be seen, and what was still more
surprising, not a single man dropped, though the pebbles fell among the
leaves like hail.

There was a moment’s pause, when the Typees, with wild shrieks, flung
themselves into the covert, spear in hand; nor was Toby behindhand.
Coming so near getting his skull broken by the stones, and animated by
an old grudge he bore the Happars, he was among the first to dash at
them. As he broke his way through the underbush, trying, as he did
so, to wrest a spear from a young chief, the shouts of battle all of a
sudden ceased, and the wood was as still as death. The next moment, the
party who had left them so mysteriously rushed out from behind every
bush and tree, and united with the rest in long and merry peals of
laughter.

It was all a sham, and Toby, who was quite out of breath with
excitement, was much incensed at being made a fool of.

It afterwards turned out that the whole affair had been concerted for
his particular benefit, though with what precise view it would be hard
to tell. My comrade was the more enraged at this boys’ play, since it
had consumed so much time, every moment of which might be precious.
Perhaps, however, it was partly intended for this very purpose; and he
was led to think so, because when the natives started again, he observed
that they did not seem to be in so great a hurry as before. At last,
after they had gone some distance, Toby, thinking all the while that
they never would get to the sea, two men came running towards them,
and a regular halt ensued, followed by a noisy discussion, during which
Toby’s name was often repeated. All this made him more and more anxious
to learn what was going on at the beach; but it was in vain that he now
tried to push forward; the natives held him back.

In a few moments the conference ended, and many of them ran down the
path in the direction of the water, the rest surrounding Toby, and
entreating him to ‘Moee’, or sit down and rest himself. As an additional
inducement, several calabashes of food, which had been brought along,
were now placed on the ground, and opened, and pipes also were lighted.
Toby bridled his impatience a while, but at last sprang to his feet
and dashed forward again. He was soon overtaken nevertheless, and again
surrounded, but without further detention was then permitted to go down
to the sea.

They came out upon a bright green space between the groves and the
water, and close under the shadow of the Happar mountain, where a path
was seen winding out of sight through a gorge.

No sign of a boat, however, was beheld, nothing but a tumultuous crowd
of men and women, and some one in their midst, earnestly talking to
them. As my comrade advanced, this person came forward and proved to
be no stranger. He was an old grizzled sailor, whom Toby and myself had
frequently seen in Nukuheva, where he lived an easy devil-may-care life
in the household of Mowanna the king, going by the name of ‘Jimmy’.
In fact he was the royal favourite, and had a good deal to say in his
master’s councils. He wore a Manilla hat and a sort of tappa morning
gown, sufficiently loose and negligent to show the verse of a song
tattooed upon his chest, and a variety of spirited cuts by native
artists in other parts of his body. He sported a fishing rod in his
hand, and carried a sooty old pipe slung about his neck.

This old rover having retired from active life, had resided in Nukuheva
some time--could speak the language, and for that reason was frequently
employed by the French as an interpreter. He was an arrant old gossip
too; for ever coming off in his canoe to the ships in the bay, and
regaling their crews with choice little morsels of court scandal--such,
for instance, as a shameful intrigue of his majesty with a Happar
damsel, a public dancer at the feasts--and otherwise relating some
incredible tales about the Marquesas generally. I remember in particular
his telling the Dolly’s crew what proved to be literally a cock-and-bull
story, about two natural prodigies which he said were then on the
island. One was an old monster of a hermit, having a marvellous
reputation for sanctity, and reputed a famous sorcerer, who lived away
off in a den among the mountains, where he hid from the world a
great pair of horns that grew out of his temples. Notwithstanding his
reputation for piety, this horrid old fellow was the terror of all the
island round, being reported to come out from his retreat, and go a
man-hunting every dark night. Some anonymous Paul Pry, too, coming down
the mountain, once got a peep at his den, and found it full of bones. In
short, he was a most unheard-of monster.

The other prodigy Jimmy told us about was the younger son of a chief,
who, although but just turned of ten, had entered upon holy orders,
because his superstitious countrymen thought him especially intended
for the priesthood from the fact of his having a comb on his head like
a rooster. But this was not all; for still more wonderful to relate, the
boy prided himself upon his strange crest, being actually endowed with a
cock’s voice, and frequently crowing over his peculiarity.

But to return to Toby. The moment he saw the old rover on the beach, he
ran up to him, the natives following after, and forming a circle round
them.

After welcoming him to the shore, Jimmy went on to tell him how that he
knew all about our having run away from the ship, and being among the
Typees. Indeed, he had been urged by Mowanna to come over to the valley,
and after visiting his friends there, to bring us back with him, his
royal master being exceedingly anxious to share with him the reward
which had been held out for our capture. He, however, assured Toby that
he had indignantly spurned the offer.

All this astonished my comrade not a little, as neither of us had
entertained the least idea that any white man ever visited the Typees
sociably. But Jimmy told him that such was the case nevertheless,
although he seldom came into the bay, and scarcely ever went back
from the beach. One of the priests of the valley, in some way or other
connected with an old tattooed divine in Nukuheva, was a friend of his,
and through him he was ‘taboo’.

He said, moreover, that he was sometimes employed to come round to the
bay, and engage fruit for ships lying in Nukuheva. In fact, he was now
on that very errand, according to his own account, having just come
across the mountains by the way of Happar. By noon of the next day the
fruit would be heaped up in stacks on the beach, in readiness for the
boats which he then intended to bring into the bay.

Jimmy now asked Toby whether he wished to leave the island--if he did,
there was a ship in want of men lying in the other harbour, and he would
be glad to take him over, and see him on board that very day.

‘No,’ said Toby, ‘I cannot leave the island unless my comrade goes with
me. I left him up the valley because they would not let him come down.
Let us go now and fetch him.’

‘But how is he to cross the mountain with us,’ replied Jimmy, ‘even if
we get him down to the beach? Better let him stay till tomorrow, and I
will bring him round to Nukuheva in the boats.’

‘That will never do,’ said Toby, ‘but come along with me now, and let
us get him down here at any rate,’ and yielding to the impulse of the
moment, he started to hurry back into the valley. But hardly was his
back turned, when a dozen hands were laid on him, and he learned that he
could not go a step further.

It was in vain that he fought with them; they would not hear of his
stirring from the beach. Cut to the heart at this unexpected repulse,
Toby now conjured the sailor to go after me alone. But Jimmy replied,
that in the mood the Typees then were they would not permit him so to
do, though at the same time he was not afraid of their offering him any
harm.

Little did Toby then think, as he afterwards had good reason to suspect,
that this very Jimmy was a heartless villain, who, by his arts, had just
incited the natives to restrain him as he was in the act of going after
me. Well must the old sailor have known, too, that the natives would
never consent to our leaving together, and he therefore wanted to get
Toby off alone, for a purpose which he afterwards made plain. Of all
this, however, my comrade now knew nothing.

He was still struggling with the islanders when Jimmy again came up to
him, and warned him against irritating them, saying that he was only
making matters worse for both of us, and if they became enraged, there
was no telling what might happen. At last he made Toby sit down on a
broken canoe by a pile of stones, upon which was a ruinous little shrine
supported by four upright poles, and in front partly screened by a net.
The fishing parties met there, when they came in from the sea, for their
offerings were laid before an image, upon a smooth black stone within.
This spot Jimmy said was strictly ‘taboo’, and no one would molest or
come near him while he stayed by its shadow. The old sailor then went
off, and began speaking very earnestly to Mow-Mow and some other chiefs,
while all the rest formed a circle round the taboo place, looking
intently at Toby, and talking to each other without ceasing.

Now, notwithstanding what Jimmy had just told him, there presently came
up to my comrade an old woman, who seated herself beside him on the
canoe.

‘Typee motarkee?’ said she. ‘Motarkee nuee,’ said Toby.

She then asked him whether he was going to Nukuheva; he nodded yes; and
with a plaintive wail and her eyes filling with tears she rose and left
him.

This old woman, the sailor afterwards said, was the wife of an aged king
of a small island valley, communicating by a deep pass with the country
of the Typees. The inmates of the two valleys were related to each other
by blood, and were known by the same name. The old woman had gone down
into the Typee valley the day before, and was now with three chiefs, her
sons, on a visit to her kinsmen.

As the old king’s wife left him, Jimmy again came up to Toby, and told
him that he had just talked the whole matter over with the natives, and
there was only one course for him to follow. They would not allow him to
go back into the valley, and harm would certainly come to both him and
me, if he remained much longer on the beach. ‘So,’ said he, ‘you and I
had better go to Nukuheva now overland, and tomorrow I will bring Tommo,
as they call him, by water; they have promised to carry him down to the
sea for me early in the morning, so that there will be no delay.’

‘No, no,’ said Toby desperately, ‘I will not leave him that way; we must
escape together.’

‘Then there is no hope for you,’ exclaimed the sailor, ‘for if I leave
you here on the beach, as soon as I am gone you will be carried back
into the valley, and then neither of you will ever look upon the
sea again.’ And with many oaths he swore that if he would only go to
Nukuheva with him that day, he would be sure to have me there the very
next morning.

‘But how do you know they will bring him down to the beach tomorrow,
when they will not do so today?’ said Toby. But the sailor had many
reasons, all of which were so mixed up with the mysterious customs
of the islanders, that he was none the wiser. Indeed, their conduct,
especially in preventing him from returning into the valley, was
absolutely unaccountable to him; and added to everything else, was the
bitter reflection, that the old sailor, after all, might possibly be
deceiving him. And then again he had to think of me, left alone with the
natives, and by no means well. If he went with Jimmy, he might at least
hope to procure some relief for me. But might not the savages who had
acted so strangely, hurry me off somewhere before his return? Then, even
if he remained, perhaps they would not let him go back into the valley
where I was.

Thus perplexed was my poor comrade; he knew not what to do, and his
courageous spirit was of no use to him now. There he was, all by
himself, seated upon the broken canoe--the natives grouped around him at
a distance, and eyeing him more and more fixedly. ‘It is getting late:
said Jimmy, who was standing behind the rest. ‘Nukuheva is far off, and
I cannot cross the Happar country by night. You see how it is;--if you
come along with me, all will be well; if you do not, depend upon it,
neither of you will ever escape.’

‘There is no help for it,’ said Toby, at last, with a heavy heart, ‘I
will have to trust you,’ and he came out from the shadow of the little
shrine, and cast a long look up the valley.

‘Now keep close to my side,’ said the sailor, ‘and let us be moving
quickly.’ Tinor and Fayaway here appeared; the kindhearted old woman
embracing Toby’s knees, and giving way to a flood of tears; while
Fayaway, hardly less moved, spoke some few words of English she had
learned, and held up three fingers before him--in so many days he would
return.

At last Jimmy pulled Toby out of the crowd, and after calling to a
young Typee who was standing by with a young pig in his arms, all three
started for the mountains.

‘I have told them that you are coming back again,’ said the old fellow,
laughing, as they began the ascent, ‘but they’ll have to wait a long
time.’ Toby turned, and saw the natives all in motion--the girls waving
their tappas in adieu, and the men their spears. As the last figure
entered the grove with one arm raised, and the three fingers spread, his
heart smote him.

As the natives had at last consented to his going, it might have been,
that some of them, at least, really counted upon his speedy return;
probably supposing, as indeed he had told them when they were coming
down the valley, that his only object in leaving them was to procure the
medicines I needed. This, Jimmy also must have told them. And as they
had done before, when my comrade, to oblige me, started on his perilous
journey to Nukuheva, they looked upon me, in his absence, as one of two
inseparable friends who was a sure guaranty for the other’s return.
This is only my own supposition, however, for as to all their strange
conduct, it is still a mystery.

‘You see what sort of a taboo man I am,’ said the sailor, after for some
time silently following the path which led up the mountain. ‘Mow-Mow
made me a present of this pig here, and the man who carries it will
go right through Happar, and down into Nukuheva with us. So long as he
stays by me he is safe, and just so it will be with you, and tomorrow
with Tommo. Cheer up, then, and rely upon me, you will see him in the
morning.’

The ascent of the mountain was not very difficult, owing to its being
near to the sea, where the island ridges are comparatively low; the
path, too, was a fine one, so that in a short time all three were
standing on the summit with the two valleys at their feet. The white
cascade marking the green head of the Typee valley first caught Toby’s
eye; Marheyo’s house could easily be traced by them.

As Jimmy led the way along the ridge, Toby observed that the valley of
the Happars did not extend near so far inland as that of the Typees.
This accounted for our mistake in entering the latter valley as we had.

A path leading down from the mountain was soon seen, and, following it,
the party were in a short time fairly in the Happar valley.

‘Now,’ said Jimmy, as they hurried on, ‘we taboo men have wives in all
the bays, and I am going to show you the two I have here.’

So, when they came to the house where he said they lived,--which was
close by the base of the mountain in a shady nook among the groves--he
went in, and was quite furious at finding it empty--the ladies, had gone
out. However, they soon made their appearance, and to tell the truth,
welcomed Jimmy quite cordially, as well as Toby, about whom they were
very inquisitive. Nevertheless, as the report of their arrival spread,
and the Happars began to assemble, it became evident that the appearance
of a white stranger among them was not by any means deemed so wonderful
an event as in the neighbouring valley.

The old sailor now bade his wives prepare something to eat, as he must
be in Nukuheva before dark. A meal of fish, bread-fruit, and bananas,
was accordingly served up, the party regaling themselves on the mats, in
the midst of a numerous company.

The Happars put many questions to Jimmy about Toby; and Toby himself
looked sharply at them, anxious to recognize the fellow who gave him the
wound from which he was still suffering. But this fiery gentleman, so
handy with his spear, had the delicacy, it seemed, to keep out of view.
Certainly the sight of him would not have been any added inducement to
making a stay in the valley,--some of the afternoon loungers in Happar
having politely urged Toby to spend a few days with them,--there was a
feast coming on. He, however, declined.

All this while the young Typee stuck to Jimmy like his shadow, and
though as lively a dog as any of his tribe, he was now as meek as
a lamb, never opening his mouth except to eat. Although some of the
Happars looked queerly at him, others were more civil, and seemed
desirous of taking him abroad and showing him the valley. But the Typee
was not to be cajoled in that way. How many yards he would have to
remove from Jimmy before the taboo would be powerless, it would be hard
to tell, but probably he himself knew to a fraction.

On the promise of a red cotton handkerchief, and something else which he
kept secret, this poor fellow had undertaken a rather ticklish journey,
though, as far as Toby could ascertain, it was something that had never
happened before.

The island-punch--arva--was brought in at the conclusion of the repast,
and passed round in a shallow calabash.

Now my comrade, while seated in the Happar house, began to feel more
troubled than ever at leaving me; indeed, so sad did he feel that he
talked about going back to the valley, and wanted Jimmy to escort him
as far as the mountains. But the sailor would not listen to him, and, by
way of diverting his thoughts, pressed him to drink of the arva. Knowing
its narcotic nature, he refused; but Jimmy said he would have something
mixed with it, which would convert it into an innocent beverage that
would inspirit them for the rest of their journey. So at last he was
induced to drink of it, and its effects were just as the sailor had
predicted; his spirits rose at once, and all his gloomy thoughts left
him.

The old rover now began to reveal his true character, though he was
hardly suspected at the time. ‘If I get you off to a ship,’ said he,
‘you will surely give a poor fellow something for saving you.’ In short,
before they left the house, he made Toby promise that he would give him
five Spanish dollars if he succeeded in getting any part of his wages
advanced from the vessel, aboard of which they were going; Toby,
moreover, engaging to reward him still further, as soon as my
deliverance was accomplished.

A little while after this they started again, accompanied by many of the
natives, and going up the valley, took a steep path near its head,
which led to Nukuheva. Here the Happars paused and watched them as they
ascended the mountain, one group of bandit-looking fellows, shaking
their spears and casting threatening glances at the poor Typee, whose
heart as well as heels seemed much the lighter when he came to look down
upon them.

On gaining the heights once more, their way led for a time along several
ridges covered with enormous ferns. At last they entered upon a wooded
tract, and here they overtook a party of Nukuheva natives, well armed,
and carrying bundles of long poles. Jimmy seemed to know them all very
well, and stopped for a while, and had a talk about the ‘Wee-Wees’, as
the people of Nukuheva call the Monsieurs.

The party with the poles were King Mowanna’s men, and by his orders they
had been gathering them in the ravines for his allies the French.

Leaving these fellows to trudge on with their loads, Toby and his
companions now pushed forward again, as the sun was already low in the
west. They came upon the valleys of Nukuheva on one side of the bay,
where the highlands slope off into the sea. The men-of-war were still
lying in the harbour, and as Toby looked down upon them, the strange
events which had happened so recently, seemed all a dream.

They soon descended towards the beach, and found themselves in Jimmy’s
house before it was well dark. Here he received another welcome from
his Nukuheva wives, and after some refreshments in the shape of cocoanut
milk and poee-poee, they entered a canoe (the Typee of course going
along) and paddled off to a whaleship which was anchored near the shore.
This was the vessel in want of men. Our own had sailed some time before.
The captain professed great pleasure at seeing Toby, but thought from
his exhausted appearance that he must be unfit for duty. However, he
agreed to ship him, as well as his comrade, as soon as he should arrive.
Toby begged hard for an armed boat, in which to go round to Typee and
rescue me, notwithstanding the promises of Jimmy. But this the captain
would not hear of, and told him to have patience, for the sailor would
be faithful to his word. When, too, he demanded the five silver dollars
for Jimmy, the captain was unwilling to give them. But Toby insisted
upon it, as he now began to think that Jimmy might be a mere mercenary,
who would be sure to prove faithless if not well paid. Accordingly he
not only gave him the money, but took care to assure him, over and over
again, that as soon as he brought me aboard he would receive a still
larger sum.

Before sun-rise the next day, Jimmy and the Typee started in two of the
ship’s boats, which were manned by tabooed natives. Toby, of course, was
all eagerness to go along, but the sailor told him that if he did, it
would spoil all; so, hard as it was, he was obliged to remain.

Towards evening he was on the watch, and descried the boats turning the
headland and entering the bay. He strained his eyes, and thought he saw
me; but I was not there. Descending from the mast almost distracted, he
grappled Jimmy as he struck the deck, shouting in a voice that startled
him, ‘Where is Tommo?’ The old fellow faltered, but soon recovering,
did all he could to soothe him, assuring him that it had proved to be
impossible to get me down to the shore that morning; assigning many
plausible reasons, and adding that early on the morrow he was going to
visit the bay again in a French boat, when, if he did not find me on the
beach--as this time he certainly expected to--he would march right back
into the valley, and carry me away at all hazards. He, however, again
refused to allow Toby to accompany him. Now, situated as Toby was, his
sole dependence for the present was upon this Jimmy, and therefore he
was fain to comfort himself as well as he could with what the old sailor
told him. The next morning, however, he had the satisfaction of seeing
the French boat start with Jimmy in it. Tonight, then, I will see him,
thought Toby; but many a long day passed before he ever saw Tommo again.
Hardly was the boat out of sight, when the captain came forward and
ordered the anchor weighed; he was going to sea.

Vain were all Toby’s ravings--they were disregarded; and when he came to
himself, the sails were set, and the ship fast leaving the land.

... ‘Oh!’ said he to me at our meeting, ‘what sleepless nights were
mine. Often I started from my hammock, dreaming you were before me, and
upbraiding me for leaving you on the island.’

       . . . . . . .

There is little more to be related. Toby left this vessel at New
Zealand, and after some further adventures, arrived home in less than
two years after leaving the Marquesas. He always thought of me as
dead--and I had every reason to suppose that he too was no more; but a
strange meeting was in store for us, one which made Toby’s heart all the
lighter.




NOTE.

The author was more than two years in the South Seas, after escaping
from the valley, as recounted in the last chapter. Some time after
returning home the foregoing narrative was published, though it was
little thought at the time that this would be the means of revealing
the existence of Toby, who had long been given up for lost. But so it
proved.

The story of his escape supplies a natural sequel to the adventure, and
as such it is now added to the volume. It was related to the author by
Toby himself, not ten days since.

New York, July, 1846.



6xxxxxxxxx

WHITE-JACKET

OR

THE WORLD IN A MAN-OF-WAR


BY HERMAN MELVILLE




  "Conceive him now in a man-of-war;
     with his letters of mart, well armed,
   victualed, and appointed,
      and see how he acquits himself."
                   --FULLER'S "Good Sea-Captain."

NOTE. In the year 1843 I shipped as "ordinary seaman" on board of a
United States frigate then lying in a harbor of the Pacific Ocean.
After remaining in this frigate for more than a year, I was discharged
from the service upon the vessel's arrival home. My man-of-war
experiences and observations have been incorporated in the present
volume.

New York, March, 1850.



        I.  THE JACKET.
       II.  HOMEWARD BOUND.
      III.  A GLANCE AT THE PRINCIPAL DIVISIONS, INTO WHICH A
            MAN-OF-WAR'S CREW IS DIVIDED.
       IV.  JACK CHASE.
        V.  JACK CHASE ON A SPANISH QUARTER-DECK.
       VI.  THE QUARTER-DECK OFFICERS, WARRANT OFFICERS, AND BERTH-DECK
            UNDERLINGS OF A MAN-OF-WAR; WHERE THEY LIVE IN THE SHIP;
            HOW THEY LIVE; THEIR SOCIAL STANDING ON SHIP-BOARD; AND
            WHAT SORT OF GENTLEMEN THEY ARE.
      VII.  BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND SUPPER.
     VIII.  SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK.
       IX.  OF THE POCKETS THAT WERE IN THE JACKET.
        X.  FROM POCKETS TO PICKPOCKETS.
       XI.  THE PURSUIT OF POETRY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
      XII.  THE GOOD OR BAD TEMPER OF MEN-OF-WAR'S MEN, IN A GREAT
            DEGREE, ATTRIBUTABLE TO THEIR PARTICULAR STATIONS AND
            DUTIES ABOARD SHIP.
     XIII.  A MAN-OF-WAR HERMIT IN A MOB.
      XIV.  A DRAUGHT IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
       XV.  A SALT-JUNK CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH A NOTICE TO QUIT.
      XVI.  GENERAL TRAINING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
     XVII.  AWAY! SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH CUTTERS, AWAY!
    XVIII.  A MAN-OF-WAR FULL AS A NUT.
      XIX.  THE JACKET ALOFT.
       XX.  HOW THEY SLEEP IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
      XXI.  ONE REASON WHY MEN-OF-WAR'S MEN ARE, GENERALLY, SHORT-LIVED.
     XXII.  WASH-DAY AND HOUSE-CLEANING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
    XXIII.  THEATRICALS IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
     XXIV.  INTRODUCTORY TO CAPE HORN.
      XXV.  THE DOG-DAYS OFF CAPE HORN.
     XXVI.  THE PITCH OF THE CAPE.
    XXVII.  SOME THOUGHTS GROWING OUT OF MAD JACK'S COUNTERMANDING HIS
            SUPERIOR'S ORDER.
   XXVIII.  EDGING AWAY.
     XXIX.  THE NIGHT-WATCHES.
      XXX.  A PEEP THROUGH A PORT-HOLE AT THE SUBTERRANEAN PARTS OF A
            MAN-OF-WAR.
     XXXI.  THE GUNNER UNDER HATCHES.
    XXXII.  A DISH OF DUNDERFUNK.
   XXXIII.  A FLOGGING.
    XXXIV.  SOME OF THE EVIL EFFECTS OF FLOGGING.
     XXXV.  FLOGGING NOT LAWFUL.
    XXXVI.  FLOGGING NOT NECESSARY.
   XXXVII.  SOME SUPERIOR OLD "LONDON DOCK" FROM THE WINE-COOLERS OF
            NEPTUNE.
  XXXVIII.  THE CHAPLAIN AND CHAPEL IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
    XXXIX.  THE FRIGATE IN HARBOUR.--THE BOATS.--GRAND STATE RECEPTION
            OF THE COMMODORE.
       XL.  SOME OF THE CEREMONIES IN A MAN-OF-WAR UNNECESSARY AND
            INJURIOUS.
      XLI.  A MAN-OF-WAR LIBRARY.
     XLII.  KILLING TIME IN A MAN-OF-WAR IN HARBOUR.
    XLIII.  SMUGGLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
     XLIV.  A KNAVE IN OFFICE IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
      XLV.  PUBLISHING POETRY IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
     XLVI.  THE COMMODORE ON THE POOP, AND ONE OF "THE PEOPLE" UNDER THE
            HANDS OF THE SURGEON.
    XLVII.  AN AUCTION IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
   XLVIII.  PURSER, PURSER'S STEWARD, AND POSTMASTER IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
     XLIX.  RUMOURS OF A WAR, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE
            POPULATION OF THE NEVERSINK.
        L.  THE BAY OF ALL BEAUTIES.
       LI.  ONE OF "THE PEOPLE" HAS AN AUDIENCE WITH THE COMMODORE AND
            THE CAPTAIN ON THE QUARTER-DECK.
      LII.  SOMETHING CONCERNING MIDSHIPMEN.
     LIII.  SEAFARING PERSONS PECULIARLY SUBJECT TO BEING UNDER THE
            WEATHER.--THE EFFECTS OF THIS UPON A MAN-OF-WAR CAPTAIN.
      LIV.  "THE PEOPLE" ARE GIVEN "LIBERTY."
       LV.  MIDSHIPMEN ENTERING THE NAVY EARLY.
      LVI.  A SHORE EMPEROR ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.
     LVII.  THE EMPEROR REVIEWS THE PEOPLE AT QUARTERS.
    LVIII.  A QUARTER-DECK OFFICER BEFORE THE MAST.
      LIX.  A MAN-OF-WAR BUTTON DIVIDES TWO BROTHERS.
       LX.  A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN SHOT AT.
      LXI.  THE SURGEON OF THE FLEET.
     LXII.  A CONSULTATION OF MAN-OF-WAR SURGEONS.
    LXIII.  THE OPERATION.
     LXIV.  MAN-OF-WAR TROPHIES.
      LXV.  A MAN-OF-WAR RACE.
     LXVI.  FUN IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
    LXVII.  WHITE-JACKET ARRAIGNED AT THE MAST.
    LXIII.  A MAN-OF-WAR FOUNTAIN, AND OTHER THINGS.
     LXIX.  PRAYERS AT THE GUNS.
      LXX.  MONTHLY MUSTER ROUND THE CAPSTAN.
     LXXI.  THE GENEALOGY OF THE ARTICLES OF WAR.
    LXXII.  "HEREIN ARE THE GOOD ORDINANCES OF THE SEA, WHICH WISE MEN,
            WHO VOYAGED ROUND THE WORLD, GAVE TO OUR ANCESTORS, AND
            WHICH CONSTITUTE THE BOOKS OF THE SCIENCE OF GOOD CUSTOMS."
   LXXIII.  NIGHT AND DAY GAMBLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
    LXXIV.  THE MAIN-TOP AT NIGHT.
     LXXV.  "SINK, BURN, AND DESTROY."
    LXXVI.  THE CHAINS.
   LXXVII.  THE HOSPITAL IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
  LXXVIII.  DISMAL TIMES IN THE MESS.
    LXXIX.  HOW MAN-OF-WAR'S-MEN DIE AT SEA.
     LXXX.  THE LAST STITCH.
    LXXXI.  HOW THEY BURY A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN AT SEA.
   LXXXII.  WHAT REMAINS OF A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN AFTER HIS BURIAL AT SEA.
  LXXXIII.  A MAN-OF-WAR COLLEGE.
   LXXXIV.  MAN-OF-WAR BARBERS.
    LXXXV.  THE GREAT MASSACRE OF THE BEARDS.
   LXXXVI.  THE REBELS BROUGHT TO THE MAST.
  LXXXVII.  OLD USHANT AT THE GANGWAY.
 LXXXVIII.  FLOGGING THROUGH THE FLEET.
   LXXXIX.  THE SOCIAL STATE IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
       XC.  THE MANNING OF NAVIES.
      XCI.  SMOKING-CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH SCENES ON THE GUN-DECK
            DRAWING NEAR HOME.
     XCII.  THE LAST OF THE JACKET.
    XCIII.  CABLE AND ANCHOR ALL CLEAR.




WHITE-JACKET.




CHAPTER I.

THE JACKET.


It was not a _very_ white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience,
as the sequel will show.

The way I came by it was this.

When our frigate lay in Callao, on the coast of Peru--her last harbour
in the Pacific--I found myself without a _grego_, or sailor's surtout;
and as, toward the end of a three years' cruise, no pea-jackets could
be had from the purser's steward: and being bound for Cape Horn, some
sort of a substitute was indispensable; I employed myself, for several
days, in manufacturing an outlandish garment of my own devising, to
shelter me from the boisterous weather we were so soon to encounter.

It was nothing more than a white duck frock, or rather shirt: which,
laying on deck, I folded double at the bosom, and by then making a
continuation of the slit there, opened it lengthwise--much as you would
cut a leaf in the last new novel. The gash being made, a metamorphosis
took place, transcending any related by Ovid. For, presto! the shirt
was a coat!--a strange-looking coat, to be sure; of a Quakerish
amplitude about the skirts; with an infirm, tumble-down collar; and a
clumsy fullness about the wristbands; and white, yea, white as a
shroud. And my shroud it afterward came very near proving, as he who
reads further will find.

But, bless me, my friend, what sort of a summer jacket is this, in
which to weather Cape Horn? A very tasty, and beautiful white linen
garment it may have seemed; but then, people almost universally sport
their linen next to their skin.

Very true; and that thought very early occurred to me; for no idea had
I of scudding round Cape Horn in my shirt; for _that_ would have been
almost scudding under bare poles, indeed.

So, with many odds and ends of patches--old socks, old trowser-legs,
and the like--I bedarned and bequilted the inside of my jacket, till it
became, all over, stiff and padded, as King James's cotton-stuffed and
dagger-proof doublet; and no buckram or steel hauberk stood up more
stoutly.

So far, very good; but pray, tell me, White-Jacket, how do you propose
keeping out the rain and the wet in this quilted _grego_ of yours? You
don't call this wad of old patches a Mackintosh, do you?----you don't
pretend to say that worsted is water-proof?

No, my dear friend; and that was the deuce of it. Waterproof it was
not, no more than a sponge. Indeed, with such recklessness had I
bequilted my jacket, that in a rain-storm I became a universal
absorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned against. Of a
damp day, my heartless shipmates even used to stand up against me, so
powerful was the capillary attraction between this luckless jacket of
mine and all drops of moisture. I dripped like a turkey a roasting; and
long after the rain storms were over, and the sun showed his face, I
still stalked a Scotch mist; and when it was fair weather with others,
alas! it was foul weather with me.

_Me?_ Ah me! Soaked and heavy, what a burden was that jacket to carry
about, especially when I was sent up aloft; dragging myself up step by
step, as if I were weighing the anchor. Small time then, to strip, and
wring it out in a rain, when no hanging back or delay was permitted.
No, no; up you go: fat or lean: Lambert or Edson: never mind how much
avoirdupois you might weigh. And thus, in my own proper person, did
many showers of rain reascend toward the skies, in accordance with the
natural laws.

But here be it known, that I had been terribly disappointed in carrying
out my original plan concerning this jacket. It had been my intention
to make it thoroughly impervious, by giving it a coating of paint, But
bitter fate ever overtakes us unfortunates. So much paint had been
stolen by the sailors, in daubing their overhaul trowsers and
tarpaulins, that by the time I--an honest man--had completed my
quiltings, the paint-pots were banned, and put under strict lock and
key.

Said old Brush, the captain of the _paint-room_--"Look ye,
White-Jacket," said he, "ye can't have any paint."

Such, then, was my jacket: a well-patched, padded, and porous one; and
in a dark night, gleaming white as the White Lady of Avenel!




CHAPTER II.

HOMEWARD BOUND.


"All hands up anchor! Man the capstan!"

"High die! my lads, we're homeward bound!"

Homeward bound!--harmonious sound! Were you _ever_ homeward
bound?--No?--Quick! take the wings of the morning, or the sails of a
ship, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth. There, tarry a year
or two; and then let the gruffest of boatswains, his lungs all
goose-skin, shout forth those magical words, and you'll swear "the harp
of Orpheus were not more enchanting."

All was ready; boats hoisted in, stun' sail gear rove, messenger
passed, capstan-bars in their places, accommodation-ladder below; and
in glorious spirits, we sat down to dinner. In the ward-room, the
lieutenants were passing round their oldest port, and pledging their
friends; in the steerage, the _middies_ were busy raising loans to
liquidate the demands of their laundress, or else--in the navy
phrase--preparing to pay their creditors _with a flying fore-topsail_.
On the poop, the captain was looking to windward; and in his grand,
inaccessible cabin, the high and mighty commodore sat silent and
stately, as the statue of Jupiter in Dodona.

We were all arrayed in our best, and our bravest; like strips of blue
sky, lay the pure blue collars of our frocks upon our shoulders; and
our pumps were so springy and playful, that we danced up and down as we
dined.

It was on the gun-deck that our dinners were spread; all along between
the guns; and there, as we cross-legged sat, you would have thought a
hundred farm-yards and meadows were nigh. Such a cackling of ducks,
chickens, and ganders; such a lowing of oxen, and bleating of lambkins,
penned up here and there along the deck, to provide sea repasts for the
officers. More rural than naval were the sounds; continually reminding
each mother's son of the old paternal homestead in the green old clime;
the old arching elms; the hill where we gambolled; and down by the
barley banks of the stream where we bathed.

"All hands up anchor!"

When that order was given, how we sprang to the bars, and heaved round
that capstan; every man a Goliath, every tendon a hawser!--round and
round--round, round it spun like a sphere, keeping time with our feet
to the time of the fifer, till the cable was straight up and down, and
the ship with her nose in the water.

"Heave and pall! unship your bars, and make sail!"

It was done: barmen, nipper-men, tierers, veerers, idlers and all,
scrambled up the ladder to the braces and halyards; while like monkeys
in Palm-trees, the sail-loosers ran out on those broad boughs, our
yards; and down fell the sails like white clouds from the
ether--topsails, top-gallants, and royals; and away we ran with the
halyards, till every sheet was distended.

"Once more to the bars!"

"Heave, my hearties, heave hard!"

With a jerk and a yerk, we broke ground; and up to our bows came
several thousand pounds of old iron, in the shape of our ponderous
anchor.

Where was White-Jacket then?

White-Jacket was where he belonged. It was White-Jacket that loosed
that main-royal, so far up aloft there, it looks like a white
albatross' wing. It was White-Jacket that was taken for an albatross
himself, as he flew out on the giddy yard-arm!




CHAPTER III.

A GLANCE AT THE PRINCIPAL DIVISIONS, INTO WHICH A MAN-OF-WAR'S CREW IS
DIVIDED.


Having just designated the place where White-Jacket belonged, it must
needs be related how White-Jacket came to belong there.

Every one knows that in merchantmen the seamen are divided into
watches--starboard and larboard--taking their turn at the ship's duty
by night. This plan is followed in all men-of-war. But in all men-of
war, besides this division, there are others, rendered indispensable
from the great number of men, and the necessity of precision and
discipline. Not only are particular bands assigned to the three _tops_,
but in getting under weigh, or any other proceeding requiring all
hands, particular men of these bands are assigned to each yard of the
tops. Thus, when the order is given to loose the main-royal,
White-Jacket flies to obey it; and no one but him.

And not only are particular bands stationed on the three decks of the
ship at such times, but particular men of those bands are also assigned
to particular duties. Also, in tacking ship, reefing top-sails, or
"coming to," every man of a frigate's five-hundred-strong, knows his
own special place, and is infallibly found there. He sees nothing else,
attends to nothing else, and will stay there till grim death or an
epaulette orders him away. Yet there are times when, through the
negligence of the officers, some exceptions are found to this rule. A
rather serious circumstance growing out of such a case will be related
in some future chapter.

Were it not for these regulations a man-of-war's crew would be nothing
but a mob, more ungovernable stripping the canvas in a gale than Lord
George Gordon's tearing down the lofty house of Lord Mansfield.

But this is not all. Besides White-Jacket's office as looser of the
main-royal, when all hands were called to make sail; and besides his
special offices, in tacking ship, coming to anchor, etc.; he
permanently belonged to the Starboard Watch, one of the two primary,
grand divisions of the ship's company. And in this watch he was a
maintop-man; that is, was stationed in the main-top, with a number of
other seamen, always in readiness to execute any orders pertaining to
the main-mast, from above the main-yard. For, including the main-yard,
and below it to the deck, the main-mast belongs to another detachment.

Now the fore, main, and mizen-top-men of each watch--Starboard and
Larboard--are at sea respectively subdivided into Quarter Watches;
which regularly relieve each other in the tops to which they may
belong; while, collectively, they relieve the whole Larboard Watch of
top-men.

Besides these topmen, who are always made up of active sailors, there
are Sheet-Anchor-men--old veterans all--whose place is on the
forecastle; the fore-yard, anchors, and all the sails on the bowsprit
being under their care.

They are an old weather-beaten set, culled from the most experienced
seamen on board. These are the fellows that sing you "_The Bay of
Biscay Oh!_" and "_Here a sheer hulk lies poor Torn Bowling!_" "_Cease,
rude Boreas, blustering railer!_" who, when ashore, at an eating-house,
call for a bowl of tar and a biscuit. These are the fellows who spin
interminable yarns about Decatur, Hull, and Bainbridge; and carry about
their persons bits of "Old Ironsides," as Catholics do the wood of the
true cross. These are the fellows that some officers never pretend to
damn, however much they may anathematize others. These are the fellows
that it does your soul good to look at;---hearty old members of the Old
Guard; grim sea grenadiers, who, in tempest time, have lost many a
tarpaulin overboard. These are the fellows whose society some of the
youngster midshipmen much affect; from whom they learn their best
seamanship; and to whom they look up as veterans; if so be, that they
have any reverence in their souls, which is not the case with all
midshipmen.

Then, there is the _After-guard_, stationed on the Quarterdeck; who,
under the Quarter-Masters and Quarter-Gunners, attend to the main-sail
and spanker, and help haul the main-brace, and other ropes in the stern
of the vessel.

The duties assigned to the After-Guard's-Men being comparatively light
and easy, and but little seamanship being expected from them, they are
composed chiefly of landsmen; the least robust, least hardy, and least
sailor-like of the crew; and being stationed on the Quarter-deck, they
are generally selected with some eye to their personal appearance.
Hence, they are mostly slender young fellows, of a genteel figure and
gentlemanly address; not weighing much on a rope, but weighing
considerably in the estimation of all foreign ladies who may chance to
visit the ship. They lounge away the most part of their time, in
reading novels and romances; talking over their lover affairs ashore;
and comparing notes concerning the melancholy and sentimental career
which drove them--poor young gentlemen--into the hard-hearted navy.
Indeed, many of them show tokens of having moved in very respectable
society. They always maintain a tidy exterior; and express an
abhorrence of the tar-bucket, into which they are seldom or never
called to dip their digits. And pluming themselves upon the cut of
their trowsers, and the glossiness of their tarpaulins, from the rest
of the ship's company, they acquire the name of "_sea-dandies_" and
"_silk-sock-gentry_."

Then, there are the _Waisters_, always stationed on the gun-deck. These
haul aft the fore and main-sheets, besides being subject to ignoble
duties; attending to the drainage and sewerage below hatches. These
fellows are all Jimmy Duxes--sorry chaps, who never put foot in ratlin,
or venture above the bulwarks. Inveterate "_sons of farmers_," with the
hayseed yet in their hair, they are consigned to the congenial
superintendence of the chicken-coops, pig-pens, and potato-lockers.
These are generally placed amidships, on the gun-deck of a frigate,
between the fore and main hatches; and comprise so extensive an area,
that it much resembles the market place of a small town. The melodious
sounds thence issuing, continually draw tears from the eyes of the
Waisters; reminding them of their old paternal pig-pens and
potato-patches. They are the tag-rag and bob-tail of the crew; and he
who is good for nothing else is good enough for a _Waister_.

Three decks down--spar-deck, gun-deck, and berth-deck--and we come to a
parcel of Troglodytes or "_holders_," who burrow, like rabbits in
warrens, among the water-tanks, casks, and cables. Like Cornwall
miners, wash off the soot from their skins, and they are all pale as
ghosts. Unless upon rare occasions, they seldom come on deck to sun
themselves. They may circumnavigate the world fifty times, and they see
about as much of it as Jonah did in the whale's belly. They are a lazy,
lumpish, torpid set; and when going ashore after a long cruise, come
out into the day like terrapins from their caves, or bears in the
spring, from tree-trunks. No one ever knows the names of these fellows;
after a three years' voyage, they still remain strangers to you. In
time of tempests, when all hands are called to save ship, they issue
forth into the gale, like the mysterious old men of Paris, during the
massacre of the Three Days of September: every one marvels who they
are, and whence they come; they disappear as mysteriously; and are seen
no more, until another general commotion.

Such are the principal divisions into which a man-of-war's crew is
divided; but the inferior allotments of duties are endless, and would
require a German commentator to chronicle.

We say nothing here of Boatswain's mates, Gunner's mates, Carpenter's
mates, Sail-maker's mates, Armorer's mates, Master-at-Arms, Ship's
corporals, Cockswains, Quarter-masters, Quarter-gunners, Captains of
the Forecastle, Captains of the Fore-top, Captains of the Main-top,
Captains of the Mizen-top, Captains of the After-Guard, Captains of the
Main-Hold, Captains of the Fore-Hold, Captains of the Head, Coopers,
Painters, Tinkers, Commodore's Steward, Captain's Steward, Ward-Room
Steward, Steerage Steward, Commodore's cook, Captain's cook, Officers'
cook, Cooks of the range, Mess-cooks, hammock-boys, messenger boys,
cot-boys, loblolly-boys and numberless others, whose functions are
fixed and peculiar.

It is from this endless subdivision of duties in a man-of-war, that,
upon first entering one, a sailor has need of a good memory, and the
more of an arithmetician he is, the better.

White-Jacket, for one, was a long time rapt in calculations, concerning
the various "numbers" allotted him by the _First Luff_, otherwise known
as the First Lieutenant. In the first place, White-Jacket was given the
_number of his mess_; then, his _ship's number_, or the number to which
he must answer when the watch-roll is called; then, the number of his
hammock; then, the number of the gun to which he was assigned; besides
a variety of other numbers; all of which would have taken Jedediah
Buxton himself some time to arrange in battalions, previous to adding
up. All these numbers, moreover, must be well remembered, or woe betide
you.

Consider, now, a sailor altogether unused to the tumult of a
man-of-war, for the first time stepping on board, and given all these
numbers to recollect. Already, before hearing them, his head is half
stunned with the unaccustomed sounds ringing in his ears; which ears
seem to him like belfries full of tocsins. On the gun-deck, a thousand
scythed chariots seem passing; he hears the tread of armed marines; the
clash of cutlasses and curses. The Boatswain's mates whistle round him,
like hawks screaming in a gale, and the strange noises under decks are
like volcanic rumblings in a mountain. He dodges sudden sounds, as a
raw recruit falling bombs.

Well-nigh useless to him, now, all previous circumnavigations of this
terraqueous globe; of no account his arctic, antarctic, or equinoctial
experiences; his gales off Beachy Head, or his dismastings off
Hatteras. He must begin anew; he knows nothing; Greek and Hebrew could
not help him, for the language he must learn has neither grammar nor
lexicon.

Mark him, as he advances along the files of old ocean-warriors; mark
his debased attitude, his deprecating gestures, his Sawney stare, like
a Scotchman in London; his--"_cry your merry, noble seignors!_" He is
wholly nonplussed, and confounded. And when, to crown all, the First
Lieutenant, whose business it is to welcome all new-corners, and assign
them their quarters: when this officer--none of the most bland or
amiable either--gives him number after number to
recollect--246--139--478--351--the poor fellow feels like decamping.

Study, then, your mathematics, and cultivate all your memories, oh ye!
who think of cruising in men-of-war.




CHAPTER IV.

JACK CHASE.


The first night out of port was a clear, moonlight one; the frigate
gliding though the water, with all her batteries.

It was my Quarter Watch in the top; and there I reclined on the best
possible terms with my top-mates. Whatever the other seamen might have
been, these were a noble set of tars, and well worthy an introduction
to the reader.

First and foremost was Jack Chase, our noble First Captain of the Top.
He was a Briton, and a true-blue; tall and well-knit, with a clear open
eye, a fine broad brow, and an abounding nut-brown beard. No man ever
had a better heart or a bolder. He was loved by the seamen and admired
by the officers; and even when the Captain spoke to him, it was with a
slight air of respect. Jack was a frank and charming man.

No one could be better company in forecastle or saloon; no man told
such stories, sang such songs, or with greater alacrity sprang to his
duty. Indeed, there was only one thing wanting about him; and that was
a finger of his left hand, which finger he had lost at the great battle
of Navarino.

He had a high conceit of his profession as a seaman; and being deeply
versed in all things pertaining to a man-of-war, was universally
regarded as an oracle. The main-top, over which he presided, was a sort
of oracle of Delphi; to which many pilgrims ascended, to have their
perplexities or differences settled.

There was such an abounding air of good sense and good feeling about
the man, that he who could not love him, would thereby pronounce
himself a knave. I thanked my sweet stars, that kind fortune had placed
me near him, though under him, in the frigate; and from the outset Jack
and I were fast friends.

Wherever you may be now rolling over the blue billows, dear Jack! take
my best love along with you; and God bless you, wherever you go!

Jack was a gentleman. What though his hand was hard, so was not his
heart, too often the case with soft palms. His manners were easy and
free; none of the boisterousness, so common to tars; and he had a
polite, courteous way of saluting you, if it were only to borrow your
knife. Jack had read all the verses of Byron, and all the romances of
Scott. He talked of Rob Roy, Don Juan, and Pelham; Macbeth and Ulysses;
but, above all things, was an ardent admirer of Camoens. Parts of the
Lusiad, he could recite in the original. Where he had obtained his
wonderful accomplishments, it is not for me, his humble subordinate, to
say. Enough, that those accomplishments were so various; the languages
he could converse in, so numerous; that he more than furnished an
example of that saying of Charles the Fifth--_ he who speaks five
languages is as good as five men_. But Jack, he was better than a
hundred common mortals; Jack was a whole phalanx, an entire army; Jack
was a thousand strong; Jack would have done honour to the Queen of
England's drawing-room; Jack must have been a by-blow of some British
Admiral of the Blue. A finer specimen of the island race of Englishmen
could not have been picked out of Westminster Abbey of a coronation day.

His whole demeanor was in strong contrast to that of one of the
Captains of the fore-top. This man, though a good seaman, furnished an
example of those insufferable Britons, who, while preferring other
countries to their own as places of residence; still, overflow with all
the pompousness of national and individual vanity combined. "When I was
on board the Audacious"--for a long time, was almost the invariable
exordium to the fore-top Captain's most cursory remarks. It is often
the custom of men-of-war's-men, when they deem anything to be going on
wrong aboard ship to refer to _last cruise_ when of course everything
was done _ship-shape and Bristol fashion_. And by referring to the
_Audacious_--an expressive name by the way--the fore-top Captain meant
a ship in the English navy, in which he had had the honour of serving.
So continual were his allusions to this craft with the amiable name,
that at last, the _Audacious_ was voted a bore by his shipmates. And
one hot afternoon, during a calm, when the fore-top Captain like many
others, was standing still and yawning on the spar-deck; Jack Chase,
his own countryman, came up to him, and pointing at his open mouth,
politely inquired, whether that was the way they caught _flies_ in Her
Britannic Majesty's ship, the _Audacious?_ After that, we heard no more
of the craft.

Now, the tops of a frigate are quite spacious and cosy. They are railed
in behind so as to form a kind of balcony, very pleasant of a tropical
night. From twenty to thirty loungers may agreeably recline there,
cushioning themselves on old sails and jackets. We had rare times in
that top. We accounted ourselves the best seamen in the ship; and from
our airy perch, literally looked down upon the landlopers below,
sneaking about the deck, among the guns. In a large degree, we
nourished that feeling of "_esprit de corps_," always pervading, more
or less, the various sections of a man-of-war's crew. We main-top-men
were brothers, one and all, and we loaned ourselves to each other with
all the freedom in the world.

Nevertheless, I had not long been a member of this fraternity of fine
fellows, ere I discovered that Jack Chase, our captain was--like all
prime favorites and oracles among men--a little bit of a dictator; not
peremptorily, or annoyingly so, but amusingly intent on egotistically
mending our manners and improving our taste, so that we might reflect
credit upon our tutor.

He made us all wear our hats at a particular angle--instructed us in
the tie of our neck-handkerchiefs; and protested against our wearing
vulgar _dungeree_ trowsers; besides giving us lessons in seamanship;
and solemnly conjuring us, forever to eschew the company of any sailor
we suspected of having served in a whaler. Against all whalers, indeed,
he cherished the unmitigated detestation of a true man-of-war's man.
Poor Tubbs can testify to that.

Tubbs was in the After-Guard; a long, lank Vineyarder, eternally
talking of line-tubs, Nantucket, sperm oil, stove boats, and Japan.
Nothing could silence him; and his comparisons were ever invidious.

Now, with all his soul, Jack abominated this Tubbs. He said he was
vulgar, an upstart--Devil take him, he's been in a whaler. But like
many men, who have been where _you_ haven't been; or seen what _you_
haven't seen; Tubbs, on account of his whaling experiences, absolutely
affected to look down upon Jack, even as Jack did upon him; and this it
was that so enraged our noble captain.

One night, with a peculiar meaning in his eye, he sent me down on deck
to invite Tubbs up aloft for a chat. Flattered by so marked an
honor--for we were somewhat fastidious, and did not extend such
invitations to every body--Tubb's quickly mounted the rigging, looking
rather abashed at finding himself in the august presence of the
assembled Quarter-Watch of main-top-men. Jack's courteous manner,
however, very soon relieved his embarrassment; but it is no use to be
courteous to _some_ men in this world. Tubbs belonged to that category.
No sooner did the bumpkin feel himself at ease, than he launched out,
as usual, into tremendous laudations of whalemen; declaring that
whalemen alone deserved the name of sailors. Jack stood it some time;
but when Tubbs came down upon men-of-war, and particularly upon
main-top-men, his sense of propriety was so outraged, that he launched
into Tubbs like a forty-two pounder.

"Why, you limb of Nantucket! you train-oil man! you sea-tallow
strainer! you bobber after carrion! do _you_ pretend to vilify a
man-of-war? Why, you lean rogue, you, a man-of-war is to whalemen, as a
metropolis to shire-towns, and sequestered hamlets. _Here's_ the place
for life and commotion; _here's_ the place to be gentlemanly and jolly.
And what did you know, you bumpkin! before you came on board this
_Andrew Miller?_ What knew you of gun-deck, or orlop, mustering round
the capstan, beating to quarters, and piping to dinner? Did you ever
roll to _grog_ on board your greasy ballyhoo of blazes? Did you ever
winter at Mahon? Did you ever '_ lash and carry?_' Why, what are even a
merchant-seaman's sorry yarns of voyages to China after tea-caddies,
and voyages to the West Indies after sugar puncheons, and voyages to
the Shetlands after seal-skins--what are even these yarns, you Tubbs
you! to high life in a man-of-war? Why, you dead-eye! I have sailed
with lords and marquises for captains; and the King of the Two Sicilies
has passed me, as I here stood up at my gun. Bah! you are full of the
fore-peak and the forecastle; you are only familiar with Burtons and
Billy-tackles; your ambition never mounted above pig-killing! which, in
my poor opinion, is the proper phrase for whaling! Topmates! has not
this Tubbs here been but a misuser of good oak planks, and a vile
desecrator of the thrice holy sea? turning his ship, my hearties! into
a fat-kettle, and the ocean into a whale-pen? Begone! you graceless,
godless knave! pitch him over the top there, White-Jacket!"

But there was no necessity for my exertions. Poor Tubbs, astounded at
these fulminations, was already rapidly descending by the rigging.

This outburst on the part of my noble friend Jack made me shake all
over, spite of my padded surtout; and caused me to offer up devout
thanksgivings, that in no evil hour had I divulged the fact of having
myself served in a whaler; for having previously marked the prevailing
prejudice of men-of-war's men to that much-maligned class of mariners,
I had wisely held my peace concerning stove boats on the coast of Japan.




CHAPTER V.

JACK CHASE ON A SPANISH QUARTER-DECK.

Here, I must frankly tell a story about Jack, which as touching his
honour and integrity, I am sure, will not work against him, in any
charitable man's estimation. On this present cruise of the frigate
Neversink, Jack had deserted; and after a certain interval, had been
captured.

But with what purpose had he deserted? To avoid naval discipline? To
riot in some abandoned sea-port? for love of some worthless signorita?
Not at all. He abandoned the frigate from far higher and nobler, nay,
glorious motives. Though bowing to naval discipline afloat; yet ashore,
he was a stickler for the Rights of Man, and the liberties of the
world. He went to draw a partisan blade in the civil commotions of
Peru; and befriend, heart and soul, what he deemed the cause of the
Right.

At the time, his disappearance excited the utmost astonishment among
the officers, who had little suspected him of any such conduct of
deserting.

"What? Jack, my great man of the main-top, gone!" cried the captain;
"I'll not believe it."

"Jack Chase cut and run!" cried a sentimental middy. "It must have been
all for love, then; the signoritas have turned his head."

"Jack Chase not to be found?" cried a growling old sheet-anchor-man,
one of your malicious prophets of past events: "I though so; I know'd
it; I could have sworn it--just the chap to make sail on the sly. I
always s'pected him."

Months passed away, and nothing was heard of Jack; till at last, the
frigate came to anchor on the coast, alongside of a Peruvian sloop of
war.

Bravely clad in the Peruvian uniform, and with a fine, mixed martial
and naval step, a tall, striking figure of a long-bearded officer was
descried, promenading the Quarter-deck of the stranger; and
superintending the salutes, which are exchanged between national
vessels on these occasions.

This fine officer touched his laced hat most courteously to our
Captain, who, after returning the compliment, stared at him, rather
impolitely, through his spy-glass.

"By Heaven!" he cried at last--"it is he--he can't disguise his
walk--that's the beard; I'd know him in Cochin China.--Man the first
cutter there! Lieutenant Blink, go on board that sloop of war, and
fetch me yon officer."

All hands were aghast--What? when a piping-hot peace was between the
United States and Peru, to send an armed body on board a Peruvian sloop
of war, and seize one of its officers, in broad daylight?--Monstrous
infraction of the Law of Nations! What would Vattel say?

But Captain Claret must be obeyed. So off went the cutter, every man
armed to the teeth, the lieutenant-commanding having secret
instructions, and the midshipmen attending looking ominously wise,
though, in truth, they could not tell what was coming.

Gaining the sloop of war, the lieutenant was received with the
customary honours; but by this time the tall, bearded officer had
disappeared from the Quarter-deck. The Lieutenant now inquired for the
Peruvian Captain;  and being shown into the cabin, made known to him,
that on board his vessel was a person belonging to the United States
Ship Neversink; and his orders were, to have that person delivered up
instanter.

The foreign captain curled his mustache in astonishment and
indignation; he hinted something about beating to quarters, and
chastising this piece of Yankee insolence.

But resting one gloved hand upon the table, and playing with his
sword-knot, the Lieutenant, with a bland firmness, repeated his demand.
At last, the whole case being so plainly made out, and the person in
question being so accurately described, even to a mole on his cheek,
there remained nothing but immediate compliance.

So the fine-looking, bearded officer, who had so courteously doffed his
chapeau to our Captain, but disappeared upon the arrival of the
Lieutenant, was summoned into the cabin, before his superior, who
addressed him thus:--

"Don John, this gentleman declares, that of right you belong to the
frigate Neversink. Is it so?"

"It is even so, Don Sereno," said Jack Chase, proudly folding his
gold-laced coat-sleeves across his chest--"and as there is no resisting
the frigate, I comply.--Lieutenant Blink, I am ready. Adieu! Don
Sereno, and Madre de Dios protect you? You have been a most gentlemanly
friend and captain to me. I hope you will yet thrash your beggarly
foes."

With that he turned; and entering the cutter, was pulled back to the
frigate, and stepped up to Captain Claret, where that gentleman stood
on the quarter-deck.

"Your servant, my fine Don," said the Captain, ironically lifting his
chapeau, but regarding Jack at the same time with a look of intense
displeasure.

"Your most devoted and penitent Captain of the Main-top, sir; and one
who, in his very humility of contrition is yet proud to call Captain
Claret his commander," said Jack, making a glorious bow, and then
tragically flinging overboard his Peruvian sword.

"Reinstate him at once," shouted Captain Claret--"and now, sir, to your
duty; and discharge that well to the end of the cruise, and you will
hear no more of your having run away."

So Jack went forward among crowds of admiring tars, who swore by his
nut-brown beard, which had amazingly lengthened and spread during his
absence.  They divided his laced hat and coat among them; and on their
shoulders, carried him in triumph along the gun-deck.




CHAPTER VI.

THE QUARTER-DECK OFFICERS, WARRANT OFFICERS, AND BERTH-DECK UNDERLINGS
OF A MAN-OF-WAR; WHERE THEY LIVE IN THE SHIP; HOW THEY LIVE; THEIR
SOCIAL STANDING ON SHIP-BOARD; AND WHAT SORT OF GENTLEMEN THEY ARE.


Some account has been given of the various divisions into which our
crew was divided; so it may be well to say something of the officers;
who they are, and what are their functions.

Our ship, be it know, was the flag-ship; that is, we sported a
_broad-pennant_, or _bougee_, at the main, in token that we carried a
Commodore--the highest rank of officers recognised in the American
navy. The bougee is not to be confounded with the _long pennant_ or
_coach-whip_, a tapering serpentine streamer worn by all men-of-war.

Owing to certain vague, republican scruples, about creating great
officers of the navy, America has thus far had no admirals; though, as
her ships of war increase, they may become indispensable.  This will
assuredly be the case, should she ever have occasion to employ large
fleets; when she must adopt something like the English plan, and
introduce three or four grades of flag-officers, above a
Commodore--Admirals, Vice-Admirals, and Rear-Admirals of Squadrons;
distinguished by the color of their flags,--red, white, and blue,
corresponding to the centre, van, and rear. These rank respectively
with Generals, Lieutenant-Generals, and Major-Generals in the army;
just as Commodore takes rank with a Brigadier-General. So that the same
prejudice which prevents the American Government from creating Admirals
should have precluded the creation of all army officers above a
Brigadier.

An American Commodore, like an English Commodore, or the French _Chef
d'Escadre_, is but a senior Captain, temporarily commanding a small
number of ships, detached for any special purpose. He has no permanent
rank, recognised by Government, above his captaincy; though once
employed as a Commodore, usage and courtesy unite in continuing the
title.

Our Commodore was a gallant old man, who had seen service in his time.
When a lieutenant, he served in the late war with England; and in the
gun-boat actions on the Lakes near New Orleans, just previous to the
grand land engagements, received a musket-ball in his shoulder; which,
with the two balls in his eyes, he carries about with him to this day.

Often, when I looked at the venerable old warrior, doubled up from the
effect of his wound, I thought what a curious, as well as painful
sensation, it must be, to have one's shoulder a lead-mine; though,
sooth to say, so many of us civilised mortals convert our mouths into
Golcondas.

On account of this wound in his shoulder, our Commodore had a
body-servant's pay allowed him, in addition to his regular salary. I
cannot say a great deal, personally, of the Commodore; he never sought
my company at all, never extended any gentlemanly courtesies.

But though I cannot say much of him personally, I can mention something
of him in his general character, as a flag-officer. In the first place,
then, I have serious doubts, whether for the most part, he was not
dumb; for in my hearing, he seldom or never uttered a word. And not
only did he seem dumb himself, but his presence possessed the strange
power of making other people dumb for the time. His appearance on the
Quarter-deck seemed to give every officer the lock-jaw.

Another phenomenon about him was the strange manner in which everyone
shunned him. At the first sign of those epaulets of his on the weather
side of the poop, the officers there congregated invariably shrunk over
to leeward, and left him alone. Perhaps he had an evil eye; may be he
was the Wandering Jew afloat. The real reason probably was, that like
all high functionaries, he deemed it indispensable religiously to
sustain his dignity; one of the most troublesome things in the world,
and one calling for the greatest self-denial. And the constant watch,
and many-sided guardedness, which this sustaining of a Commodore's
dignity requires, plainly enough shows that, apart from the common
dignity of manhood, Commodores, in general possess no real dignity at
all. True, it is expedient for crowned heads, generalissimos,
Lord-high-admirals, and Commodores, to carry themselves straight, and
beware of the spinal complaint; but it is not the less veritable, that
it is a piece of assumption, exceedingly uncomfortable to themselves,
and ridiculous to an enlightened generation.

Now, how many rare good fellows there were among us main-top-men, who,
invited into his cabin over a social bottle or two, would have rejoiced
our old Commodore's heart, and caused that ancient wound of his to heal
up at once.

Come, come, Commodore don't look so sour, old boy; step up aloft here
into the _top_, and we'll spin you a sociable yarn.

Truly, I thought myself much happier in that white jacket of mine, than
our old Commodore in his dignified epaulets.

One thing, perhaps, that more than anything else helped to make our
Commodore so melancholy and forlorn, was the fact of his having so
little to do. For as the frigate had a  captain; of course, so far as
_she_ was concerned, our Commodore was a supernumerary. What abundance
of leisure he must have had, during a three years' cruise; how
indefinitely he might have been improving his mind!

But as everyone knows that idleness is the hardest work in the world,
so our Commodore was specially provided with a gentleman to assist him.
This gentleman was called the _Commodore's secretary_. He was a
remarkably urbane and polished man; with a very graceful exterior, and
looked much like an Ambassador Extraordinary from Versailles. He messed
with the Lieutenants in the Ward-room, where he had a state-room,
elegantly furnished as the private cabinet of Pelham. His cot-boy used
to entertain the sailors with all manner of stories about the
silver-keyed flutes and flageolets, fine oil paintings, morocco bound
volumes, Chinese chess-men, gold shirt-buttons, enamelled pencil cases,
extraordinary fine French boots with soles no thicker than a sheet of
scented note-paper, embroidered vests, incense-burning sealing-wax,
alabaster statuettes of Venus and Adonis, tortoise-shell snuff-boxes,
inlaid toilet-cases, ivory-handled hair-brushes and mother-of-pearl
combs, and a hundred other luxurious appendages scattered about this
magnificent secretary's state-room.

I was a long time in finding out what this secretary's duties
comprised. But it seemed, he wrote the Commodore's dispatches for
Washington, and also was his general amanuensis. Nor was this a very
light duty, at times; for some commodores, though they do not _say_ a
great deal on board ship, yet they have a vast deal to write. Very
often, the regimental orderly, stationed at our Commodore's cabin-door,
would touch his hat to the First Lieutenant, and with a mysterious air
hand him a note. I always thought these notes must contain most
important matters of state; until one day, seeing a slip of wet, torn
paper in a scupper-hole, I read the following:

"Sir, you will give the people pickles to-day with their fresh meat.

    "To Lieutenant Bridewell.
                 "By command of the Commodore;
                            "Adolphus Dashman, Priv. Sec."

This was a new revelation; for, from his almost immutable reserve, I
had supposed that the Commodore never meddled immediately with the
concerns of the ship, but left all that to the captain. But the longer
we live, the more we learn of commodores.

Turn we now to the second officer in rank, almost supreme, however, in
the internal affairs of his ship. Captain Claret was a large, portly
man, a Harry the Eighth afloat, bluff and hearty; and as kingly in his
cabin as Harry on his throne. For a ship is a bit of terra firma cut
off from the main; it is a state in itself; and the captain is its king.

It is no limited monarchy, where the sturdy Commons have a right to
petition, and snarl if they please; but almost a despotism like the
Grand Turk's. The captain's word is law; he never speaks but in the
imperative mood. When he stands on his Quarter-deck at sea, he
absolutely commands as far as eye can reach. Only the moon and stars
are beyond his jurisdiction. He is lord and master of the sun.

It is not twelve o'clock till he says so. For when the sailing-master,
whose duty it is to take the regular observation at noon, touches his
hat, and reports twelve o'clock to the officer of the deck; that
functionary orders a midshipman to repair to the captain's cabin, and
humbly inform him of the respectful suggestion of the sailing-master.

"Twelve o'clock reported, sir," says the middy.

"_Make_ it so," replies the captain.

And the bell is struck eight by the messenger-boy, and twelve o'clock
it is.

As in the case of the Commodore, when the captain visits the deck, his
subordinate officers generally beat a retreat to the other side and, as
a general rule, would no more think of addressing him, except
concerning the ship, than a lackey would think of hailing the Czar of
Russia on his throne, and inviting him to tea. Perhaps no mortal man
has more reason to feel such an intense sense of his own personal
consequence, as the captain of a man-of-war at sea.

Next in rank comes the First or Senior Lieutenant, the chief executive
officer. I have no reason to love the particular gentleman who filled
that post aboard our frigate, for it was he who refused my petition for
as much black paint as would render water-proof that white-jacket of
mine. All my soakings and drenchings lie at his state-room door. I
hardly think I shall ever forgive him; every twinge of the rheumatism,
which I still occasionally feel, is directly referable to him. The
Immortals have a reputation for clemency; and _they_ may pardon him;
but he must not dun me to be merciful. But my personal feelings toward
the man shall not prevent me from here doing him justice. In most
things he was an excellent seaman; prompt, loud, and to the point; and
as such was well fitted for his station. The First Lieutenancy of a
frigate demands a good disciplinarian, and, every way, an energetic
man. By the captain he is held responsible for everything; by that
magnate, indeed, he is supposed to be omnipresent; down in the hold,
and up aloft, at one and the same time.

He presides at the head of the Ward-room officers' table, who are so
called from their messing together in a part of the ship thus
designated. In a frigate it comprises the after part of the berth-deck.
Sometimes it goes by the name of the Gun-room, but oftener is called
the Ward-room. Within, this Ward-room much resembles a long, wide
corridor in a large hotel; numerous doors opening on both hands to the
private apartments of the officers. I never had a good interior look at
it but once; and then the Chaplain was seated at the table in the
centre, playing chess with the Lieutenant of Marines. It was mid-day,
but the place was lighted by lamps.

Besides the First Lieutenant, the Ward-room officers include the junior
lieutenants, in a frigate six or seven in number, the Sailing-master,
Purser, Chaplain, Surgeon, Marine officers, and Midshipmen's
Schoolmaster, or "the Professor." They generally form a very agreeable
club of good fellows; from their diversity of character, admirably
calculated to form an agreeable social whole. The Lieutenants discuss
sea-fights, and tell anecdotes of Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton; the
Marine officers talk of storming fortresses, and the siege of
Gibraltar; the Purser steadies this wild conversation by occasional
allusions to the rule of three; the Professor is always charged with a
scholarly reflection, or an apt line from the classics, generally Ovid;
the Surgeon's stories of the amputation-table judiciously serve to
suggest the mortality of the whole party as men; while the good
chaplain stands ready at all times to give them pious counsel and
consolation.

Of course these gentlemen all associate on a footing of perfect social
equality.

Next in order come the Warrant or Forward officers, consisting of the
Boatswain, Gunner, Carpenter, and Sailmaker. Though these worthies
sport long coats and wear the anchor-button; yet, in the estimation of
the Ward-room officers, they are not, technically speaking, rated
gentlemen. The First Lieutenant, Chaplain, or Surgeon, for example,
would never dream of inviting them to dinner, In sea parlance, "they
come in at the hawse holes;" they have hard hands; and the carpenter
and sail-maker practically understand the duties which they are called
upon to superintend. They mess by themselves. Invariably four in
number, they never have need to play whist with a dummy.

In this part of the category now come the "reefers," otherwise
"middies" or midshipmen. These boys are sent to sea, for the purpose of
making commodores; and in order to become commodores, many of them deem
it indispensable forthwith to commence chewing tobacco, drinking brandy
and water, and swearing at the sailors. As they are only placed on
board a sea-going ship to go to school and learn the duty of a
Lieutenant; and until qualified to act as such, have few or no special
functions to attend to; they are little more, while midshipmen, than
supernumeraries on board. Hence, in a crowded frigate, they are so
everlastingly crossing the path of both men and officers, that in the
navy it has become a proverb, that a useless fellow is "_as much in the
way as a reefer_."

In a gale of wind, when all hands are called and the deck swarms with
men, the little "middies" running about distracted and having nothing
particular to do, make it up in vociferous swearing; exploding all
about under foot like torpedoes. Some of them are terrible little boys,
cocking their cups at alarming angles, and looking fierce as young
roosters. They are generally great consumers of Macassar oil and the
Balm of Columbia; they thirst and rage after whiskers; and sometimes,
applying their ointments, lay themselves out in the sun, to promote the
fertility of their chins.

As the only way to learn to command, is to learn to obey, the usage of
a ship of war is such that the midshipmen are constantly being ordered
about by the Lieutenants; though, without having assigned them their
particular destinations, they are always going somewhere, and never
arriving. In some things, they almost have a harder time of it than the
seamen themselves. They are messengers and errand-boys to their
superiors.

"Mr. Pert," cries an officer of the deck, hailing a young gentleman
forward. Mr. Pert advances, touches his hat, and remains in an attitude
of deferential suspense. "Go and tell the boatswain I want him." And
with this perilous errand, the middy hurries away, looking proud as a
king.

The middies live by themselves in the steerage, where, nowadays, they
dine off a table, spread with a cloth. They have a castor at dinner;
they have some other little boys (selected from the ship's company) to
wait upon them; they sometimes drink coffee out of china. But for all
these, their modern refinements, in some instances the affairs of their
club go sadly to rack and ruin. The china is broken; the japanned
coffee-pot dented like a pewter mug in an ale-house; the pronged forks
resemble tooth-picks (for which they are sometimes used); the
table-knives are hacked into hand-saws; and the cloth goes to the
sail-maker to be patched. Indeed, they are something like collegiate
freshmen and sophomores, living in the college buildings, especially so
far as the noise they make in their quarters is concerned. The steerage
buzzes, hums, and swarms like a hive; or like an infant-school of a hot
day, when the school-mistress falls asleep with a fly on her nose.

In frigates, the ward-room--the retreat of the Lieutenants--immediately
adjoining the steerage, is on the same deck with it. Frequently, when
the middies, waking early of a morning, as most youngsters do, would be
kicking up their heels in their hammocks, or running about with
double-reefed night-gowns, playing tag among the "clews;" the Senior
lieutenant would burst among them with a--"Young gentlemen, I am
astonished. You must stop this sky-larking. Mr. Pert, what are you
doing at the table there, without your pantaloons? To your hammock,
sir. Let me see no more of this. If you disturb the ward-room again,
young gentleman, you shall hear of it." And so saying, this
hoary-headed Senior Lieutenant would retire to his cot in his
state-room, like the father of a numerous family after getting up in
his dressing-gown and slippers, to quiet a daybreak tumult in his
populous nursery.

Having now descended from Commodore to Middy, we come lastly to a set
of nondescripts, forming also a "mess" by themselves, apart from the
seamen. Into this mess, the usage of a man-of-war thrusts various
subordinates--including the master-at-arms, purser's steward, ship's
corporals, marine sergeants, and ship's yeomen, forming the first
aristocracy above the sailors.

The master-at-arms is a sort of high constable and school-master,
wearing citizen's clothes, and known by his official rattan. He it is
whom all sailors hate. His is the universal duty of a universal
informer and hunter-up of delinquents. On the berth-deck he reigns
supreme; spying out all grease-spots made by the various cooks of the
seamen's messes, and driving the laggards up the hatches, when all
hands are called. It is indispensable that he should be a very Vidocq
in vigilance. But as it is a heartless, so is it a thankless office. Of
dark nights, most masters-of-arms keep themselves in readiness to dodge
forty-two pound balls, dropped down the hatchways near them.

The ship's corporals are this worthy's deputies and ushers.

The marine sergeants are generally tall fellows with unyielding spines
and stiff upper lips, and very exclusive in their tastes and
predilections.

The ship's yeoman is a gentleman who has a sort of counting-room in a
tar-cellar down in the fore-hold. More will be said of him anon.

Except the officers above enumerated, there are none who mess apart
from the seamen. The "_petty officers_," so called; that is, the
Boatswain's, Gunner's, Carpenter's, and Sail-maker's mates, the
Captains of the Tops, of the Forecastle, and of the After-Guard, and of
the Fore and Main holds, and the Quarter-Masters, all mess in common
with the crew, and in the American navy are only distinguished from the
common seamen by their slightly additional pay. But in the English navy
they wear crowns and anchors worked on the sleeves of their jackets, by
way of badges of office. In the French navy they are known by strips of
worsted worn in the same place, like those designating the Sergeants
and Corporals in the army.

Thus it will be seen, that the dinner-table is the criterion of rank in
our man-of-war world. The Commodore dines alone, because he is the only
man of his rank in the ship. So too with the Captain; and the Ward-room
officers, warrant officers, midshipmen, the master-at-arms' mess, and
the common seamen;--all of them, respectively, dine together, because
they are, respectively, on a footing of equality.




CHAPTER VII.

BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND SUPPER.


Not only is the dinner-table a criterion of rank on board a man-of-war,
but also the dinner hour. He who dines latest is the greatest man; and
he who dines earliest is accounted the least. In a flag-ship, the
Commodore generally dines about four or five o'clock; the Captain about
three; the Lieutenants about two; while _the people_ (by which phrase
the common seamen are specially designated in the nomenclature of the
quarter-deck) sit down to their salt beef exactly at noon.

Thus it will be seen, that while the two estates of sea-kings and
sea-lords dine at rather patrician hours--and thereby, in the long run,
impair their digestive functions--the sea-commoners, or _the people_,
keep up their constitutions, by keeping up the good old-fashioned,
Elizabethan, Franklin-warranted dinner hour of twelve.

Twelve o'clock! It is the natural centre, key-stone, and very heart of
the day. At that hour, the sun has arrived at the top of his hill; and
as he seems to hang poised there a while, before coming down on the
other side, it is but reasonable to suppose that he is then stopping to
dine; setting an eminent example to all mankind. The rest of the day is
called _afternoon_; the very sound of which fine old Saxon word conveys
a feeling of the lee bulwarks and a nap; a summer sea--soft breezes
creeping over it; dreamy dolphins gliding in the distance. _Afternoon!_
the word implies, that it is an after-piece, coming after the grand
drama of the day; something to be taken leisurely and lazily. But how
can this be, if you dine at five? For, after all, though Paradise Lost
be a noble poem, and we men-of-war's men, no doubt, largely partake in
the immortality of the immortals yet, let us candidly confess it,
shipmates, that, upon the whole, our dinners are the most momentous
attains of these lives we lead beneath the moon. What were a day
without a dinner? a dinnerless day! such a day had better be a night.

Again: twelve o'clock is the natural hour for us men-of-war's men to
dine, because at that hour the very time-pieces we have invented arrive
at their terminus; they can get no further than twelve; when
straightway they continue their old rounds again. Doubtless, Adam and
Eve dined at twelve; and the Patriarch Abraham in the midst of his
cattle; and old Job with his noon mowers and reapers, in that grand
plantation of Uz; and old Noah himself, in the Ark, must have gone to
dinner at precisely _eight bells_ (noon), with all his floating
families and farm-yards.

But though this antediluvian dinner hour is rejected by modern
Commodores and Captains, it still lingers among "_the people_" under
their command. Many sensible things banished from high life find an
asylum among the mob.

Some Commodores are very particular in seeing to it, that no man on
board the ship dare to dine after his (the Commodore's,) own dessert is
cleared away.--Not even the Captain. It is said, on good authority,
that a Captain once ventured to dine at five, when the Commodore's hour
was four. Next day, as the story goes, that Captain received a private
note, and in consequence of that note, dined for the future at
half-past three.

Though in respect of the dinner hour on board a man-of-war, _the
people_ have no reason to complain; yet they have just cause, almost
for mutiny, in the outrageous hours assigned for their breakfast and
supper.

Eight o'clock for breakfast; twelve for dinner; four for supper; and no
meals but these; no lunches and no cold snacks. Owing to this
arrangement (and partly to one watch going to their meals before the
other, at sea), all the meals of the twenty-four hours are crowded into
a space of less than eight! Sixteen mortal hours elapse between supper
and breakfast; including, to one watch, eight hours on deck! This is
barbarous; any physician will tell you so. Think of it! Before the
Commodore has dined, you have supped. And in high latitudes, in
summer-time, you have taken your last meal for the day, and five hours,
or more, daylight to spare!

Mr. Secretary of the Navy, in the name of _the people_, you should
interpose in this matter. Many a time have I, a maintop-man, found
myself actually faint of a tempestuous morning watch, when all my
energies were demanded--owing to this miserable, unphilosophical mode
of allotting the government meals at sea. We beg you, Mr. Secretary,
not to be swayed in this matter by the Honourable Board of Commodores,
who will no doubt tell you that eight, twelve, and four are the proper
hours for _the people_ to take their Meals; inasmuch, as at these hours
the watches are relieved. For, though this arrangement makes a neater
and cleaner thing of it for the officers, and looks very nice and
superfine on paper; yet it is plainly detrimental to health; and in
time of war is attended with still more serious consequences to the
whole nation at large. If the necessary researches were made, it would
perhaps be found that in those instances where men-of-war adopting the
above-mentioned hours for meals have encountered an enemy at night,
they have pretty generally been beaten; that is, in those cases where
the enemies' meal times were reasonable; which is only to be accounted
for by the fact that _the people_ of the beaten vessels were fighting
on an empty stomach instead of a full one.




CHAPTER VIII.

SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK.


Having glanced at the grand divisions of a man-of-war, let us now
descend to specialities: and, particularly, to two of the junior
lieutenants; lords and noblemen; members of that House of Peers, the
gun-room. There were several young lieutenants on board; but from these
two--representing the extremes of character to be found in their
department--the nature of the other officers of their grade in the
Neversink must be derived.

One of these two quarter-deck lords went among the sailors by a name of
their own devising--Selvagee. Of course, it was intended to be
characteristic; and even so it was.

In frigates, and all large ships of war, when getting under weigh, a
large rope, called a _messenger_ used to carry the strain of the cable
to the capstan; so that the anchor may be weighed, without the muddy,
ponderous cable, itself going round the capstan. As the cable enters
the hawse-hole, therefore, something must be constantly used, to keep
this travelling chain attached to this travelling _messenger_;
something that may be rapidly wound round both, so as to bind them
together. The article used is called a _selvagee_. And what could be
better adapted to the purpose? It is a slender, tapering, unstranded
piece of rope prepared with much solicitude; peculiarly flexible; and
wreathes and serpentines round the cable and messenger like an
elegantly-modeled garter-snake round the twisted stalks of a vine.
Indeed, _Selvagee_ is the exact type and symbol of a tall, genteel,
limber, spiralising exquisite. So much for the derivation of the name
which the sailors applied to the Lieutenant.

From what sea-alcove, from what mermaid's milliner's shop, hast thou
emerged, Selvagee! with that dainty waist and languid cheek? What
heartless step-dame drove thee forth, to waste thy fragrance on the
salt sea-air?

Was it _you_, Selvagee! that, outward-bound, off Cape Horn, looked at
Hermit Island through an opera-glass? Was it _you_, who thought of
proposing to the Captain that, when the sails were furled in a gale, a
few drops of lavender should be dropped in their "bunts," so that when
the canvas was set again, your nostrils might not be offended by its
musty smell? I do not _say_ it was you, Selvagee; I but deferentially
inquire.

In plain prose, Selvagee was one of those officers whom the sight of a
trim-fitting naval coat had captivated in the days of his youth. He
fancied, that if a _sea-officer_ dressed well, and conversed genteelly,
he would abundantly uphold the honour of his flag, and immortalise the
tailor that made him. On that rock many young gentlemen split. For upon
a frigate's quarter-deck, it is not enough to sport a coat fashioned by
a Stultz; it is not enough to be well braced with straps and
suspenders; it is not enough to have sweet reminiscences of Lauras and
Matildas. It is a right down life of hard wear and tear, and the man
who is not, in a good degree, fitted to become a common sailor will
never make an officer. Take that to heart, all ye naval aspirants.
Thrust your arms up to the elbow in pitch and see how you like it, ere
you solicit a warrant. Prepare for white squalls, living gales and
typhoons; read accounts of shipwrecks and horrible disasters; peruse
the Narratives of Byron and Bligh; familiarise yourselves with the
story of the English frigate Alceste and the French frigate Medusa.
Though you may go ashore, now and then, at Cadiz and Palermo; for every
day so spent among oranges and ladies, you will have whole months of
rains and gales.

And even thus did Selvagee prove it. But with all the intrepid
effeminacy of your true dandy, he still continued his Cologne-water
baths, and sported his lace-bordered handkerchiefs in the very teeth of
a tempest. Alas, Selvagee! there was no getting the lavender out of you.

But Selvagee was no fool. Theoretically he understood his profession;
but the mere theory of seamanship forms but the thousandth part of what
makes a seaman. You cannot save a ship by working out a problem in the
cabin; the deck is the field of action.

Well aware of his deficiency in some things, Selvagee never took the
trumpet--which is the badge of the deck officer for the time--without a
tremulous movement of the lip, and an earnest inquiring eye to the
windward. He encouraged those old Tritons, the Quarter-masters, to
discourse with him concerning the likelihood of a squall; and often
followed their advice as to taking in, or making sail. The smallest
favours in that way were thankfully received. Sometimes, when all the
North looked unusually lowering, by many conversational blandishments,
he would endeavour to prolong his predecessor's stay on deck, after
that officer's watch had expired. But in fine, steady weather, when the
Captain would emerge from his cabin, Selvagee might be seen, pacing the
poop with long, bold, indefatigable strides, and casting his eye up
aloft with the most ostentatious fidelity.

But vain these pretences; he could not deceive. Selvagee! you know very
well, that if it comes on to blow pretty hard, the First Lieutenant
will be sure to interfere with his paternal authority. Every man and
every boy in the frigate knows, Selvagee, that you are no Neptune.

How unenviable his situation! His brother officers do not insult him,
to be sure; but sometimes their looks are as daggers. The sailors do
not laugh at him outright; but of dark nights they jeer, when they
hearken to that mantuamaker's voice ordering _a strong pull at the main
brace_, or _hands by the halyards!_ Sometimes, by way of being
terrific, and making the men jump, Selvagee raps out an oath; but the
soft bomb stuffed with confectioner's kisses seems to burst like a
crushed rose-bud diffusing its odours. Selvagee! Selvagee! take a
main-top-man's advice; and this cruise over, never more tempt the sea.

With this gentleman of cravats and curling irons, how strongly
contrasts the man who was born in a gale! For in some time of
tempest--off Cape Horn or Hatteras--_Mad Jack_ must have entered the
world--such things have been--not with a silver spoon, but with a
speaking-trumpet in his mouth; wrapped up in a caul, as in a
main-sail--for a charmed life against shipwrecks he bears--and crying,
_Luff! luff, you may!--steady!--port! World ho!--here I am!_

Mad Jack is in his saddle on the sea. _That_ is his home; he would not
care much, if another Flood came and overflowed the dry land; for what
would it do but float his good ship higher and higher and carry his
proud nation's flag round the globe, over the very capitals of all
hostile states! Then would masts surmount spires; and all mankind, like
the Chinese boatmen in Canton River, live in flotillas and fleets, and
find their food in the sea.

Mad Jack was expressly created and labelled for a tar. Five feet nine
is his mark, in his socks; and not weighing over eleven stone before
dinner. Like so many ship's shrouds, his muscles and tendons are all
set true, trim, and taut; he is braced up fore and aft, like a ship on
the wind. His broad chest is a bulkhead, that dams off the gale; and
his nose is an aquiline, that divides it in two, like a keel. His loud,
lusty lungs are two belfries, full of all manner of chimes; but you
only hear his deepest bray, in the height of some tempest--like the
great bell of St. Paul's, which only sounds when the King or the Devil
is dead.

Look at him there, where he stands on the poop--one foot on the rail,
and one hand on a shroud--his head thrown back, and his trumpet like an
elephant's trunk thrown up in the air. Is he going to shoot dead with
sounds, those fellows on the main-topsail-yard?

Mad Jack was a bit of a tyrant--they _say_ all good officers are--but
the sailors loved him all round; and would much rather stand fifty
watches with him, than one with a rose-water sailor.

But Mad Jack, alas! has one fearful failing. He drinks. And so do we
all. But Mad Jack, _He_ only drinks brandy. The vice was inveterate;
surely, like Ferdinand, Count Fathom, he must have been suckled at a
puncheon. Very often, this bad habit got him into very serious scrapes.
Twice was he put off duty by the Commodore; and once he came near being
broken for his frolics. So far as his efficiency as a sea-officer was
concerned, on shore at least, Jack might _bouse away_ as much as he
pleased; but afloat it will not do at all.

Now, if he only followed the wise example set by those ships of the
desert, the camels; and while in port, drank for the thirst past, the
thirst present, and the thirst to come--so that he might cross the
ocean sober; Mad Jack would get along pretty well. Still better, if he
would but eschew brandy altogether; and only drink of the limpid
white-wine of the rills and the brooks.




CHAPTER IX.

OF THE POCKETS THAT WERE IN THE JACKET.


I MUST make some further mention of that white jacket of mine.

And here be it known--by way of introduction to what is to follow--that
to a common sailor, the living on board a man-of-war is like living in
a market; where you dress on the door-steps, and sleep in the cellar.
No privacy can you have; hardly one moment's seclusion. It is almost a
physical impossibility, that you can ever be alone. You dine at a vast
_table d'hote_; sleep in commons, and make your toilet where and when
you can. There is no calling for a mutton chop and a pint of claret by
yourself; no selecting of chambers for the night; no hanging of
pantaloons over the back of a chair; no ringing your bell of a rainy
morning, to take your coffee in bed. It is something like life in a
large manufactory. The bell strikes to dinner, and hungry or not, you
must dine.

Your clothes are stowed in a large canvas bag, generally painted black,
which you can get out of the "rack" only once in the twenty-four hours;
and then, during a time of the utmost confusion; among five hundred
other bags, with five hundred other sailors diving into each, in the
midst of the twilight of the berth-deck. In some measure to obviate
this inconvenience, many sailors divide their wardrobes between their
hammocks and their bags; stowing a few frocks and trowsers in the
former; so that they can shift at night, if they wish, when the
hammocks are piped down. But they gain very little by this.

You have no place whatever but your bag or hammock, in which to put
anything in a man-of-war. If you lay anything down, and turn your back
for a moment, ten to one it is gone.

Now, in sketching the preliminary plan, and laying out the foundation
of that memorable white jacket of mine, I had had an earnest eye to all
these inconveniences, and re-solved to avoid them. I proposed, that not
only should my jacket keep me warm, but that it should also be so
constructed as to contain a shirt or two, a pair of trowsers, and
divers knick-knacks--sewing utensils, books, biscuits, and the like.
With this object, I had accordingly provided it with a great variety of
pockets, pantries, clothes-presses, and cupboards.

The principal apartments, two in number, were placed in the skirts,
with a wide, hospitable entrance from the inside; two more, of smaller
capacity, were planted in each breast, with folding-doors
communicating, so that in case of emergency, to accommodate any bulky
articles, the two pockets in each breast could be thrown into one.
There were, also, several unseen recesses behind the arras; insomuch,
that my jacket, like an old castle, was full of winding stairs, and
mysterious closets, crypts, and cabinets; and like a confidential
writing-desk, abounded in snug little out-of-the-way lairs and
hiding-places, for the storage of valuables.

Superadded to these, were four capacious pockets on the outside; one
pair to slip books into when suddenly startled from my studies to the
main-royal-yard; and the other pair, for permanent mittens, to thrust
my hands into of a cold night-watch. This last contrivance was regarded
as needless by one of my top-mates, who showed me a pattern for
sea-mittens, which he said was much better than mine.

It must be known, that sailors, even in the bleakest weather, only
cover their hands when unemployed; they never wear mittens aloft, since
aloft they literally carry their lives in their hands, and want nothing
between their grasp of the hemp, and the hemp itself.--Therefore, it is
desirable, that whatever things they cover their hands with, should be
capable of being slipped on and off in a moment. Nay, it is desirable,
that they should be of such a nature, that in a dark night, when you
are in a great hurry--say, going to the helm--they may be jumped into,
indiscriminately; and not be like a pair of right-and-left kids;
neither of which will admit any hand, but the particular one meant for
it.

My top-mate's contrivance was this--he ought to have got out a patent
for it--each of his mittens was provided with two thumbs, one on each
side; the convenience of which needs no comment. But though for clumsy
seamen, whose fingers are all thumbs, this description of mitten might
do very well, White-Jacket did not so much fancy it. For when your hand
was once in the bag of the mitten, the empty thumb-hole sometimes
dangled at your palm, confounding your ideas of where your real thumb
might be; or else, being carefully grasped in the hand, was continually
suggesting the insane notion, that you were all the while having hold
of some one else's thumb.

No; I told my good top-mate to go away with his four thumbs, I would
have nothing to do with them; two thumbs were enough for any man.

For some time after completing my jacket, and getting the furniture and
household stores in it; I thought that nothing could exceed it for
convenience. Seldom now did I have occasion to go to my bag, and be
jostled by the crowd who were making their wardrobe in a heap. If I
wanted anything in the way of clothing, thread, needles, or literature,
the chances were that my invaluable jacket contained it. Yes: I fairly
hugged myself, and revelled in my jacket; till, alas! a long rain put
me out of conceit of it. I, and all my pockets and their contents, were
soaked through and through, and my pocket-edition of Shakespeare was
reduced to an omelet.

However, availing myself of a fine sunny day that followed, I emptied
myself out in the main-top, and spread all my goods and chattels to
dry. But spite of the bright sun, that day proved a black one. The
scoundrels on deck detected me in the act of discharging my saturated
cargo; they now knew that the white jacket was used for a storehouse.
The consequence was that, my goods being well dried and again stored
away in my pockets, the very next night, when it was my quarter-watch
on deck, and not in the top (where they were all honest men), I noticed
a parcel of fellows skulking about after me, wherever I went. To a man,
they were pickpockets, and bent upon pillaging me. In vain I kept
clapping my pocket like a nervous old gentlemen in a crowd; that same
night I found myself minus several valuable articles. So, in the end, I
masoned up my lockers and pantries; and save the two used for mittens,
the white jacket ever after was pocketless.




CHAPTER X.

FROM POCKETS TO PICKPOCKETS.


As the latter part of the preceding chapter may seem strange to those
landsmen, who have been habituated to indulge in high-raised, romantic
notions of the man-of-war's man's character; it may not be amiss, to
set down here certain facts on this head, which may serve to place the
thing in its true light.

From the wild life they lead, and various other causes (needless to
mention), sailors, as a class, entertain the most liberal notions
concerning morality and the Decalogue; or rather, they take their own
views of such matters, caring little for the theological or ethical
definitions of others concerning what may be criminal, or wrong.

Their ideas are much swayed by circumstances. They will covertly
abstract a thing from one, whom they dislike; and insist upon it, that,
in such a case, stealing is not robbing. Or, where the theft involves
something funny, as in the case of the white jacket, they only steal
for the sake of the joke; but this much is to be observed nevertheless,
i. e., that they never spoil the joke by returning the stolen article.

It is a good joke; for instance, and one often perpetrated on board
ship, to stand talking to a man in a dark night watch, and all the
while be cutting the buttons from his coat. But once off, those buttons
never grow on again. There is no spontaneous vegetation in buttons.

Perhaps it is a thing unavoidable, but the truth is that, among the
crew of a man-of-war, scores of desperadoes are too often found, who
stop not at the largest enormities. A species of highway robbery is not
unknown to them. A _gang_ will be informed that such a fellow has three
or four gold pieces in the money-bag, so-called, or purse, which many
tars wear round their necks, tucked out of sight. Upon this, they
deliberately lay their plans; and in due time, proceed to carry them
into execution. The man they have marked is perhaps strolling along the
benighted berth-deck to his mess-chest; when of a sudden, the foot-pads
dash out from their hiding-place, throw him down, and while two or
three gag him, and hold him fast, another cuts the bag from his neck,
and makes away with it, followed by his comrades. This was more than
once done in the Neversink.

At other times, hearing that a sailor has something valuable secreted
in his hammock, they will rip it open from underneath while he sleeps,
and reduce the conjecture to a certainty.

To enumerate all the minor pilferings on board a man-of-war would be
endless. With some highly commendable exceptions, they rob from one
another, and rob back again, till, in the matter of small things, a
community of goods seems almost established; and at last, as a whole,
they become relatively honest, by nearly every man becoming the
reverse. It is in vain that the officers, by threats of condign
punishment, endeavour to instil more virtuous principles into their
crew; so thick is the mob, that not one thief in a thousand is detected.




CHAPTER XI.

THE PURSUIT OF POETRY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.


The feeling of insecurity concerning one's possessions in the
Neversink, which the things just narrated begat in the minds of honest
men, was curiously exemplified in the case of my poor friend Lemsford,
a gentlemanly young member of the After-Guard. I had very early made
the acquaintance of Lemsford. It is curious, how unerringly a man
pitches upon a spirit, any way akin to his own, even in the most
miscellaneous mob.

Lemsford was a poet; so thoroughly inspired with the divine afflatus,
that not even all the tar and tumult of a man-of-war could drive it out
of him.

As may readily be imagined, the business of writing verse is a very
different thing on the gun-deck of a frigate, from what the gentle and
sequestered Wordsworth found it at placid Rydal Mount in Westmoreland.
In a frigate, you cannot sit down and meander off your sonnets, when
the full heart prompts; but only, when more important duties permit:
such as bracing round the yards, or reefing top-sails fore and aft.
Nevertheless, every fragment of time at his command was religiously
devoted by Lemsford to the Nine. At the most unseasonable hours, you
would behold him, seated apart, in some corner among the guns--a
shot-box before him, pen in hand, and eyes "_in a fine frenzy rolling_."

"What's that 'ere born nat'ral about?"--"He's got a fit, hain't he?"
were exclamations often made by the less learned of his shipmates. Some
deemed him a conjurer; others a lunatic; and the knowing ones said,
that he must be a crazy Methodist. But well knowing by experience the
truth of the saying, that _poetry is its own exceeding great reward_,
Lemsford wrote on; dashing off whole epics, sonnets, ballads, and
acrostics, with a facility which, under the circumstances, amazed me.
Often he read over his effusions to me; and well worth the hearing they
were. He had wit, imagination, feeling, and humour in abundance; and
out of the very ridicule with which some persons regarded him, he made
rare metrical sport, which we two together enjoyed by ourselves; or
shared with certain select friends.

Still, the taunts and jeers so often levelled at my friend the poet,
would now and then rouse him into rage; and at such times the haughty
scorn he would hurl on his foes, was proof positive of his possession
of that one attribute, irritability, almost universally ascribed to the
votaries of Parnassus and the Nine.

My noble captain, Jack Chase, rather patronised Lemsford, and he would
stoutly take his part against scores of adversaries. Frequently,
inviting him up aloft into his top, he would beg him to recite some of
his verses; to which he would pay the most heedful attention, like
Maecenas listening to Virgil, with a book of Aeneid in his hand. Taking
the liberty of a well-wisher, he would sometimes gently criticise the
piece, suggesting a few immaterial alterations. And upon my word, noble
Jack, with his native-born good sense, taste, and humanity, was not ill
qualified to play the true part of a _Quarterly Review_;--which is, to
give quarter at last, however severe the critique.

Now Lemsford's great care, anxiety, and endless source of tribulation
was the preservation of his manuscripts. He had a little box, about the
size of a small dressing-case, and secured with a lock, in which he
kept his papers and stationery. This box, of course, he could not keep
in his bag or hammock, for, in either case, he would only be able to
get at it once in the twenty-four hours. It was necessary to have it
accessible at all times. So when not using it, he was obliged to hide
it out of sight, where he could. And of all places in the world, a ship
of war, above her _hold_, least abounds in secret nooks. Almost every
inch is occupied; almost every inch is in plain sight; and almost every
inch is continually being visited and explored. Added to all this, was
the deadly hostility of the whole tribe of
ship-underlings--master-at-arms, ship's corporals, and boatswain's
mates,--both to the poet and his casket. They hated his box, as if it
had been Pandora's, crammed to the very lid with hurricanes and gales.
They hunted out his hiding-places like pointers, and gave him no peace
night or day.

Still, the long twenty-four-pounders on the main-deck offered some
promise of a hiding-place to the box; and, accordingly, it was often
tucked away behind the carriages, among the side tackles; its black
colour blending with the ebon hue of the guns.

But Quoin, one of the quarter-gunners, had eyes like a ferret. Quoin
was a little old man-of-war's man, hardly five feet high, with a
complexion like a gun-shot wound after it is healed. He was
indefatigable in attending to his duties; which consisted in taking
care of one division of the guns, embracing ten of the aforesaid
twenty-four-pounders. Ranged up against the ship's side at regular
intervals, they resembled not a little a stud of sable chargers in
their stall. Among this iron stud little Quoin was continually running
in and out, currying them down, now and then, with an old rag, or
keeping the flies off with a brush. To Quoin, the honour and dignity of
the United States of America seemed indissolubly linked with the
keeping his guns unspotted and glossy. He himself was black as a
chimney-sweep with continually tending them, and rubbing them down with
black paint. He would sometimes get outside of the port-holes and peer
into their muzzles, as a monkey into a bottle. Or, like a dentist, he
seemed intent upon examining their teeth. Quite as often, he would be
brushing out their touch-holes with a little wisp of oakum, like a
Chinese barber in Canton, cleaning a patient's ear.

Such was his solicitude, that it was a thousand pities he was not able
to dwarf himself still more, so as to creep in at the touch-hole, and
examining the whole interior of the tube, emerge at last from the
muzzle. Quoin swore by his guns, and slept by their side. Woe betide
the man whom he found leaning against them, or in any way soiling them.
He seemed seized with the crazy fancy, that his darling
twenty-four-pounders were fragile, and might break, like glass retorts.

Now, from this Quoin's vigilance, how could my poor friend the poet
hope to escape with his box? Twenty times a week it was pounced upon,
with a "here's that d----d pillbox again!" and a loud threat, to pitch
it overboard the next time, without a moment's warning, or benefit of
clergy. Like many poets, Lemsford was nervous, and upon these occasions
he trembled like a leaf. Once, with an inconsolable countenance, he
came to me, saying that his casket was nowhere to be found; he had
sought for it in his hiding-place, and it was not there.

I asked him where he had hidden it?

"Among the guns," he replied.

"Then depend upon it, Lemsford, that Quoin has been the death of it."

Straight to Quoin went the poet. But Quoin knew nothing about it. For
ten mortal days the poet was not to be comforted; dividing his leisure
time between cursing Quoin and lamenting his loss. The world is undone,
he must have thought: no such calamity has befallen it since the
Deluge;--my verses are perished.

But though Quoin, as it afterward turned out, had indeed found the box,
it so happened that he had not destroyed it; which no doubt led
Lemsford to infer that a superintending Providence had interposed to
preserve to posterity his invaluable casket. It was found at last,
lying exposed near the galley.

Lemsford was not the only literary man on board the Neversink. There
were three or four persons who kept journals of the cruise. One of
these journalists embellished his work--which was written in a large
blank account-book--with various coloured illustrations of the harbours
and bays at which the frigate had touched; and also, with small crayon
sketches of comical incidents on board the frigate itself. He would
frequently read passages of his book to an admiring circle of the more
refined sailors, between the guns. They pronounced the whole
performance a miracle of art. As the author declared to them that it
was all to be printed and published so soon as the vessel reached home,
they vied with each other in procuring interesting items, to be
incorporated into additional chapters. But it having been rumoured
abroad that this journal was to be ominously entitled "_The Cruise of
the Neversink, or a Paixhan shot into Naval Abuses;_" and it having
also reached the ears of the Ward-room that the work contained
reflections somewhat derogatory to the dignity of the officers, the
volume was seized by the master-at-arms, armed with a warrant from the
Captain. A few days after, a large nail was driven straight through the
two covers, and clinched on the other side, and, thus everlastingly
sealed, the book was committed to the deep. The ground taken by the
authorities on this occasion was, perhaps, that the book was obnoxious
to a certain clause in the Articles of War, forbidding any person in
the Navy to bring any other person in the Navy into contempt, which the
suppressed volume undoubtedly did.




CHAPTER XII.

THE GOOD OR BAD TEMPER OF MEN-OF-WAR'S MEN, IN A GREAT DEGREE,
ATTRIBUTABLE TO THEIR PARTICULAR STATIONS AND DUTIES ABOARD SHIP.


Quoin, the quarter-gunner, was the representative of a class on board
the Neversink, altogether too remarkable to be left astern, without
further notice, in the rapid wake of these chapters.

As has been seen, Quoin was full of unaccountable whimsies; he was,
withal, a very cross, bitter, ill-natured, inflammable old man. So,
too, were all the members of the gunner's gang; including the two
gunner's mates, and all the quarter-gunners. Every one of them had the
same dark brown complexion; all their faces looked like smoked hams.
They were continually grumbling and growling about the batteries;
running in and out among the guns; driving the sailors away from them;
and cursing and swearing as if all their conscience had been
powder-singed, and made callous, by their calling. Indeed they were a
most unpleasant set of men; especially Priming, the nasal-voiced
gunner's mate, with the hare-lip; and Cylinder, his stuttering
coadjutor, with the clubbed foot. But you will always observe, that the
gunner's gang of every man-of-war are invariably ill-tempered, ugly
featured, and quarrelsome. Once when I visited an English
line-of-battle ship, the gunner's gang were fore and aft, polishing up
the batteries, which, according to the Admiral's fancy, had been
painted white as snow. Fidgeting round the great thirty-two-pounders,
and making stinging remarks at the sailors and each other, they
reminded one of a swarm of black wasps, buzzing about rows of white
headstones in a church-yard.

Now, there can be little doubt, that their being so much among the guns
is the very thing that makes a gunner's gang so cross and quarrelsome.
Indeed, this was once proved to the satisfaction of our whole company
of main-top-men. A fine top-mate of ours, a most merry and
companionable fellow, chanced to be promoted to a quarter-gunner's
berth. A few days afterward, some of us main-top-men, his old comrades,
went to pay him a visit, while he was going his regular rounds through
the division of guns allotted to his care. But instead of greeting us
with his usual heartiness, and cracking his pleasant jokes, to our
amazement, he did little else but scowl; and at last, when we rallied
him upon his ill-temper, he seized a long black rammer from overhead,
and drove us on deck; threatening to report us, if we ever dared to be
familiar with him again.

My top-mates thought that this remarkable metamorphose was the effect
produced upon a weak, vain character suddenly elevated from the level
of a mere seaman to the dignified position of a _petty officer_. But
though, in similar cases, I had seen such effects produced upon some of
the crew; yet, in the present instance, I knew better than that;--it
was solely brought about by his consorting with with those villainous,
irritable, ill-tempered cannon; more especially from his being subject
to the orders of those deformed blunderbusses, Priming and Cylinder.

The truth seems to be, indeed, that all people should be very careful
in selecting their callings and vocations; very careful in seeing to
it, that they surround themselves by good-humoured, pleasant-looking
objects; and agreeable, temper-soothing sounds. Many an angelic
disposition has had its even edge turned, and hacked like a saw; and
many a sweet draught of piety has soured on the heart from people's
choosing ill-natured employments, and omitting to gather round them
good-natured landscapes. Gardeners are almost always pleasant, affable
people to con-verse with; but beware of quarter-gunners, keepers of
arsenals, and lonely light-house men.

It would be advisable for any man, who from an unlucky choice of a
profession, which it is too late to change for another, should find his
temper souring, to endeavour to counteract that misfortune, by filling
his private chamber with amiable, pleasurable sights and sounds. In
summer time, an Aeolian harp can be placed in your window at a very
trifling expense; a conch-shell might stand on your mantel, to be taken
up and held to the ear, that you may be soothed by its continual
lulling sound, when you feel the blue fit stealing over you. For
sights, a gay-painted punch-bowl, or Dutch tankard--never mind about
filling it--might be recommended. It should be placed on a bracket in
the pier. Nor is an old-fashioned silver ladle, nor a chased
dinner-castor, nor a fine portly demijohn, nor anything, indeed, that
savors of eating and drinking, bad to drive off the spleen. But perhaps
the best of all is a shelf of merrily-bound books, containing comedies,
farces, songs, and humorous novels. You need never open them; only have
the titles in plain sight. For this purpose, Peregrine Pickle is a good
book; so is Gil Blas; so is Goldsmith.

But of all chamber furniture in the world, best calculated to cure a
had temper, and breed a pleasant one, is the sight of a lovely wife. If
you have children, however, that are teething, the nursery should be a
good way up stairs; at sea, it ought to be in the mizzen-top. Indeed,
teething children play the very deuce with a husband's temper. I have
known three promising young husbands completely spoil on their wives'
hands, by reason of a teething child, whose worrisomeness happened to
be aggravated at the time by the summer-complaint. With a breaking
heart, and my handkerchief to my eyes, I followed those three hapless
young husbands, one after the other, to their premature graves.

Gossiping scenes breed gossips. Who so chatty as hotel-clerks, market
women, auctioneers, bar-keepers, apothecaries, newspaper-reporters,
monthly-nurses, and all those who live in bustling crowds, or are
present at scenes of chatty interest.

Solitude breeds taciturnity; _that_ every body knows; who so taciturn
as authors, taken as a race?

A forced, interior quietude, in the midst of great out-ward commotion,
breeds moody people. Who so moody as railroad-brakemen,
steam-boat-engineers, helmsmen, and tenders of power-looms in cotton
factories? For all these must hold their peace while employed, and let
the machinery do the chatting; they cannot even edge in a single
syllable.

Now, this theory about the wondrous influence of habitual sights and
sounds upon the human temper, was suggested by my experiences on board
our frigate. And al-though I regard the example furnished by our
quarter-gunners--especially him who had once been our top-mate--as by
far the strongest argument in favour of the general theory; yet, the
entire ship abounded with illustrations of its truth. Who were more
liberal-hearted, lofty-minded, gayer, more jocund, elastic,
adventurous, given to fun and frolic, than the top-men of the fore,
main, and mizzen masts? The reason of their liberal-heartedness was,
that they were daily called upon to expatiate themselves all over the
rigging. The reason of their lofty-mindedness was, that they were high
lifted above the petty tumults, carping cares, and paltrinesses of the
decks below.

And I feel persuaded in my inmost soul, that it is to the fact of my
having been a main-top-man; and especially my particular post being on
the loftiest yard of the frigate, the main-royal-yard; that I am now
enabled to give such a free, broad, off-hand, bird's-eye, and, more
than all, impartial account of our man-of-war world; withholding
nothing; inventing nothing; nor flattering, nor scandalising any; but
meting out to all--commodore and messenger-boy alike--their precise
descriptions and deserts.

The reason of the mirthfulness of these top-men was, that they always
looked out upon the blue, boundless, dimpled, laughing, sunny sea. Nor
do I hold, that it militates against this theory, that of a stormy day,
when the face of the ocean was black, and overcast, that some of them
would grow moody, and chose to sit apart. On the contrary, it only
proves the thing which I maintain. For even on shore, there are many
people naturally gay and light-hearted, who, whenever the autumnal wind
begins to bluster round the corners, and roar along the chimney-stacks,
straight becomes cross, petulant, and irritable. What is more mellow
than fine old ale? Yet thunder will sour the best nut-brown ever brewed.

The _Holders_ of our frigate, the Troglodytes, who lived down in the
tarry cellars and caves below the berth-deck, were, nearly all of them,
men of gloomy dispositions, taking sour views of things; one of them
was a blue-light Calvinist. Whereas, the old-sheet-anchor-men, who
spent their time in the bracing sea-air and broad-cast sunshine of the
forecastle, were free, generous-hearted, charitable, and full of
good-will to all hands; though some of them, to tell the truth, proved
sad exceptions; but exceptions only prove the rule.

The "steady-cooks" on the berth-deck, the "steady-sweepers," and
"steady-spit-box-musterers," in all divisions of the frigate, fore and
aft, were a narrow-minded set; with contracted souls; imputable, no
doubt, to their groveling duties. More especially was this evinced in
the case of those odious ditchers and night scavengers, the ignoble
"Waisters."

The members of the band, some ten or twelve in number, who had nothing
to do but keep their instruments polished, and play a lively air now
and then, to stir the stagnant current in our poor old Commodore's
torpid veins, were the most gleeful set of fellows you ever saw. They
were Portuguese, who had been shipped at the Cape De Verd islands, on
the passage out. They messed by themselves; forming a dinner-party, not
to be exceeded ire mirthfulness, by a club of young bridegrooms, three
months after marriage, completely satisfied with their bargains, after
testing them.

But what made them, now, so full of fun? What indeed but their merry,
martial, mellow calling. Who could he a churl, and play a flageolet?
who mean and spiritless, braying forth the souls of thousand heroes
from his brazen trump? But still more efficacious, perhaps, in
ministering to the light spirits of the band, was the consoling
thought, that should the ship ever go into action, they would be
exempted from the perils of battle. In ships of war, the members of the
"music," as the band is called, are generally non-combatants; and
mostly ship, with the express understanding, that as soon as the vessel
comes within long gun-shot of an enemy, they shall have the privilege
of burrowing down in the cable-tiers, or sea coal-hole. Which shows
that they are inglorious, but uncommonly sensible fellows.

Look at the barons of the gun-room--Lieutenants, Purser, Marine
officers, Sailing-master--all of them gentlemen with stiff upper lips,
and aristocratic cut noses. Why was this? Will any one deny, that from
their living so long in high military life, served by a crowd of menial
stewards and cot-boys, and always accustomed to command right and left;
will any one deny, I say, that by reason of this, their very noses had
become thin, peaked, aquiline, and aristocratically cartilaginous? Even
old Cuticle, the Surgeon, had a Roman nose.

But I never could account how it came to be, that our grey headed First
Lieutenant was a little lop-sided; that is, one of his shoulders
disproportionately dropped. And when I observed, that nearly all the
First Lieutenants I saw in other men-of-war, besides many Second and
Third Lieutenants, were similarly lop-sided, I knew that there must be
some general law which induced the phenomenon; and I put myself to
studying it out, as an interesting problem. At last, I came to the
conclusion--to which I still adhere--that their so long wearing only
one epaulet (for to only one does their rank entitle them) was the
infallible clew to this mystery. And when any one reflects upon so
well-known a fact, that many sea Lieutenants grow decrepit from age,
without attaining a Captaincy and wearing _two_ epaulets, which would
strike the balance between their shoulders, the above reason assigned
will not appear unwarrantable.




CHAPTER XIII.

A MAN-OF-WAR HERMIT IN A MOB.


The allusion to the poet Lemsford in a previous chapter, leads me to
speak of our mutual friends, Nord and Williams, who, with Lemsford
himself, Jack Chase, and my comrades of the main-top, comprised almost
the only persons with whom I unreservedly consorted while on board the
frigate. For I had not been long on board ere I found that it would not
do to be intimate with everybody. An indiscriminate intimacy with all
hands leads to sundry annoyances and scrapes, too often ending with a
dozen at the gang-way. Though I was above a year in the frigate, there
were scores of men who to the last remained perfect strangers to me,
whose very names I did not know, and whom I would hardly be able to
recognise now should I happen to meet them in the streets.

In the dog-watches at sea, during the early part of the evening, the
main-deck is generally filled with crowds of pedestrians, promenading
up and down past the guns, like people taking the air in Broadway. At
such times, it is curious to see the men nodding to each other's
recognitions (they might not have seen each other for a week);
exchanging a pleasant word with a friend; making a hurried appointment
to meet him somewhere aloft on the morrow, or passing group after group
without deigning the slightest salutation. Indeed, I was not at all
singular in having but comparatively few acquaintances on board, though
certainly carrying my fastidiousness to an unusual extent.

My friend Nord was a somewhat remarkable character; and if mystery
includes romance, he certainly was a very romantic one. Before seeking
an introduction to him through Lemsford, I had often marked his tall,
spare, upright figure stalking like Don Quixote among the pigmies of
the Afterguard, to which he belonged. At first I found him exceedingly
reserved and taciturn; his saturnine brow wore a scowl; he was almost
repelling in his demeanour. In a word, he seemed desirous of hinting,
that his list of man-of war friends was already made up, complete, and
full; and there was no room for more. But observing that the only man
he ever consorted with was Lemsford, I had too much magnanimity, by
going off in a pique at his coldness, to let him lose forever the
chance of making so capital an acquaintance as myself. Besides, I saw
it in his eye, that the man had been a reader of good books; I would
have staked my life on it, that he seized the right meaning of
Montaigne. I saw that he was an earnest thinker; I more than suspected
that he had been bolted in the mill of adversity. For all these things,
my heart yearned toward him; I determined to know him.

At last I succeeded; it was during a profoundly quiet midnight watch,
when I perceived him walking alone in the waist, while most of the men
were dozing on the carronade-slides.

That night we scoured all the prairies of reading; dived into the
bosoms of authors, and tore out their hearts; and that night
White-Jacket learned more than he has ever done in any single night
since.

The man was a marvel. He amazed me, as much as Coleridge did the
troopers among whom he enlisted. What could have induced such a man to
enter a man-of-war, all my sapience cannot fathom. And how he managed
to preserve his dignity, as he did, among such a rabble rout was
equally a mystery. For he was no sailor; as ignorant of a ship, indeed,
as a man from the sources of the Niger. Yet the officers respected him;
and the men were afraid of him. This much was observable, however, that
he faithfully discharged whatever special duties devolved upon him; and
was so fortunate as never to render himself liable to a reprimand.
Doubtless, he took the same view of the thing that another of the crew
did; and had early resolved, so to conduct himself as never to run the
risk of the scourge. And this it must have been--added to whatever
incommunicable grief which might have been his--that made this Nord
such a wandering recluse, even among our man-of-war mob. Nor could he
have long swung his hammock on board, ere he must have found that, to
insure his exemption from that thing which alone affrighted him, he
must be content for the most part to turn a man-hater, and socially
expatriate himself from many things, which might have rendered his
situation more tolerable. Still more, several events that took place
must have horrified him, at times, with the thought that, however he
might isolate and entomb himself, yet for all this, the improbability
of his being overtaken by what he most dreaded never advanced to the
infallibility of the impossible.

In my intercourse with Nord, he never made allusion to his past
career--a subject upon which most high-bred castaways in a man-of-war
are very diffuse; relating their adventures at the gaming-table; the
recklessness with which they have run through the amplest fortunes in a
single season; their alms-givings, and gratuities to porters and poor
relations; and above all, their youthful indiscretions, and the
broken-hearted ladies they have left behind. No such tales had Nord to
tell. Concerning the past, he was barred and locked up like the specie
vaults of the Bank of England. For anything that dropped from him, none
of us could be sure that he had ever existed till now. Altogether, he
was a remarkable man.

My other friend, Williams, was a thorough-going Yankee from Maine, who
had been both a peddler and a pedagogue in his day. He had all manner
of stories to tell about nice little country frolics, and would run
over an endless list of his sweethearts. He was honest, acute, witty,
full of mirth and good humour--a laughing philosopher. He was
invaluable as a pill against the spleen; and, with the view of
extending the advantages of his society to the saturnine Nord, I
introduced them to each other; but Nord cut him dead the very same
evening, when we sallied out from between the guns for a walk on the
main-deck.




CHAPTER XIV.

A DRAUGHT IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


We were not many days out of port, when a rumour was set afloat that
dreadfully alarmed many tars. It was this: that, owing to some
unprecedented oversight in the Purser, or some equally unprecedented
remissness in the Naval-storekeeper at Callao, the frigate's supply of
that delectable beverage, called "grog," was well-nigh expended.

In the American Navy, the law allows one gill of spirits per day to
every seaman. In two portions, it is served out just previous to
breakfast and dinner. At the roll of the drum, the sailors assemble
round a large tub, or cask, filled with liquid; and, as their names are
called off by a midshipman, they step up and regale themselves from a
little tin measure called a "tot." No high-liver helping himself to
Tokay off a well-polished sideboard, smacks his lips with more mighty
satisfaction than the sailor does over this _tot_. To many of them,
indeed, the thought of their daily _tots_ forms a perpetual perspective
of ravishing landscapes, indefinitely receding in the distance. It is
their great "prospect in life." Take away their grog, and life
possesses no further charms for them. It is hardly to be doubted, that
the controlling inducement which keeps many men in the Navy, is the
unbounded confidence they have in the ability of the United States
government to supply them, regularly and unfailingly, with their daily
allowance of this beverage. I have known several forlorn individuals,
shipping as landsmen, who have confessed to me, that having contracted
a love for ardent spirits, which they could not renounce, and having by
their foolish courses been brought into the most abject
poverty--insomuch that they could no longer gratify their thirst
ashore--they incontinently entered the Navy; regarding it as the asylum
for all drunkards, who might there prolong their lives by regular hours
and exercise, and twice every day quench their thirst by moderate and
undeviating doses.

When I once remonstrated with an old toper of a top-man about this
daily dram-drinking; when I told him it was ruining him, and advised
him to _stop his grog_ and receive the money for it, in addition to his
wages as provided by law, he turned about on me, with an irresistibly
waggish look, and said, "Give up my grog? And why? Because it is
ruining me? No, no; I am a good Christian, White-Jacket, and love my
enemy too much to drop his acquaintance."

It may be readily imagined, therefore, what consternation and dismay
pervaded the gun-deck at the first announcement of the tidings that the
grog was expended.

"The grog gone!" roared an old Sheet-anchor-man.

"Oh! Lord! what a pain in my stomach!" cried a Main-top-man.

"It's worse than the cholera!" cried a man of the After-guard.

"I'd sooner the water-casks would give out!" said a Captain of the Hold.

"Are we ganders and geese, that we can live without grog?" asked a
Corporal of Marines.

"Ay, we must now drink with the ducks!" cried a Quarter-master.

"Not a tot left?" groaned a Waister.

"Not a toothful!" sighed a Holder, from the bottom of his boots.

Yes, the fatal intelligence proved true. The drum was no longer heard
rolling the men to the tub, and deep gloom and dejection fell like a
cloud. The ship was like a great city, when some terrible calamity has
overtaken it. The men stood apart, in groups, discussing their woes,
and mutually condoling. No longer, of still moonlight nights, was the
song heard from the giddy tops; and few and far between were the
stories that were told. It was during this interval, so dismal to many,
that to the amazement of all hands, ten men were reported by the
master-at-arms to be intoxicated. They were brought up to the mast, and
at their appearance the doubts of the most skeptical were dissipated;
but whence they had obtained their liquor no one could tell. It was
observed, however at the time, that the tarry knaves all smelled of
lavender, like so many dandies.

After their examination they were ordered into the "brig," a jail-house
between two guns on the main-deck, where prisoners are kept. Here they
laid for some time, stretched out stark and stiff, with their arms
folded over their breasts, like so many effigies of the Black Prince on
his monument in Canterbury Cathedral.

Their first slumbers over, the marine sentry who stood guard over them
had as much as he could do to keep off the crowd, who were all
eagerness to find out how, in such a time of want, the prisoners had
managed to drink themselves into oblivion. In due time they were
liberated, and the secret simultaneously leaked out.

It seemed that an enterprising man of their number, who had suffered
severely from the common deprivation, had all at once been struck by a
brilliant idea. It had come to his knowledge that the purser's steward
was supplied with a large quantity of _Eau-de-Cologne_, clandestinely
brought out in the ship, for the purpose of selling it on his own
account, to the people of the coast; but the supply proving larger than
the demand, and having no customers on board the frigate but Lieutenant
Selvagee, he was now carrying home more than a third of his original
stock. To make a short story of it, this functionary, being called upon
in secret, was readily prevailed upon to part with a dozen bottles,
with whose contents the intoxicated party had regaled themselves.

The news spread far and wide among the men, being only kept secret from
the officers and underlings, and that night the long, crane-necked
Cologne bottles jingled in out-of-the-way corners and by-places, and,
being emptied, were sent flying out of the ports. With brown sugar,
taken from the mess-chests, and hot water begged from the galley-cooks,
the men made all manner of punches, toddies, and cocktails, letting
fall therein a small drop of tar, like a bit of brown toast, by way of
imparting a flavour. Of course, the thing was managed with the utmost
secrecy; and as a whole dark night elapsed after their orgies, the
revellers were, in a good measure, secure from detection; and those who
indulged too freely had twelve long hours to get sober before daylight
obtruded.

Next day, fore and aft, the whole frigate smelled like a lady's toilet;
the very tar-buckets were fragrant; and from the mouth of many a grim,
grizzled old quarter-gunner came the most fragrant of breaths. The
amazed Lieutenants went about snuffing up the gale; and, for once.
Selvagee had no further need to flourish his perfumed hand-kerchief. It
was as if we were sailing by some odoriferous shore, in the vernal
season of violets. Sabaean odours!

                                 "For many a league,
      Cheered with grateful smell, old Ocean smiled."

But, alas! all this perfume could not be wasted for nothing; and the
masters-at-arms and ship's corporals, putting this and that together,
very soon burrowed into the secret. The purser's steward was called to
account, and no more lavender punches and Cologne toddies were drank on
board the Neversink.




CHAPTER XV.

A SALT-JUNK CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH A NOTICE TO QUIT.


It was about the period of the Cologne-water excitement that my
self-conceit was not a little wounded, and my sense of delicacy
altogether shocked, by a polite hint received from the cook of the mess
to which I happened to belong. To understand the matter, it is needful
to enter into preliminaries.

The common seamen in a large frigate are divided into some thirty or
forty messes, put down on the purser's books as _Mess_ No. 1, _Mess_
No. 2, _Mess_ No. 3, etc. The members of each mess club, their rations
of provisions, and breakfast, dine, and sup together in allotted
intervals between the guns on the main-deck. In undeviating rotation,
the members of each mess (excepting the petty-officers) take their turn
in performing the functions of cook and steward. And for the time
being, all the affairs of the club are subject to their inspection and
control.

It is the cook's business, also, to have an eye to the general
interests of his mess; to see that, when the aggregated allowances of
beef, bread, etc., are served out by one of the master's mates, the
mess over which he presides receives its full share, without stint or
subtraction. Upon the berth-deck he has a chest, in which to keep his
pots, pans, spoons, and small stores of sugar, molasses, tea, and flour.

But though entitled a cook, strictly speaking, the head of the mess is
no cook at all; for the cooking for the crew is all done by a high and
mighty functionary, officially called the "_ship's cook_," assisted by
several deputies. In our frigate, this personage was a dignified
coloured gentleman, whom the men dubbed "_Old Coffee;_" and his
assistants, negroes also, went by the poetical appellations of
"_Sunshine_," "_Rose-water_," and "_May-day_."

Now the _ship's cooking_ required very little science, though old
Coffee often assured us that he had graduated at the New York Astor
House, under the immediate eye of the celebrated Coleman and Stetson.
All he had to do was, in the first place, to keep bright and clean the
three huge coppers, or caldrons, in which many hundred pounds of beef
were daily boiled. To this end, Rose-water, Sunshine, and May-day every
morning sprang into their respective apartments, stripped to the waist,
and well provided with bits of soap-stone and sand. By exercising these
in a very vigorous manner, they threw themselves into a violent
perspiration, and put a fine polish upon the interior of the coppers.

Sunshine was the bard of the trio; and while all three would be busily
employed clattering their soap-stones against the metal, he would
exhilarate them with some remarkable St. Domingo melodies; one of which
was the following:

     "Oh! I los' my shoe in an old canoe,
          Johnio! come Winum so!
      Oh! I los' my boot in a pilot-boat,
          Johnio! come Winum so!
      Den rub-a-dub de copper, oh!
      Oh! copper rub-a-dub-a-oh!"

When I listened to these jolly Africans, thus making gleeful their toil
by their cheering songs, I could not help murmuring against that
immemorial rule of men-of-war, which forbids the sailors to sing out,
as in merchant-vessels, when pulling ropes, or occupied at any other
ship's duty. Your only music, at such times, is the shrill pipe of the
boatswain's mate, which is almost worse than no music at all. And if
the boatswain's mate is not by, you must pull the ropes, like convicts,
in profound silence; or else endeavour to impart unity to the exertions
of all hands, by singing out mechanically, _one_, _two_, _three_, and
then pulling all together.

Now, when Sunshine, Rose-water, and May-day have so polished the ship's
coppers, that a white kid glove might be drawn along the inside and
show no stain, they leap out of their holes, and the water is poured in
for the coffee. And the coffee being boiled, and decanted off in
bucketfuls, the cooks of the messes march up with their salt beef for
dinner, strung upon strings and tallied with labels; all of which are
plunged together into the self-same coppers, and there boiled. When,
upon the beef being fished out with a huge pitch-fork, the water for
the evening's tea is poured in; which, consequently possesses a flavour
not unlike that of shank-soup.

From this it will be seen, that, so far as cooking is concerned, a
"_cook of the mess_" has very little to do; merely carrying his
provisions to and from the grand democratic cookery. Still, in some
things, his office involves many annoyances. Twice a week butter and
cheese are served out--so much to each man--and the mess-cook has the
sole charge of these delicacies. The great difficulty consists in so
catering for the mess, touching these luxuries, as to satisfy all. Some
guzzlers are for devouring the butter at a meal, and finishing off with
the cheese the same day; others contend for saving it up against
_Banyan Day_, when there is nothing but beef and bread; and others,
again, are for taking a very small bit of butter and cheese, by way of
dessert, to each and every meal through the week. All this gives rise
to endless disputes, debates, and altercations.

Sometimes, with his mess-cloth--a square of painted canvas--set out on
deck between the guns, garnished with pots, and pans, and _kids_, you
see the mess-cook seated on a matchtub at its head, his trowser legs
rolled up and arms bared, presiding over the convivial party.

"Now, men, you can't have any butter to-day. I'm saving it up for
to-morrow. You don't know the value of butter, men. You, Jim, take your
hoof off the cloth! Devil take me, if some of you chaps haven't no more
manners than so many swines! Quick, men, quick; bear a hand, and
'_scoff_' (eat) away.--I've got my to-morrow's _duff_ to make yet, and
some of you fellows keep _scoffing_ as if I had nothing to do but sit
still here on this here tub here, and look on. There, there, men,
you've all had enough: so sail away out of this, and let me clear up
the wreck."

In this strain would one of the periodical cooks of mess No. 15 talk to
us. He was a tall, resolute fellow, who had once been a brakeman on a
railroad, and he kept us all pretty straight; from his fiat there was
no appeal.

But it was not thus when the turn came to others among us. Then it was
_look out for squalls_. The business of dining became a bore, and
digestion was seriously impaired by the unamiable discourse we had over
our _salt horse_.

I sometimes thought that the junks of lean pork--which were boiled in
their own bristles, and looked gaunt and grim, like pickled chins of
half-famished, unwashed Cossacks--had something to do with creating the
bristling bitterness at times prevailing in our mess. The men tore off
the tough hide from their pork, as if they were Indians scalping
Christians.

Some cursed the cook for a rogue, who kept from us our butter and
cheese, in order to make away with it himself in an underhand manner;
selling it at a premium to other messes, and thus accumulating a
princely fortune at our expense. Others anthematised him for his
slovenliness, casting hypercritical glances into their pots and pans,
and scraping them with their knives. Then he would be railed at for his
miserable "duffs," and other shortcoming preparations.

Marking all this from the beginning, I, White-Jacket, was sorely
troubled with the idea, that, in the course of time, my own turn would
come round to undergo the same objurgations. How to escape, I knew not.
However, when the dreaded period arrived, I received the keys of office
(the keys of the mess-chest) with a resigned temper, and offered up a
devout ejaculation for fortitude under the trial. I resolved, please
Heaven, to approve myself an unexceptionable caterer, and the most
impartial of stewards.

The first day there was "_duff_" to make--a business which devolved
upon the mess-cooks, though the boiling of it pertained to Old Coffee
and his deputies. I made up my mind to lay myself out on that _duff_;
to centre all my energies upon it; to put the very soul of art into it,
and achieve an unrivalled _duff_--a _duff_ that should put out of
conceit all other _duffs_, and for ever make my administration
memorable.

From the proper functionary the flour was obtained, and the raisins;
the beef-fat, or "_slush_," from Old Coffee; and the requisite supply
of water from the scuttle-butt. I then went among the various cooks, to
compare their receipts for making "duffs:" and having well weighed them
all, and gathered from each a choice item to make an original receipt
of my own, with due deliberation and solemnity I proceeded to business.
Placing the component parts in a tin pan, I kneaded them together for
an hour, entirely reckless as to pulmonary considerations, touching the
ruinous expenditure of breath; and having decanted the semi-liquid
dough into a canvas-bag, secured the muzzle, tied on the tally, and
delivered it to Rose-water, who dropped the precious bag into the
coppers, along with a score or two of others.

Eight bells had struck. The boatswain and his mates had piped the hands
to dinner; my mess-cloth was set out, and my messmates were assembled,
knife in hand, all ready to precipitate themselves upon the devoted
_duff_: Waiting at the grand cookery till my turn came, I received the
bag of pudding, and gallanting it into the mess, proceeded to loosen
the string.

It was an anxious, I may say, a fearful moment. My hands trembled;
every eye was upon me; my reputation and credit were at stake. Slowly I
undressed the _duff_, dandling it upon my knee, much as a nurse does a
baby about bed-time. The excitement increased, as I curled down the bag
from the pudding; it became intense, when at last I plumped it into the
pan, held up to receive it by an eager hand. Bim! it fell like a man
shot down in a riot. Distraction! It was harder than a sinner's heart;
yea, tough as the cock that crowed on the morn that Peter told a lie.

"Gentlemen of the mess, for heaven's sake! permit me one word. I have
done my duty by that duff--I have----"

But they beat down my excuses with a storm of criminations. One present
proposed that the fatal pudding should be tied round my neck, like a
mill-stone, and myself pushed overboard. No use, no use; I had failed;
ever after, that duff lay heavy at my stomach and my heart.

After this, I grew desperate; despised popularity; returned scorn for
scorn; till at length my week expired, and in the duff-bag I
transferred the keys of office to the next man on the roll.

Somehow, there had never been a very cordial feeling between this mess
and me; all along they had nourished a prejudice against my white
jacket. They must have harbored the silly fancy that in it I gave
myself airs, and wore it in order to look consequential; perhaps, as a
cloak to cover pilferings of tit-bits from the mess. But to out with
the plain truth, they themselves were not a very irreproachable set.
Considering the sequel I am coming to, this avowal may be deemed sheer
malice; but for all that, I cannot avoid speaking my mind.

After my week of office, the mess gradually changed their behaviour to
me; they cut me to the heart; they became cold and reserved; seldom or
never addressed me at meal-times without invidious allusions to my
_duff_, and also to my jacket, and its dripping in wet weather upon the
mess-cloth. However, I had no idea that anything serious, on their
part, was brewing; but alas! so it turned out.

We were assembled at supper one evening when I noticed certain winks
and silent hints tipped to the cook, who presided. He was a little,
oily fellow, who had once kept an oyster-cellar ashore; he bore me a
grudge. Looking down on the mess-cloth, he observed that some fellows
never knew when their room was better than their company. This being a
maxim of indiscriminate application, of course I silently assented to
it, as any other reasonable man would have done. But this remark was
followed up by another, to the effect that, not only did some fellows
never know when their room was better than their company, but they
persisted in staying when their company wasn't wanted; and by so doing
disturbed the serenity of society at large. But this, also, was a
general observation that could not be gainsaid. A long and ominous
pause ensued; during which I perceived every eye upon me, and my white
jacket; while the cook went on to enlarge upon the disagreeableness of
a perpetually damp garment in the mess, especially when that garment
was white. This was coming nearer home.

Yes, they were going to black-ball me; but I resolved to sit it out a
little longer; never dreaming that my moralist would proceed to
extremities, while all hands were present. But bethinking him that by
going this roundabout way he would never get at his object, he went off
on another tack; apprising me, in substance, that he was instructed by
the whole mess, then and there assembled, to give me warning to seek
out another club, as they did not longer fancy the society either of
myself or my jacket.

I was shocked. Such a want of tact and delicacy! Common propriety
suggested that a point-blank intimation of that nature should be
conveyed in a private interview; or, still better, by note. I
immediately rose, tucked my jacket about me, bowed, and departed.

And now, to do myself justice, I must add that, the next day, I was
received with open arms by a glorious set of fellows--Mess No.
1!--numbering, among the rest, my noble Captain Jack Chase.

This mess was principally composed of the headmost men of the gun-deck;
and, out of a pardonable self-conceit, they called themselves the
"_Forty-two-pounder Club;_" meaning that they were, one and all,
fellows of large intellectual and corporeal calibre. Their mess-cloth
was well located. On their starboard hand was Mess No. 2, embracing
sundry rare jokers and high livers, who waxed gay and epicurean over
their salt fare, and were known as the "_Society for the Destruction of
Beef and Pork_." On the larboard hand was Mess No. 31, made up entirely
of fore-top-men, a dashing, blaze-away set of men-of-war's-men, who
called themselves the "_Cape Horn Snorters and Neversink Invincibles_."
Opposite, was one of the marine messes, mustering the aristocracy of
the marine corps--the two corporals, the drummer and fifer, and some
six or eight rather gentlemanly privates, native-born Americans, who
had served in the Seminole campaigns of Florida; and they now enlivened
their salt fare with stories of wild ambushes in the Everglades; and
one of them related a surprising tale of his hand-to-hand encounter
with Osceola, the Indian chief, whom he fought one morning from
daybreak till breakfast time. This slashing private also boasted that
he could take a chip from between your teeth at twenty paces; he
offered to bet any amount on it; and as he could get no one to hold the
chip, his boast remained for ever good.

Besides many other attractions which the _Forty-two-pounder Club_
furnished, it had this one special advantage, that, owing to there
being so many _petty officers_ in it, all the members of the mess were
exempt from doing duty as cooks and stewards. A fellow called _a
steady-cook_, attended to that business during the entire cruise. He
was a long, lank, pallid varlet, going by the name of Shanks. In very
warm weather this Shanks would sit at the foot of the mess-cloth,
fanning himself with the front flap of his frock or shirt, which he
inelegantly wore over his trousers. Jack Chase, the President of the
Club, frequently remonstrated against this breach of good manners; but
the _steady-cook_ had somehow contracted the habit, and it proved
incurable.

For a time, Jack Chase, out of a polite nervousness touching myself, as
a newly-elected member of the club, would frequently endeavour to
excuse to me the vulgarity of Shanks. One day he wound up his remarks
by the philosophic reflection--"But, White-Jacket, my dear fellow, what
can you expect of him? Our real misfortune is, that our noble club
should be obliged to dine with its cook."

There were several of these _steady-cooks_ on board; men of no mark or
consideration whatever in the ship; lost to all noble promptings;
sighing for no worlds to conquer, and perfectly contented with mixing
their _duff's_, and spreading their mess-cloths, and mustering their
pots and pans together three times every day for a three years' cruise.
They were very seldom to be seen on the spar-deck, but kept below out
of sight.




CHAPTER XVI.

GENERAL TRAINING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


To a quiet, contemplative character, averse to uproar, undue exercise
of his bodily members, and all kind of useless confusion, nothing can
be more distressing than a proceeding in all men-of-war called
"_general quarters_." And well may it be so called, since it amounts to
a general drawing and quartering of all the parties concerned.

As the specific object for which a man-of-war is built and put into
commission is to fight and fire off cannon, it is, of course, deemed
indispensable that the crew should be duly instructed in the art and
mystery involved. Hence these "general quarters," which is a mustering
of all hands to their stations at the guns on the several decks, and a
sort of sham-fight with an imaginary foe.

The summons is given by the ship's drummer, who strikes a peculiar
beat--short, broken, rolling, shuffling--like the sound made by the
march into battle of iron-heeled grenadiers. It is a regular tune, with
a fine song composed to it; the words of the chorus, being most
artistically arranged, may give some idea of the air:

    "Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
     We always are ready, steady, boys, steady,
     To fight and to conquer, again and again."

In warm weather this pastime at the guns is exceedingly unpleasant, to
say the least, and throws a quiet man into a violent passion and
perspiration. For one, I ever abominated it.

I have a heart like Julius Caesar, and upon occasions would fight like
Caius Marcius Coriolanus. If my beloved and for ever glorious country
should be ever in jeopardy from invaders, let Congress put me on a
war-horse, in the van-guard, and _then_ see how I will acquit myself.
But to toil and sweat in a fictitious encounter; to squander the
precious breath of my precious body in a ridiculous fight of shams and
pretensions; to hurry about the decks, pretending to carry the killed
and wounded below; to be told that I must consider the ship blowing up,
in order to exercise myself in presence of mind, and prepare for a real
explosion; all this I despise, as beneath a true tar and man of valour.

These were my sentiments at the time, and these remain my sentiments
still; but as, while on board the frigate, my liberty of thought did
not extend to liberty of expression, I was obliged to keep these
sentiments to myself; though, indeed, I had some thoughts of addressing
a letter, marked _Private and Confidential_, to his Honour the
Commodore, on the subject.

My station at the batteries was at one of the thirty-two-pound
carronades, on the starboard side of the quarter-deck.[1]


----

[Footnote-1] For the benefit of a Quaker reader here and there, a word
or two in explanation of a carronade may not be amiss. The carronade is
a gun comparatively short and light for its calibre. A carronade
throwing a thirty-two-pound shot weighs considerably less than a
long-gun only throwing a twenty-four-pound shot. It further differs
from a long-gun, in working with a joint and bolt underneath, instead
of the short arms or _trunnions_ at the sides. Its _carriage_,
likewise, is quite different from that of a long-gun, having a sort of
sliding apparatus, something like an extension dining-table; the goose
on it, however, is a tough one, and villainously stuffed with most
indigestible dumplings. Point-blank, the range of a carronade does not
exceed one hundred and fifty yards, much less than the range of a
long-gun. When of large calibre, however, it throws within that limit,
Paixhan shot, all manner of shells and combustibles, with great effect,
being a very destructive engine at close quarters. This piece is now
very generally found mounted in the batteries of the English and
American navies. The quarter-deck armaments of most modern frigates
wholly consist of carronades. The name is derived from the village of
Carron, in Scotland, at whose celebrated founderies this iron Attila
was first cast.

----


I did not fancy this station at all; for it is well known on shipboard
that, in time of action, the quarter-deck is one of the most dangerous
posts of a man-of-war. The reason is, that the officers of the highest
rank are there stationed; and the enemy have an ungentlemanly way of
target-shooting at their buttons. If we should chance to engage a ship,
then, who could tell but some bungling small-arm marks-man in the
enemy's tops might put a bullet through _me_ instead of the Commodore?
If they hit _him_, no doubt he would not feel it much, for he was used
to that sort of thing, and, indeed, had a bullet in him already.
Whereas, _I_ was altogether unaccustomed to having blue pills playing
round my head in such an indiscriminate way. Besides, ours was a
flag-ship; and every one knows what a peculiarly dangerous predicament
the quarter-deck of Nelson's flag-ship was in at the battle of
Trafalgar; how the lofty tops of the enemy were full of soldiers,
peppering away at the English Admiral and his officers. Many a poor
sailor, at the guns of that quarter-deck, must have received a bullet
intended for some wearer of an epaulet.

By candidly confessing my feelings on this subject, I do by no means
invalidate my claims to being held a man of prodigious valour. I merely
state my invincible repugnance to being shot for somebody else. If I am
shot, be it with the express understanding in the shooter that I am the
identical person intended so to be served. That Thracian who, with his
compliments, sent an arrow into the King of Macedon, superscribed "_for
Philip's right eye_," set a fine example to all warriors. The hurried,
hasty, indiscriminate, reckless, abandoned manner in which both sailors
and soldiers nowadays fight is really painful to any serious-minded,
methodical old gentleman, especially if he chance to have systematized
his mind as an accountant. There is little or no skill and bravery
about it. Two parties, armed with lead and old iron, envelop themselves
in a cloud of smoke, and pitch their lead and old iron about in all
directions. If you happen to be in the way, you are hit; possibly,
killed; if not, you escape. In sea-actions, if by good or bad luck, as
the case may be, a round shot, fired at random through the smoke,
happens to send overboard your fore-mast, another to unship your
rudder, there you lie crippled, pretty much at the mercy of your foe:
who, accordingly, pronounces himself victor, though that honour
properly belongs to the Law of Gravitation operating on the enemy's
balls in the smoke. Instead of tossing this old lead and iron into the
air, therefore, it would be much better amicably to toss up a copper
and let heads win.

The carronade at which I was stationed was known as "Gun No. 5," on the
First Lieutenant's quarter-bill. Among our gun's crew, however, it was
known as _Black Bet_. This name was bestowed by the captain of the
gun--a fine negro--in honour of his sweetheart, a coloured lady of
Philadelphia. Of Black Bet I was rammer-and-sponger; and ram and sponge
I did, like a good fellow. I have no doubt that, had I and my gun been
at the battle of the Nile, we would mutually have immortalised
ourselves; the ramming-pole would have been hung up in Westminster
Abbey; and I, ennobled by the king, besides receiving the illustrious
honour of an autograph letter from his majesty through the perfumed
right hand of his private secretary.

But it was terrible work to help run in and out of the porthole that
amazing mass of metal, especially as the thing must be clone in a
trice. Then, at the summons of a horrid, rasping rattle, swayed by the
Captain in person, we were made to rush from our guns, seize pikes and
pistols, and repel an imaginary army of boarders, who, by a fiction of
the officers, were supposed to be assailing all sides of the ship at
once. After cutting and slashing at them a while, we jumped back to our
guns, and again went to jerking our elbows.

Meantime, a loud cry is heard of "Fire! fire! fire!" in the fore-top;
and a regular engine, worked by a set of Bowery-boy tars, is forthwith
set to playing streams of water aloft. And now it is "Fire! fire!
fire!" on the main-deck; and the entire ship is in as great a commotion
as if a whole city ward were in a blaze.

Are our officers of the Navy utterly unacquainted with the laws of good
health? Do they not know that this violent exercise, taking place just
after a hearty dinner, as it generally does, is eminently calculated to
breed the dyspepsia? There was no satisfaction in dining; the flavour
of every mouthful was destroyed by the thought that the next moment the
cannonading drum might be beating to quarters.

Such a sea-martinet was our Captain, that sometimes we were roused from
our hammocks at night; when a scene would ensue that it is not in the
power of pen and ink to describe. Five hundred men spring to their
feet, dress themselves, take up their bedding, and run to the nettings
and stow it; then he to their stations--each man jostling his
neighbour--some alow, some aloft; some this way, some that; and in less
than five minutes the frigate is ready for action, and still as the
grave; almost every man precisely where he would be were an enemy
actually about to be engaged. The Gunner, like a Cornwall miner in a
cave, is burrowing down in the magazine under the Ward-room, which is
lighted by battle-lanterns, placed behind glazed glass bull's-eyes
inserted in the bulkhead. The Powder-monkeys, or boys, who fetch and
carry cartridges, are scampering to and fro among the guns; and the
_first and second loaders_ stand ready to receive their supplies.

These _Powder-monkeys_, as they are called, enact a curious part in
time of action. The entrance to the magazine on the berth-deck, where
they procure their food for the guns, is guarded by a woollen screen;
and a gunner's mate, standing behind it, thrusts out the cartridges
through a small arm-hole in this screen. The enemy's shot (perhaps red
hot) are flying in all directions; and to protect their cartridges, the
powder-monkeys hurriedly wrap them up in their jackets; and with all
haste scramble up the ladders to their respective guns, like
eating-house waiters hurrying along with hot cakes for breakfast.

At _general quarters_ the shot-boxes are uncovered; showing the
grape-shot--aptly so called, for they precisely resemble bunches of the
fruit; though, to receive a bunch of iron grapes in the abdomen would
be but a sorry dessert; and also showing the canister-shot--old iron of
various sorts, packed in a tin case, like a tea-caddy.

Imagine some midnight craft sailing down on her enemy thus; twenty-four
pounders levelled, matches lighted, and each captain of his gun at his
post!

But if verily going into action, then would the Neversink have made
still further preparations; for however alike in some things, there is
always a vast difference--if you sound them--between a reality and a
sham. Not to speak of the pale sternness of the men at their guns at
such a juncture, and the choked thoughts at their hearts, the ship
itself would here and there present a far different appearance.
Something like that of an extensive mansion preparing for a grand
entertainment, when folding-doors are withdrawn, chambers converted
into drawing-rooms, and every inch of available space thrown into one
continuous whole. For previous to an action, every bulk-head in a
man-of-war is knocked down; great guns are run out of the Commodore's
parlour windows; nothing separates the ward-room officers' quarters
from those of the men, but an en-sign used for a curtain. The sailors'
mess-chests are tumbled down into the hold; and the hospital cots--of
which all men-of-war carry a large supply--are dragged forth from the
sail-room, and piled near at hand to receive the wounded;
amputation-tables are ranged in the _cock-pit_ or in the _tiers_,
whereon to carve the bodies of the maimed. The yards are slung in
chains; fire-screens distributed here and there: hillocks of
cannon-balls piled between the guns; shot-plugs suspended within easy
reach from the beams; and solid masses of wads, big as Dutch cheeses,
braced to the cheeks of the gun-carriages.

No small difference, also, would be visible in the wardrobe of both
officers and men. The officers generally fight as dandies dance,
namely, in silk stockings; inasmuch as, in case of being wounded in the
leg, the silk-hose can be more easily drawn off by the Surgeon; cotton
sticks, and works into the wound. An economical captain, while taking
care to case his legs in silk, might yet see fit to save his best suit,
and fight in his old clothes. For, besides that an old garment might
much better be cut to pieces than a new one, it must be a mighty
disagreeable thing to die in a stiff, tight-breasted coat, not yet
worked easy under the arm-pits. At such times, a man should feel free,
unencumbered, and perfectly at his ease in point of straps and
suspenders. No ill-will concerning his tailor should intrude upon his
thoughts of eternity. Seneca understood this, when he chose to die
naked in a bath. And men-of-war's men understand it, also; for most of
them, in battle, strip to the waist-bands; wearing nothing but a pair
of duck trowsers, and a handkerchief round their head.

A captain combining a heedful patriotism with economy would probably
"bend" his old topsails before going into battle, instead of exposing
his best canvas to be riddled to pieces; for it is generally the case
that the enemy's shot flies high. Unless allowance is made for it in
pointing the tube, at long-gun distance, the slightest roll of the
ship, at the time of firing, would send a shot, meant for the hull,
high over the top-gallant yards.

But besides these differences between a sham-fight at _general
quarters_ and a real cannonading, the aspect of the ship, at the
beating of the retreat, would, in the latter case, be very dissimilar
to the neatness and uniformity in the former.

_Then_ our bulwarks might look like the walls of the houses in West
Broadway in New York, after being broken into and burned out by the
Negro Mob. Our stout masts and yards might be lying about decks, like
tree boughs after a tornado in a piece of woodland; our dangling ropes,
cut and sundered in all directions, would be bleeding tar at every
yard; and strew with jagged splinters from our wounded planks, the
gun-deck might resemble a carpenter's shop. _Then_, when all was over,
and all hands would be piped to take down the hammocks from the exposed
nettings (where they play the part of the cotton bales at New Orleans),
we might find bits of broken shot, iron bolts and bullets in our
blankets. And, while smeared with blood like butchers, the surgeon and
his mates would be amputating arms and legs on the berth-deck, an
underling of the carpenter's gang would be new-legging and arming the
broken chairs and tables in the Commodore's cabin; while the rest of
his _squad_ would be _splicing_ and _fishing_ the shattered masts and
yards. The scupper-holes having discharged the last rivulet of blood,
the decks would be washed down; and the galley-cooks would be going
fore and aft, sprinkling them with hot vinegar, to take out the
shambles' smell from the planks; which, unless some such means are
employed, often create a highly offensive effluvia for weeks after a
fight.

_Then_, upon mustering the men, and calling the quarter-bills by the
light of a battle-lantern, many a wounded seaman with his arm in a
sling, would answer for some poor shipmate who could never more make
answer for himself:

"Tom Brown?"

"Killed, sir."

"Jack Jewel?"

"Killed, sir."

"Joe Hardy?"

"Killed, sir."

And opposite all these poor fellows' names, down would go on the
quarter-bills the bloody marks of red ink--a murderer's fluid, fitly
used on these occasions.




CHAPTER XVII.

AWAY! SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH CUTTERS, AWAY!


It was the morning succeeding one of these _general quarters_ that we
picked up a life-buoy, descried floating by.

It was a circular mass of cork, about eight inches thick and four feet
in diameter, covered with tarred canvas. All round its circumference
there trailed a number of knotted ropes'-ends, terminating in fanciful
Turks' heads. These were the life-lines, for the drowning to clutch.
Inserted into the middle of the cork was an upright, carved pole,
somewhat shorter than a pike-staff. The whole buoy was embossed with
barnacles, and its sides festooned with sea-weeds. Dolphins were
sporting and flashing around it, and one white bird was hovering over
the top of the pole. Long ago, this thing must have been thrown
over-board to save some poor wretch, who must have been drowned; while
even the life-buoy itself had drifted away out of sight.

The forecastle-men fished it up from the bows, and the seamen thronged
round it.

"Bad luck! bad luck!" cried the Captain of the Head; "we'll number one
less before long."

The ship's cooper strolled by; he, to whose department it belongs to
see that the ship's life-buoys are kept in good order.

In men-of-war, night and day, week in and week out, two life-buoys are
kept depending from the stern; and two men, with hatchets in their
hands, pace up and down, ready at the first cry to cut the cord and
drop the buoys overboard. Every two hours they are regularly relieved,
like sentinels on guard. No similar precautions are adopted in the
merchant or whaling service.

Thus deeply solicitous to preserve human life are the regulations of
men-of-war; and seldom has there been a better illustration of this
solicitude than at the battle of Trafalgar, when, after "several
thousand" French seamen had been destroyed, according to Lord
Collingwood, and, by the official returns, sixteen hundred and ninety
Englishmen were killed or wounded, the Captains of the surviving ships
ordered the life-buoy sentries from their death-dealing guns to their
vigilant posts, as officers of the Humane Society.

"There, Bungs!" cried Scrimmage, a sheet-anchor-man,[2] "there's a good
pattern for you; make us a brace of life-buoys like that; something
that will save a man, and not fill and sink under him, as those leaky
quarter-casks of yours will the first time there's occasion to drop
'ern. I came near pitching off the bowsprit the other day; and, when I
scrambled inboard again, I went aft to get a squint at 'em. Why, Bungs,
they are all open between the staves. Shame on you! Suppose you
yourself should fall over-board, and find yourself going down with
buoys under you of your own making--what then?"

----

[FOOTNOTE-2] In addition to the _Bower-anchors_ carried on her bows, a
frigate carries large anchors in her fore-chains, called
_Sheet-anchors_. Hence, the old seamen stationed in that part of a
man-of-war are called _sheet-anchor-man_.

----

"I never go aloft, and don't intend to fall overboard," replied Bungs.

"Don't believe it!" cried the sheet-anchor-man; "you lopers that live
about the decks here are nearer the bottom of the sea than the light
hand that looses the main-royal. Mind your eye, Bungs--mind your eye!"

"I will," retorted Bungs; "and you mind yours!"

Next day, just at dawn, I was startled from my hammock by the cry of
"_All hands about ship and shorten sail_!" Springing up the ladders, I
found that an unknown man had fallen overboard from the chains; and
darting a glance toward the poop, perceived, from their gestures, that
the life-sentries there had cut away the buoys.

It was blowing a fresh breeze; the frigate was going fast through the
water. But the one thousand arms of five hundred men soon tossed her
about on the other tack, and checked her further headway.

"Do you see him?" shouted the officer of the watch through his trumpet,
hailing the main-mast-head. "Man or _buoy_, do you see either?"

"See nothing, sir," was the reply.

"Clear away the cutters!" was the next order. "Bugler! call away the
second, third, and fourth cutters' crews. Hands by the tackles!"

In less than three minutes the three boats were down; More hands were
wanted in one of them, and, among others, I jumped in to make up the
deficiency.

"Now, men, give way! and each man look out along his oar, and look
sharp!" cried the officer of our boat. For a time, in perfect silence,
we slid up and down the great seething swells of the sea, but saw
nothing.

"There, it's no use," cried the officer; "he's gone, whoever he is.
Pull away, men--pull away! they'll be recalling us soon."

"Let him drown!" cried the strokesman; "he's spoiled my watch below for
me."

"Who the devil is he?" cried another.

"He's one who'll never have a coffin!" replied a third.

"No, no! they'll never sing out, '_All hands bury the dead!_' for him,
my hearties!" cried a fourth.

"Silence," said the officer, "and look along your oars." But the
sixteen oarsmen still continued their talk; and, after pulling about
for two or three hours, we spied the recall-signal at the frigate's
fore-t'-gallant-mast-head, and returned on board, having seen no sign
even of the life-buoys.

The boats were hoisted up, the yards braced forward, and away we
bowled--one man less.

"Muster all hands!" was now the order; when, upon calling the roll, the
cooper was the only man missing.

"I told you so, men," cried the Captain of the Head; "I said we would
lose a man before long."

"Bungs, is it?" cried Scrimmage, the sheet-anchor-man; "I told him his
buoys wouldn't save a drowning man; and now he has proved it!"




CHAPTER XVIII.

A MAN-OF-WAR FULL AS A NUT.


It was necessary to supply the lost cooper's place; accordingly, word
was passed for all who belonged to that calling to muster at the
main-mast, in order that one of them might be selected. Thirteen men
obeyed the summons--a circumstance illustrative of the fact that many
good handicrafts-men are lost to their trades and the world by serving
in men-of-war. Indeed, from a frigate's crew might he culled out men of
all callings and vocations, from a backslidden parson to a broken-down
comedian. The Navy is the asylum for the perverse, the home of the
unfortunate. Here the sons of adversity meet the children of calamity,
and here the children of calamity meet the offspring of sin. Bankrupt
brokers, boot-blacks, blacklegs, and blacksmiths here assemble
together; and cast-away tinkers, watch-makers, quill-drivers, cobblers,
doctors, farmers, and lawyers compare past experiences and talk of old
times. Wrecked on a desert shore, a man-of-war's crew could quickly
found an Alexandria by themselves, and fill it with all the things
which go to make up a capital.

Frequently, at one and the same time, you see every trade in operation
on the gun-deck--coopering, carpentering, tailoring, tinkering,
blacksmithing, rope-making, preaching, gambling, and fortune-telling.

In truth, a man-of-war is a city afloat, with long avenues set out with
guns instead of trees, and numerous shady lanes, courts, and by-ways.
The quarter-deck is a grand square, park, or parade ground, with a
great Pittsfield elm, in the shape of the main-mast, at one end, and
fronted at the other by the palace of the Commodore's cabin.

Or, rather, a man-of-war is a lofty, walled, and garrisoned town, like
Quebec, where the thoroughfares and mostly ramparts, and peaceable
citizens meet armed sentries at every corner.

Or it is like the lodging-houses in Paris, turned upside down; the
first floor, or deck, being rented by a lord; the second, by a select
club of gentlemen; the third, by crowds of artisans; and the fourth, by
a whole rabble of common people.

For even thus is it in a frigate, where the commander has a whole cabin
to himself and the spar-deck, the lieutenants their ward-room
underneath, and the mass of sailors swing their hammocks under all.

And with its long rows of port-hole casements, each revealing the
muzzle of a cannon, a man-of-war resembles a three-story house in a
suspicions part of the town, with a basement of indefinite depth, and
ugly-looking fellows gazing out at the windows.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE JACKET ALOFT.


Again must I call attention to my white jacket, which, about this time
came near being the death of me.

I am of a meditative humour, and at sea used often to mount aloft at
night, and seating myself on one of the upper yards, tuck my jacket
about me and give loose to reflection. In some ships in which. I have
done this, the sailors used to fancy that I must be studying
astronomy--which, indeed, to some extent, was the case--and that my
object in mounting aloft was to get a nearer view of the stars,
supposing me, of course, to be short-sighted. A very silly conceit of
theirs, some may say, but not so silly after all; for surely the
advantage of getting nearer an object by two hundred feet is not to be
underrated. Then, to study the stars upon the wide, boundless sea, is
divine as it was to the Chaldean Magi, who observed their revolutions
from the plains.

And it is a very fine feeling, and one that fuses us into the universe
of things, and mates us a part of the All, to think that, wherever we
ocean-wanderers rove, we have still the same glorious old stars to keep
us company; that they still shine onward and on, forever beautiful and
bright, and luring us, by every ray, to die and be glorified with them.

Ay, ay! we sailors sail not in vain, We expatriate ourselves to
nationalise with the universe; and in all our voyages round the world,
we are still accompanied by those old circumnavigators, the stars, who
are shipmates and fellow-sailors of ours--sailing in heaven's blue, as
we on the azure main. Let genteel generations scoff at our hardened
hands, and finger-nails tipped with tar--did they ever clasp truer
palms than ours? Let them feel of our sturdy hearts beating like
sledge-hammers in those hot smithies, our bosoms; with their
amber-headed canes, let them feel of our generous pulses, and swear
that they go off like thirty-two-pounders.

Oh, give me again the rover's life--the joy, the thrill, the whirl! Let
me feel thee again, old sea! let me leap into thy saddle once more. I
am sick of these terra firma toils and cares; sick of the dust and reek
of towns. Let me hear the clatter of hailstones on icebergs, and not
the dull tramp of these plodders, plodding their dull way from their
cradles to their graves. Let me snuff thee up, sea-breeze! and whinny
in thy spray. Forbid it, sea-gods! intercede for me with Neptune, O
sweet Amphitrite, that no dull clod may fall on my coffin! Be mine the
tomb that swallowed up Pharaoh and all his hosts; let me lie down with
Drake, where he sleeps in the sea.

But when White-Jacket speaks of the rover's life, he means not life in
a man-of-war, which, with its martial formalities and thousand vices,
stabs to the heart the soul of all free-and-easy honourable rovers.

I have said that I was wont to mount up aloft and muse; and thus was it
with me the night following the loss of the cooper. Ere my watch in the
top had expired, high up on the main-royal-yard I reclined, the white
jacket folded around me like Sir John Moore in his frosted cloak.

Eight bells had struck, and my watchmates had hied to their hammocks,
and the other watch had gone to their stations, and the _top_ below me
was full of strangers, and still one hundred feet above even _them_ I
lay entranced; now dozing, now dreaming; now thinking of things past,
and anon of the life to come. Well-timed was the latter thought, for
the life to come was much nearer overtaking me than I then could
imagine. Perhaps I was half conscious at last of a tremulous voice
hailing the main-royal-yard from the _top_. But if so, the
consciousness glided away from me, and left me in Lethe. But when, like
lightning, the yard dropped under me, and instinctively I clung with
both hands to the "_tie_," then I came to myself with a rush, and felt
something like a choking hand at my throat. For an instant I thought
the Gulf Stream in my head was whirling me away to eternity; but the
next moment I found myself standing; the yard had descended to the
_cup_; and shaking myself in my jacket, I felt that I was unharmed and
alive.

Who had done this? who had made this attempt on my life? thought I, as
I ran down the rigging.

"Here it comes!--Lord! Lord! here it comes! See, see! it is white as a
hammock."

"Who's coming?" I shouted, springing down into the top; "who's white as
a hammock?"

"Bless my soul, Bill it's only White-Jacket--that infernal White-Jacket
again!"

It seems they had spied a moving white spot there aloft, and,
sailor-like, had taken me for the ghost of the cooper; and after
hailing me, and bidding me descend, to test my corporeality, and
getting no answer, they had lowered the halyards in affright.

In a rage I tore off the jacket, and threw it on the deck.

"Jacket," cried I, "you must change your complexion! you must hie to
the dyers and be dyed, that I may live. I have but one poor life,
White-Jacket, and that life I cannot spare. I cannot consent to die for
_you_, but be dyed you must for me. You can dye many times without
injury; but I cannot die without irreparable loss, and running the
eternal risk."

So in the morning, jacket in hand, I repaired to the First Lieutenant,
and related the narrow escape I had had during the night. I enlarged
upon the general perils I ran in being taken for a ghost, and earnestly
besought him to relax his commands for once, and give me an order on
Brush, the captain of the paint-room, for some black paint, that my
jacket might be painted of that colour.

"Just look at it, sir," I added, holding it lip; "did you ever see
anything whiter? Consider how it shines of a night, like a bit of the
Milky Way. A little paint, sir, you cannot refuse."

"The ship has no paint to spare," he said; "you must get along without
it."

"Sir, every rain gives me a soaking; Cape Horn is at hand--six
brushes-full would make it waterproof; and no longer would I be in
peril of my life!"

"Can't help it, sir; depart!"

I fear it will not be well with me in the end; for if my own sins are
to be forgiven only as I forgive that hard-hearted and unimpressible
First Lieutenant, then pardon there is none for me.

What! when but one dab of paint would make a man of a ghost, and it
Mackintosh of a herring-net--to refuse it I am full. I can say no more.




CHAPTER XX.

HOW THEY SLEEP IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


No more of my luckless jacket for a while; let me speak of my hammock,
and the tribulations I endured therefrom.

Give me plenty of room to swing it in; let me swing it between two
date-trees on an Arabian plain; or extend it diagonally from Moorish
pillar to pillar, in the open marble Court of the Lions in Granada's
Alhambra: let me swing it on a high bluff of the Mississippi--one swing
in the pure ether for every swing over the green grass; or let me
oscillate in it beneath the cool dome of St. Peter's; or drop me in it,
as in a balloon, from the zenith, with the whole firmament to rock and
expatiate in; and I would not exchange my coarse canvas hammock for the
grand state-bed, like a stately coach-and-four, in which they tuck in a
king when he passes a night at Blenheim Castle.

When you have the requisite room, you always have "spreaders" in your
hammock; that is, two horizontal sticks, one at each end, which serve
to keep the sides apart, and create a wide vacancy between, wherein you
can turn over and over--lay on this side or that; on your back, if you
please; stretch out your legs; in short, take your ease in your
hammock; for of all inns, your bed is the best.

But when, with five hundred other hammocks, yours is crowded and jammed
on all sides, on a frigate berth-deck; the third from above, when
"_spreaders_" are prohibited by an express edict from the Captain's
cabin; and every man about you is jealously watchful of the rights and
privileges of his own proper hammock, as settled by law and usage;
_then_ your hammock is your Bastile and canvas jug; into which, or out
of which, it is very hard to get; and where sleep is but a mockery and
a name.

Eighteen inches a man is all they allow you; eighteen inches in width;
in _that_ you must swing. Dreadful! they give you more swing than that
at the gallows.

During warm nights in the Tropics, your hammock is as a stew-pan; where
you stew and stew, till you can almost hear yourself hiss. Vain are all
stratagems to widen your accommodations. Let them catch you insinuating
your boots or other articles in the head of your hammock, by way of a
"spreader." Near and far, the whole rank and file of the row to which
you belong feel the encroachment in an instant, and are clamorous till
the guilty one is found out, and his pallet brought back to its
bearings.

In platoons and squadrons, they all lie on a level; their hammock
_clews_ crossing and recrossing in all directions, so as to present one
vast field-bed, midway between the ceiling and the floor; which are
about five feet asunder.

One extremely warm night, during a calm, when it was so hot that only a
skeleton could keep cool (from the free current of air through its
bones), after being drenched in my own perspiration, I managed to wedge
myself out of my hammock; and with what little strength I had left,
lowered myself gently to the deck. Let me see now, thought I, whether
my ingenuity cannot devise some method whereby I can have room to
breathe and sleep at the same time. I have it. I will lower my hammock
underneath all these others; and then--upon that separate and
independent level, at least--I shall have the whole berth-deck to
myself. Accordingly, I lowered away my pallet to the desired
point--about three inches from the floor--and crawled into it again.

But, alas! this arrangement made such a sweeping semi-circle of my
hammock, that, while my head and feet were at par, the small of my back
was settling down indefinitely; I felt as if some gigantic archer had
hold of me for a bow.

But there was another plan left. I triced up my hammock with all my
strength, so as to bring it wholly _above_ the tiers of pallets around
me. This done, by a last effort, I hoisted myself into it; but, alas!
it was much worse than before. My luckless hammock was stiff and
straight as a board; and there I was--laid out in it, with my nose
against the ceiling, like a dead man's against the lid of his coffin.

So at last I was fain to return to my old level, and moralise upon the
folly, in all arbitrary governments, of striving to get either _below_
or _above_ those whom legislation has placed upon an equality with
yourself.

Speaking of hammocks, recalls a circumstance that happened one night in
the Neversink. It was three or four times repeated, with various but
not fatal results.

The watch below was fast asleep on the berth-deck, where perfect
silence was reigning, when a sudden shock and a groan roused up all
hands; and the hem of a pair of white trowsers vanished up one of the
ladders at the fore-hatchway.

We ran toward the groan, and found a man lying on the deck; one end of
his hammock having given way, pitching his head close to three
twenty-four pound cannon shot, which must have been purposely placed in
that position. When it was discovered that this man had long been
suspected of being an _informer_ among the crew, little surprise and
less pleasure were evinced at his narrow escape.




CHAPTER XXI.

ONE REASON WHY MEN-OF-WAR'S MEN ARE, GENERALLY, SHORT-LIVED.


I cannot quit this matter of the hammocks without making mention of a
grievance among the sailors that ought to be redressed.

In a man-of-war at sea, the sailors have _watch and watch;_ that is,
through every twenty-four hours, they are on and off duty every four
hours. Now, the hammocks are piped down from the nettings (the open
space for stowing them, running round the top of the bulwarks) a little
after sunset, and piped up again when the forenoon watch is called, at
eight o'clock in the morning; so that during the daytime they are
inaccessible as pallets. This would be all well enough, did the sailors
have a complete night's rest; but every other night at sea, one watch
have only four hours in their hammocks. Indeed, deducting the time
allowed for the other watch to turn out; for yourself to arrange your
hammock, get into it, and fairly get asleep; it maybe said that, every
other night, you have but three hours' sleep in your hammock. Having
then been on deck for twice four hours, at eight o'clock in the morning
your _watch-below_ comes round, and you are not liable to duty until
noon. Under like circumstances, a merchant seaman goes to his _bunk_,
and has the benefit of a good long sleep. But in a man-of-war you can
do no such thing; your hammock is very neatly stowed in the nettings,
and there it must remain till nightfall.

But perhaps there is a corner for you somewhere along the batteries on
the gun-deck, where you may enjoy a snug nap. But as no one is allowed
to recline on the larboard side of the gun-deck (which is reserved as a
corridor for the officers when they go forward to their smoking-room at
the _bridle-port_), the starboard side only is left to the seaman. But
most of this side, also, is occupied by the carpenters, sail-makers,
barbers, and coopers. In short, so few are the corners where you can
snatch a nap during daytime in a frigate, that not one in ten of the
watch, who have been on deck eight hours, can get a wink of sleep till
the following night. Repeatedly, after by good fortune securing a
corner, I have been roused from it by some functionary commissioned to
keep it clear.

Off Cape Horn, what before had been very uncomfortable became a serious
hardship. Drenched through and through by the spray of the sea at
night. I have sometimes slept standing on the spar-deck--and shuddered
as I slept--for the want of sufficient sleep in my hammock.

During three days of the stormiest weather, we were given the privilege
of the _berth-deck_ (at other times strictly interdicted), where we
were permitted to spread our jackets, and take a nap in the morning
after the eight hours' night exposure. But this privilege was but a
beggarly one, indeed. Not to speak of our jackets--used for
blankets--being soaking wet, the spray, coming down the hatchways, kept
the planks of the berth-deck itself constantly wet; whereas, had we
been permitted our hammocks, we might have swung dry over all this
deluge. But we endeavoured to make ourselves as warm and comfortable as
possible, chiefly by close stowing, so as to generate a little steam,
in the absence of any fire-side warmth. You have seen, perhaps, the way
in which they box up subjects intended to illustrate the winter
lectures of a professor of surgery. Just so we laid; heel and point,
face to back, dove-tailed into each other at every ham and knee. The
wet of our jackets, thus densely packed, would soon begin to distill.
But it was like pouring hot water on you to keep you from freezing. It
was like being "packed" between the soaked sheets in a Water-cure
Establishment.

Such a posture could not be preserved for any considerable period
without shifting side for side. Three or four times during the four
hours I would be startled from a wet doze by the hoarse cry of a fellow
who did the duty of a corporal at the after-end of my file. "_Sleepers
ahoy! stand by to slew round!_" and, with a double shuffle, we all
rolled in concert, and found ourselves facing the taffrail instead of
the bowsprit. But, however you turned, your nose was sure to stick to
one or other of the steaming backs on your two flanks. There was some
little relief in the change of odour consequent upon this.

But what is the reason that, after battling out eight stormy hours on
deck at, night, men-of-war's-men are not allowed the poor boon of a dry
four hours' nap during the day following? What is the reason? The
Commodore, Captain, and first Lieutenant, Chaplain, Purser, and scores
of others, have _all night in_, just as if they were staying at a hotel
on shore. And the junior Lieutenants not only have their cots to go to
at any time: but as only one of them is required to head the watch, and
there are so many of them among whom to divide that duty, they are only
on deck four hours to twelve hours below. In some eases the proportion
is still greater. Whereas, with _the people_ it is four hours in and
four hours off continually.

What is the reason, then, that the common seamen should fare so hard in
this matter? It would seem but a simple thing to let them get down
their hammocks during the day for a nap. But no; such a proceeding
would mar the uniformity of daily events in a man-of-war. It seems
indispensable to the picturesque effect of the spar-deck, that the
hammocks should invariably remain stowed in the nettings between
sunrise and sundown. But the chief reason is this--a reason which has
sanctioned many an abuse in this world--_precedents are against it;_
such a thing as sailors sleeping in their hammocks in the daytime,
after being eight hours exposed to a night-storm, was hardly ever heard
of in the navy. Though, to the immortal honour of some captains be it
said, the fact is upon navy record, that off Cape Horn, they _have_
vouchsafed the morning hammocks to their crew. Heaven bless such
tender-hearted officers; and may they and their descendants--ashore or
afloat--have sweet and pleasant slumbers while they live, and an
undreaming siesta when they die.

It is concerning such things as the subject of this chapter that
special enactments of Congress are demanded. Health and comfort--so far
as duly attainable under the circumstances--should be legally
guaranteed to the man-of-war's-men; and not left to the discretion or
caprice of their commanders.




CHAPTER XXII.

WASH-DAY AND HOUSE-CLEANING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


Besides the other tribulations connected with your hammock, you must
keep it snow-white and clean; who has not observed the long rows of
spotless hammocks exposed in a frigate's nettings, where, through the
day, their outsides, at least, are kept airing?

Hence it comes that there are regular mornings appointed for the
scrubbing of hammocks; and such mornings are called
_scrub-hammock-mornings;_ and desperate is the scrubbing that ensues.

Before daylight the operation begins. All hands are called, and at it
they go. Every deck is spread with hammocks, fore and aft; and lucky
are you if you can get sufficient superfices to spread your own hammock
in. Down on their knees are five hundred men, scrubbing away with
brushes and brooms; jostling, and crowding, and quarrelling about using
each other's suds; when all their Purser's soap goes to create one
indiscriminate yeast.

Sometimes you discover that, in the dark, you have been all the while
scrubbing your next neighbour's hammock instead of your own. But it is
too late to begin over again; for now the word is passed for every man
to advance with his hammock, that it may be tied to a net-like
frame-work of clothes-lines, and hoisted aloft to dry.

That done, without delay you get together your frocks and trowsers, and
on the already flooded deck embark in the laundry business. You have no
special bucket or basin to yourself--the ship being one vast wash-tub,
where all hands wash and rinse out, and rinse out and wash, till at
last the word is passed again, to make fast your clothes, that they,
also, may be elevated to dry.

Then on all three decks the operation of holy-stoning begins, so called
from the queer name bestowed upon the principal instruments employed.
These are ponderous flat stones with long ropes at each end, by which
the stones are slidden about, to and fro, over the wet and sanded
decks; a most wearisome, dog-like, galley-slave employment. For the
byways and corners about the masts and guns, smaller stones are used,
called _prayer-books;_ inasmuch as the devout operator has to down with
them on his knees.

Finally, a grand flooding takes place, and the decks are remorselessly
thrashed with dry swabs. After which an extraordinary implement--a sort
of leathern hoe called a"_squilgee_"--is used to scrape and squeeze the
last dribblings of water from the planks. Concerning this "squilgee," I
think something of drawing up a memoir, and reading it before the
Academy of Arts and Sciences. It is a most curious affair.

By the time all these operations are concluded it is _eight bell's_,
and all hands are piped to breakfast upon the damp and every-way
disagreeable decks.

Now, against this invariable daily flooding of the three decks of a
frigate, as a man-of-war's-man, White-Jacket most earnestly protests.
In sunless weather it keeps the sailors' quarters perpetually damp; so
much so, that you can scarce sit down without running the risk of
getting the lumbago. One rheumatic old sheet-anchor-man among us was
driven to the extremity of sewing a piece of tarred canvas on the seat
of his trowsers.

Let those neat and tidy officers who so love to see a ship kept spick
and span clean; who institute vigorous search after the man who chances
to drop the crumb of a biscuit on deck, when the ship is rolling in a
sea-way; let all such swing their hammocks with the sailors; and they
would soon get sick of this daily damping of the decks.

Is a ship a wooden platter, that is to be scrubbed out every morning
before breakfast, even if the thermometer be at zero, and every sailor
goes barefooted through the flood with the chilblains? And all the
while the ship carries a doctor, well aware of Boerhaave's great maxim
"_keep the feet dry_." He has plenty of pills to give you when you are
down with a fever, the consequence of these things; but enters no
protest at the outset--as it is his duty to do--against the cause that
induces the fever.

During the pleasant night watches, the promenading officers, mounted on
their high-heeled boots, pass dry-shod, like the Israelites, over the
decks; but by daybreak the roaring tide sets back, and the poor sailors
are almost overwhelmed in it, like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.

Oh! the chills, colds, and agues that are caught. No snug stove, grate,
or fireplace to go to; no, your only way to keep warm is to keep in a
blazing passion, and anathematise the custom that every morning makes a
wash-house of a man-of-war.

Look at it. Say you go on board a line-of-battle-ship: you see
everything scrupulously neat; you see all the decks clear and
unobstructed as the sidewalks of Wall Street of a Sunday morning; you
see no trace of a sailor's dormitory; you marvel by what magic all this
is brought about. And well you may. For consider, that in this
unobstructed fabric nearly one thousand mortal men have to sleep, eat,
wash, dress, cook, and perform all the ordinary functions of humanity.
The same number of men ashore would expand themselves into a township.
Is it credible, then, that this extraordinary neatness, and especially
this _unobstructedness_ of a man-of-war, can be brought about, except
by the most rigorous edicts, and a very serious sacrifice, with respect
to the sailors, of the domestic comforts of life? To be sure, sailors
themselves do not often complain of these things; they are used to
them; but man can become used even to the hardest usage. And it is
because he is used to it, that sometimes he does not complain of it.

Of all men-of-war, the American ships are the most excessively neat,
and have the greatest reputation for it. And of all men-of-war the
general discipline of the American ships is the most arbitrary.

In the English navy, the men liberally mess on tables, which, between
meals, are triced up out of the way. The American sailors mess on deck,
and pick up their broken biscuit, or _midshipman's nuts_, like fowls in
a barn-yard.

But if this unobstructedness in an American fighting-ship be, at all
hazards, so desirable, why not imitate the Turks? In the Turkish navy
they have no mess-chests; the sailors roll their mess things up in a
rug, and thrust them under a gun. Nor do they have any hammocks; they
sleep anywhere about the decks in their _gregoes_. Indeed, come to look
at it, what more does a man-of-war's-man absolutely require to live in
than his own skin? That's room enough; and room enough to turn in, if
he but knew how to shift his spine, end for end, like a ramrod, without
disturbing his next neighbour.

Among all men-of-war's-men, it is a maxim that over-neat vessels are
Tartars to the crew: and perhaps it may be safely laid down that, when
you see such a ship, some sort of tyranny is not very far off.

In the Neversink, as in other national ships, the business of
_holy-stoning_ the decks was often prolonged, by way of punishment to
the men, particularly of a raw, cold morning. This is one of the
punishments which a lieutenant of the watch may easily inflict upon the
crew, without infringing the statute which places the power of
punishment solely in the hands of the Captain.

The abhorrence which men-of-war's-men have for this protracted
_holy-stoning_ in cold, comfortless weather--with their bare feet
exposed to the splashing inundations--is shown in a strange story, rife
among them, curiously tinctured with their proverbial superstitions.

The First Lieutenant of an English sloop of war, a severe
disciplinarian, was uncommonly particular concerning the whiteness of
the quarter-deck. One bitter winter morning at sea, when the crew had
washed that part of the vessel, as usual, and put away their
holy-stones, this officer came on deck, and after inspecting it,
ordered the _holy-stones_ and _prayer-books_ up again. Once more
slipping off the shoes from their frosted feet, and rolling up their
trowsers, the crew kneeled down to their task; and in that suppliant
posture, silently invoked a curse upon their tyrant; praying, as he
went below, that he might never more come out of the ward-room alive.
The prayer seemed answered: for shortly after being visited with a
paralytic stroke at his breakfast-table, the First Lieutenant next
morning was carried out of the ward-room feet foremost, dead. As they
dropped him over the side--so goes the story--the marine sentry at the
gangway turned his back upon the corpse.

To the credit of the humane and sensible portion of the roll of
American navy-captains, be it added, that _they_ are not so particular
in keeping the decks spotless at all times, and in all weathers; nor do
they torment the men with scraping bright-wood and polishing
ring-bolts; but give all such gingerbread-work a hearty coat of black
paint, which looks more warlike, is a better preservative, and exempts
the sailors from a perpetual annoyance.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THEATRICALS IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


The Neversink had summered out her last Christmas on the Equator; she
was now destined to winter out the Fourth of July not very far from the
frigid latitudes of Cape Horn.

It is sometimes the custom in the American Navy to celebrate this
national holiday by doubling the allowance of spirits to the men; that
is, if the ship happen to be lying in harbour. The effects of this
patriotic plan may be easily imagined: the whole ship is converted into
a dram-shop; and the intoxicated sailors reel about, on all three
decks, singing, howling, and fighting. This is the time that, owing to
the relaxed discipline of the ship, old and almost forgotten quarrels
are revived, under the stimulus of drink; and, fencing themselves up
between the guns--so as to be sure of a clear space with at least three
walls--the combatants, two and two, fight out their hate, cribbed and
cabined like soldiers duelling in a sentry-box. In a word, scenes ensue
which would not for a single instant be tolerated by the officers upon
any other occasion. This is the time that the most venerable of
quarter-gunners and quarter-masters, together with the smallest
apprentice boys, and men never known to have been previously
intoxicated during the cruise--this is the time that they all roll
together in the same muddy trough of drunkenness.

In emulation of the potentates of the Middle Ages, some Captains
augment the din by authorising a grand jail-delivery of all the
prisoners who, on that auspicious Fourth of the month, may happen to be
confined in the ship's prison--"_the brig_."

But from scenes like these the Neversink was happily delivered. Besides
that she was now approaching a most perilous part of the ocean--which
would have made it madness to intoxicate the sailors--her complete
destitution of _grog_, even for ordinary consumption, was an obstacle
altogether insuperable, even had the Captain felt disposed to indulge
his man-of-war's-men by the most copious libations.

For several days previous to the advent of the holiday, frequent
conferences were held on the gun-deck touching the melancholy prospects
before the ship.

"Too bad--too bad!" cried a top-man, "Think of it, shipmates--a Fourth
of July without grog!"

"I'll hoist the Commodore's pennant at half-mast that day," sighed the
signal-quarter-master.

"And I'll turn my best uniform jacket wrong side out, to keep company
with the pennant, old Ensign," sympathetically responded an
after-guard's-man.

"Ay, do!" cried a forecastle-man. "I could almost pipe my eye to think
on't."

"No grog on de day dat tried men's souls!" blubbered Sunshine, the
galley-cook.

"Who would be a _Jankee_ now?" roared a Hollander of the fore-top, more
Dutch than sour-crout.

"Is this the _riglar_ fruits of liberty?" touchingly inquired an Irish
waister of an old Spanish sheet-anchor-man.

You will generally observe that, of all Americans, your foreign-born
citizens are the most patriotic--especially toward the Fourth of July.

But how could Captain Claret, the father of his crew, behold the grief
of his ocean children with indifference? He could not. Three days
before the anniversary--it still continuing very pleasant weather for
these latitudes--it was publicly announced that free permission was
given to the sailors to get up any sort of theatricals they desired,
wherewith to honour the Fourth.

Now, some weeks prior to the Neversink's sailing from home--nearly
three years before the time here spoken of--some of the seamen had
clubbed together, and made up a considerable purse, for the purpose of
purchasing a theatrical outfit having in view to diversify the monotony
of lying in foreign harbours for weeks together, by an occasional
display on the boards--though if ever there w-as a continual theatre in
the world, playing by night and by day, and without intervals between
the acts, a man-of-war is that theatre, and her planks are the _boards_
indeed.

The sailors who originated this scheme had served in other American
frigates, where the privilege of having theatricals was allowed to the
crew. What was their chagrin, then, when, upon making an application to
the Captain, in a Peruvian harbour, for permission to present the
much-admired drama of "_The Ruffian Boy_," under the Captain's personal
patronage, that dignitary assured them that there were already enough
_ruffian boys_ on board, without conjuring up any more from the
green-room.

The theatrical outfit, therefore, was stowed down in the bottom of the
sailors' bags, who little anticipated _then_ that it would ever be
dragged out while Captain Claret had the sway.

But immediately upon the announcement that the embargo was removed,
vigorous preparations were at once commenced to celebrate the Fourth
with unwonted spirit. The half-deck was set apart for the theatre, and
the signal-quarter-master was commanded to loan his flags to decorate
it in the most patriotic style.

As the stage-struck portion of the crew had frequently during the
cruise rehearsed portions of various plays, to while away the tedium of
the night-watches, they needed no long time now to perfect themselves
in their parts.

Accordingly, on the very next morning after the indulgence had been
granted by the Captain, the following written placard, presenting a
broadside of staring capitals, was found tacked against the main-mast
on the gun-deck. It was as if a Drury-Lane bill had been posted upon
the London Monument.



                   CAPE HORN THEATRE.
             *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
      _Grand Celebration of the Fourth of July_.
                  DAY PERFORMANCE.
                 UNCOMMON ATTRACTION.
               THE OLD WAGON PAID OFF!
         JACK CHASE.  .  .  . PERCY ROYAL-MAST.
             STARS OF THE FIRST MAGNITUDE.
                 _For this time only_.
                THE TRUE YANKEE SAILOR.
   The managers of the Cape Horn Theatre beg leave to inform
   the inhabitants of the Pacific and Southern Oceans that,
   on the afternoon of the Fourth of July, 184--, they will
   have the honour to present the admired drama of

                 THE OLD WAGON PAID OFF!
   Commodore Bougee  .  .  .  . _Tom Brown, of the Fore-top_.
   Captain Spy-glass .  .  .  . _Ned Brace, of the After-Guard_.
   Commodore's Cockswain.  .  . _Joe Bunk, of the Launch_.
   Old Luff .  .  .  .  .  .  . _Quarter-master Coffin._
   Mayor .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . _Seafull, of the Forecastle_.
   PERCY ROYAL-MAST  .  .  .  .  JACK CHASE.
   Mrs. Lovelorn  .  .  .  .  . _Long-locks, of the After-Guard_.
   Toddy Moll  .  .  .  .  .  . _Frank Jones_.
   Gin and Sugar Sall.  .  .  . _Dick Dash_.

   Sailors, Mariners, Bar-keepers, Crimps, Aldermen,
   Police-officer's, Soldiers, Landsmen generally.
             *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   Long live the Commodore!     ::     Admission Free.
             *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   To conclude with the much-admired song by Dibdin,
   altered to suit all American Tars, entitled

                  THE TRUE YANKEE SAILOR.
   True Yankee Sailor (in costume), Patrick Flinegan,
                      Captain of the Head.

   Performance to commence with "Hail Columbia," by the Brass
   Band. Ensign rises at three bells, P.M. No sailor permitted
   to enter in his shirt-sleeves. Good order is expected to be
   maintained. The Master-at-arms and Ship's Corporals to be in
   attendance to keep the peace.



At the earnest entreaties of the seamen, Lemsford, the gun-deck poet,
had been prevailed upon to draw up this bill. And upon this one
occasion his literary abilities were far from being underrated, even by
the least intellectual person on board. Nor must it be omitted that,
before the bill was placarded, Captain Claret, enacting the part of
censor and grand chamberlain ran over a manuscript copy of "_The Old
Wagon Paid Off_," to see whether it contained anything calculated to
breed disaffection against lawful authority among the crew. He objected
to some parts, but in the end let them all pass.

The morning of The Fourth--most anxiously awaited--dawned clear and
fair. The breeze was steady; the air bracing cold; and one and all the
sailors anticipated a gleeful afternoon. And thus was falsified the
prophecies of certain old growlers averse to theatricals, who had
predicted a gale of wind that would squash all the arrangements of the
green-room.

As the men whose regular turns, at the time of the performance, would
come round to be stationed in the tops, and at the various halyards and
running ropes about the spar-deck, could not be permitted to partake in
the celebration, there accordingly ensued, during the morning, many
amusing scenes of tars who were anxious to procure substitutes at their
posts. Through the day, many anxious glances were cast to windward; but
the weather still promised fair.

At last _the people_ were piped to dinner; two bells struck; and soon
after, all who could be spared from their stations hurried to the
half-deck. The capstan bars were placed on shot-boxes, as at prayers on
Sundays, furnishing seats for the audience, while a low stage, rigged
by the carpenter's gang, was built at one end of the open space. The
curtain was composed of a large ensign, and the bulwarks round about
were draperied with the flags of all nations. The ten or twelve members
of the brass band were ranged in a row at the foot of the stage, their
polished instruments in their hands, while the consequential Captain of
the Band himself was elevated upon a gun carriage.

At three bells precisely a group of ward-room officers emerged from the
after-hatchway, and seated themselves upon camp-stools, in a central
position, with the stars and stripes for a canopy. _That_ was the royal
box. The sailors looked round for the Commodore but neither Commodore
nor Captain honored _the people_ with their presence.

At the call of a bugle the band struck up _Hail Columbia_, the whole
audience keeping time, as at Drury Lane, when _God Save The King_ is
played after a great national victory.

At the discharge of a marine's musket the curtain rose, and four
sailors, in the picturesque garb of Maltese mariners, staggered on the
stage in a feigned state of intoxication. The truthfulness of the
representation was much heightened by the roll of the ship.

"The Commodore," "Old Luff," "The Mayor," and "Gin and Sugar Sall,"
were played to admiration, and received great applause. But at the
first appearance of that universal favourite, Jack Chase, in the
chivalric character of _Percy Royal-Mast_, the whole audience
simultaneously rose to their feet, and greeted hire with three hearty
cheers, that almost took the main-top-sail aback.

Matchless Jack, _in full fig_, bowed again and again, with true
quarter-deck grace and self possession; and when five or six untwisted
strands of rope and bunches of oakum were thrown to him, as substitutes
for bouquets, he took them one by one, and gallantly hung them from the
buttons of his jacket.

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!--go on! go on!--stop hollering--hurrah!--go
on!--stop hollering--hurrah!" was now heard on all sides, till at last,
seeing no end to the enthusiasm of his ardent admirers, Matchless Jack
stepped forward, and, with his lips moving in pantomime, plunged into
the thick of the part. Silence soon followed, but was fifty times
broken by uncontrollable bursts of applause. At length, when that
heart-thrilling scene came on, where Percy Royal-Mast rescues fifteen
oppressed sailors from the watch-house, in the teeth of a posse of
constables, the audience leaped to their feet, overturned the capstan
bars, and to a man hurled their hats on the stage in a delirium of
delight. Ah Jack, that was a ten-stroke indeed!

The commotion was now terrific; all discipline seemed gone for ever;
the Lieutenants ran in among the men, the Captain darted from his
cabin, and the Commodore nervously questioned the armed sentry at his
door as to what the deuce _the people_ were about. In the midst of all
this, the trumpet of the officer-of-the-deck, commanding the
top-gallant sails to be taken in, was almost completely drowned. A
black squall was coming down on the weather-bow, and the boat-swain's
mates bellowed themselves hoarse at the main-hatchway. There is no
knowing what would have ensued, had not the bass drum suddenly been
heard, calling all hands to quarters, a summons not to be withstood.
The sailors pricked their ears at it, as horses at the sound of a
cracking whip, and confusedly stumbled up the ladders to their
stations. The next moment all was silent but the wind, howling like a
thousand devils in the cordage.

"Stand by to reef all three top-sails!--settle away the halyards!--haul
out--so: make fast!--aloft, top-men! and reef away!"

Thus, in storm and tempest terminated that day's theatricals. But the
sailors never recovered from the disappointment of not having the
"_True Yankee Sailor_" sung by the Irish Captain of the Head.

And here White-jacket must moralize a bit. The unwonted spectacle of
the row of gun-room officers mingling with "the people" in applauding a
mere seaman like Jack Chase, filled me at the time with the most
pleasurable emotions. It is a sweet thing, thought I, to see these
officers confess a human brotherhood with us, after all; a sweet thing
to mark their cordial appreciation of the manly merits of my matchless
Jack. Ah! they are noble fellows all round, and I do not know but I
have wronged them sometimes in my thoughts.

Nor was it without similar pleasurable feelings that I witnessed the
temporary rupture of the ship's stern discipline, consequent upon the
tumult of the theatricals. I thought to myself, this now is as it
should be. It is good to shake off, now and then, this iron yoke round
our necks. And after having once permitted us sailors to be a little
noisy, in a harmless way--somewhat merrily turbulent--the officers
cannot, with any good grace, be so excessively stern and unyielding as
before. I began to think a man-of-war a man-of-peace-and-good-will,
after all. But, alas! disappointment came.

Next morning the same old scene was enacted at the gang-way. And
beholding the row of uncompromising-looking-officers there assembled
with the Captain, to witness punishment--the same officers who had been
so cheerfully disposed over night--an old sailor touched my shoulder
and said, "See, White-Jacket, all round they have _shipped their
quarter-deck faces again_. But this is the way."

I afterward learned that this was an old man-of-war's-man's phrase,
expressive of the facility with which a sea-officer falls back upon all
the severity of his dignity, after a temporary suspension of it.




CHAPTER XXIV.

INTRODUCTORY TO CAPE HORN.


And now, through drizzling fogs and vapours, and under damp,
double-reefed top-sails, our wet-decked frigate drew nearer and nearer
to the squally Cape.

Who has not heard of it? Cape Horn, Cape Horn--a _horn_ indeed, that
has tossed many a good ship. Was the descent of Orpheus, Ulysses, or
Dante into Hell, one whit more hardy and sublime than the first
navigator's weathering of that terrible Cape?

Turned on her heel by a fierce West Wind, many an outward-bound ship
has been driven across the Southern Ocean to the Cape of Good
Hope--_that_ way to seek a passage to the Pacific. And that stormy
Cape, I doubt not, has sent many a fine craft to the bottom, and told
no tales. At those ends of the earth are no chronicles. What signify
the broken spars and shrouds that, day after day, are driven before the
prows of more fortunate vessels? or the tall masts, imbedded in
icebergs, that are found floating by? They but hint the old story--of
ships that have sailed from their ports, and never more have been heard
of.

Impracticable Cape! You may approach it from this direction or that--in
any way you please--from the East or from the West; with the wind
astern, or abeam, or on the quarter; and still Cape Horn is Cape Horn.
Cape Horn it is that takes the conceit out of fresh-water sailors, and
steeps in a still salter brine the saltest. Woe betide the tyro; the
fool-hardy, Heaven preserve!

Your Mediterranean captain, who with a cargo of oranges has hitherto
made merry runs across the Atlantic, without so much as furling a
t'-gallant-sail, oftentimes, off Cape Horn, receives a lesson which he
carries to the grave; though the grave--as is too often the
case--follows so hard on the lesson that no benefit comes from the
experience.

Other strangers who draw nigh to this Patagonia termination of our
Continent, with their souls full of its shipwrecks and
disasters--top-sails cautiously reefed, and everything guardedly
snug--these strangers at first unexpectedly encountering a tolerably
smooth sea, rashly conclude that the Cape, after all, is but a bugbear;
they have been imposed upon by fables, and founderings and sinkings
hereabouts are all cock-and-bull stories.

"Out reefs, my hearties; fore and aft set t'-gallant-sails! stand by to
give her the fore-top-mast stun'-sail!"

But, Captain Rash, those sails of yours were much safer in the
sail-maker's loft. For now, while the heedless craft is bounding over
the billows, a black cloud rises out of the sea; the sun drops down
from the sky; a horrible mist far and wide spreads over the water.

"Hands by the halyards! Let go! Clew up!"

Too late.

For ere the ropes' ends can be the east off from the pins, the tornado
is blowing down to the bottom of their throats. The masts are willows,
the sails ribbons, the cordage wool; the whole ship is brewed into the
yeast of the gale.

An now, if, when the first green sea breaks over him, Captain Rash is
not swept overboard, he has his hands full be sure. In all probability
his three masts have gone by the board, and, ravelled into list, his
sails are floating in the air. Or, perhaps, the ship _broaches to_, or
is _brought by the lee_. In either ease, Heaven help the sailors, their
wives and their little ones; and heaven help the underwriters.

Familiarity with danger makes a brave man braver, but less daring. Thus
with seamen: he who goes the oftenest round Cape Horn goes the most
circumspectly. A veteran mariner is never deceived by the treacherous
breezes which sometimes waft him pleasantly toward the latitude of the
Cape. No sooner does he come within a certain distance of
it--previously fixed in his own mind--than all hands are turned to
setting the ship in storm-trim; and never mind how light the breeze,
down come his t'-gallant-yards. He "bends" his strongest storm-sails,
and lashes every-thing on deck securely. The ship is then ready for the
worst; and if, in reeling round the headland, she receives a broadside,
it generally goes well with her. If ill, all hands go to the bottom
with quiet consciences.

Among sea-captains, there are some who seem to regard the genius of the
Cape as a wilful, capricious jade, that must be courted and coaxed into
complaisance. First, they come along under easy sails; do not steer
boldly for the headland, but tack this way and that--sidling up to it,
Now they woo the Jezebel with a t'-gallant-studding-sail; anon, they
deprecate her wrath with double-reefed-topsails. When, at length, her
unappeasable fury is fairly aroused, and all round the dismantled ship
the storm howls and howls for days together, they still persevere in
their efforts. First, they try unconditional submission; furling every
rag and _heaving to_: laying like a log, for the tempest to toss
wheresoever it pleases.

This failing, they set a _spencer_ or _try-sail_, and shift on the
other tack. Equally vain! The gale sings as hoarsely as before. At
last, the wind comes round fair; they drop the fore-sail; square the
yards, and scud before it; their implacable foe chasing them with
tornadoes, as if to show her insensibility to the last.

Other ships, without encountering these terrible gales, spend week
after week endeavouring to turn this boisterous world-corner against a
continual head-wind. Tacking hither and thither, in the language of
sailors they _polish_ the Cape by beating about its edges so long.

Le Mair and Schouten, two Dutchmen, were the first navigators who
weathered Cape Born. Previous to this, passages had been made to the
Pacific by the Straits of Magellan; nor, indeed, at that period, was it
known to a certainty that there was any other route, or that the land
now called Terra del Fuego was an island. A few leagues southward from
Terra del Fuego is a cluster of small islands, the Diegoes; between
which and the former island are the Straits of Le Mair, so called in
honour of their discoverer, who first sailed through them into the
Pacific. Le Mair and Schouten, in their small, clumsy vessels,
encountered a series of tremendous gales, the prelude to the long train
of similar hardships which most of their followers have experienced. It
is a significant fact, that Schouten's vessel, the _Horne_, which gave
its name to the Cape, was almost lost in weathering it.

The next navigator round the Cape was Sir Francis Drake, who, on
Raleigh's Expedition, beholding for the first time, from the Isthmus of
Darien, the "goodlie South Sea," like a true-born Englishman, vowed,
please God, to sail an English ship thereon; which the gallant sailor
did, to the sore discomfiture of the Spaniards on the coasts of Chili
and Peru.

But perhaps the greatest hardships on record, in making this celebrated
passage, were those experienced by Lord Anson's squadron in 1736. Three
remarkable and most interesting narratives record their disasters and
sufferings. The first, jointly written by the carpenter and gunner of
the Wager; the second by young Byron, a midshipman in the same ship;
the third, by the chaplain of the Centurion. White-Jacket has them all;
and they are fine reading of a boisterous March night, with the
casement rattling in your ear, and the chimney-stacks blowing down upon
the pavement, bubbling with rain-drops.

But if you want the best idea of Cape Horn, get my friend Dana's
unmatchable "Two Years Before the Mast." But you can read, and so you
must have read it. His chapters describing Cape Horn must have been
written with an icicle.

At the present day the horrors of the Cape have somewhat abated. This
is owing to a growing familiarity with it; but, more than all, to the
improved condition of ships in all respects, and the means now
generally in use of preserving the health of the crews in times of
severe and prolonged exposure.




CHAPTER XXV

THE DOG-DAYS OFF CAPE HORN.


Colder and colder; we are drawing nigh to the Cape. Now gregoes, pea
jackets, monkey jackets reefing jackets, storm jackets, oil jackets,
paint jackets, round jackets short jackets, long jackets, and all
manner of jackets, are the order of the day, not excepting the immortal
white jacket, which begins to be sturdily buttoned up to the throat,
and pulled down vigorously at the skirts, to bring them well over the
loins.

But, alas! those skirts were lamentably scanty; and though, with its
quiltings, the jacket was stuffed out about the breasts like a
Christmas turkey, and of a dry cold day kept the wearer warm enough in
that vicinity, yet about the loins it was shorter than ballet-dancer's
skirts; so that while my chest was in the temperate zone close
adjoining the torrid, my hapless thighs were in Nova Zembla, hardly an
icicle's toss from the Pole.

Then, again, the repeated soakings and dryings it had undergone, had by
this time made it shrink woefully all over, especially in the arms, so
that the wristbands had gradually crawled up near to the elbows; and it
required an energetic thrust to push the arm through, in drawing the
jacket on.

I endeavoured to amend these misfortunes by sewing a sort of canvas
ruffle round the skirts, by way of a continuation or supplement to the
original work, and by doing the same with the wristbands.

This is the time for oil-skin suits, dread-naughts, tarred trowsers and
overalls, sea-boots, comforters, mittens, woollen socks, Guernsey
frocks, Havre shirts, buffalo-robe shirts, and moose-skin drawers.
Every man's jacket is his wigwam, and every man's hat his caboose.

Perfect license is now permitted to the men respecting their clothing.
Whatever they can rake and scrape together they put on--swaddling
themselves in old sails, and drawing old socks over their heads for
night-caps. This is the time for smiting your chest with your hand, and
talking loud to keep up the circulation.

Colder, and colder, and colder, till at last we spoke a fleet of
icebergs bound North. After that, it was one incessant "_cold snap_,"
that almost snapped off our fingers and toes. Cold! It was cold as
_Blue Flujin_, where sailors say fire freezes.

And now coming up with the latitude of the Cape, we stood southward to
give it a wide berth, and while so doing were becalmed; ay, becalmed
off Cape Horn, which is worse, far worse, than being becalmed on the
Line.

Here we lay forty-eight hours, during which the cold was intense. I
wondered at the liquid sea, which refused to freeze in such a
temperature. The clear, cold sky overhead looked like a steel-blue
cymbal, that might ring, could you smite it. Our breath came and went
like puffs' of smoke from pipe-bowls. At first there was a long gauky
swell, that obliged us to furl most of the sails, and even send down
t'-gallant-yards, for fear of pitching them overboard.

Out of sight of land, at this extremity of both the inhabitable and
uninhabitable world, our peopled frigate, echoing with the voices of
men, the bleating of lambs, the cackling of fowls, the gruntings of
pigs, seemed like Noah's old ark itself, becalmed at the climax of the
Deluge.

There was nothing to be done but patiently to await the pleasure of the
elements, and "whistle for a wind," the usual practice of seamen in a
calm. No fire was allowed, except for the indispensable purpose of
cooking, and heating bottles of water to toast Selvagee's feet. He who
possessed the largest stock of vitality, stood the best chance to
escape freezing. It was horrifying. In such weather any man could have
undergone amputation with great ease, and helped take up the arteries
himself.

Indeed, this state of affairs had not lasted quite twenty-four hours,
when the extreme frigidity of the air, united to our increased tendency
to inactivity, would very soon have rendered some of us subjects for
the surgeon and his mates, had not a humane proceeding of the Captain
suddenly impelled us to vigorous exercise.

And here be it said, that the appearance of the Boat-swain, with his
silver whistle to his mouth, at the main hatchway of the gun-deck, is
always regarded by the crew with the utmost curiosity, for this
betokens that some general order is about to be promulgated through the
ship. What now? is the question that runs on from man to man. A short
preliminary whistle is then given by "Old Yarn," as they call him,
which whistle serves to collect round him, from their various stations,
his four mates. Then Yarn, or Pipes, as leader of the orchestra, begins
a peculiar call, in which his assistants join. This over, the order,
whatever it may be, is loudly sung out and prolonged, till the remotest
corner echoes again. The Boatswain and his mates are the town-criers of
a man-of-war.

The calm had commenced in the afternoon: and the following morning the
ship's company were electrified by a general order, thus set forth and
declared: "_D'ye hear there, for and aft! all hands skylark!_"

This mandate, nowadays never used except upon very rare occasions,
produced the same effect upon the men that Exhilarating Gas would have
done, or an extra allowance of "grog." For a time, the wonted
discipline of the ship was broken through, and perfect license allowed.
It was a Babel here, a Bedlam there, and a Pandemonium everywhere. The
Theatricals were nothing compared with it. Then the faint-hearted and
timorous crawled to their hiding-places, and the lusty and bold shouted
forth their glee.

Gangs of men, in all sorts of outlandish habiliments, wild as those
worn at some crazy carnival, rushed to and fro, seizing upon whomsoever
they pleased--warrant-officers and dangerous pugilists
excepted--pulling and hauling the luckless tars about, till fairly
baited into a genial warmth. Some were made fast to and hoisted aloft
with a will: others, mounted upon oars, were ridden fore and aft on a
rail, to the boisterous mirth of the spectators, any one of whom might
be the next victim. Swings were rigged from the tops, or the masts; and
the most reluctant wights being purposely selected, spite of all
struggles, were swung from East to West, in vast arcs of circles, till
almost breathless. Hornpipes, fandangoes, Donnybrook-jigs, reels, and
quadrilles, were danced under the very nose of the most mighty captain,
and upon the very quarter-deck and poop. Sparring and wrestling, too,
were all the vogue; _Kentucky bites_ were given, and the _Indian hug_
exchanged. The din frightened the sea-fowl, that flew by with
accelerated wing.

It is worth mentioning that several casualties occurred, of which,
however, I will relate but one. While the "sky-larking" was at its
height, one of the fore-top-men--an ugly-tempered devil of a
Portuguese, looking on--swore that he would be the death of any man who
laid violent hands upon his inviolable person. This threat being
overheard, a band of desperadoes, coming up from behind, tripped him up
in an instant, and in the twinkling of an eye the Portuguese was
straddling an oar, borne aloft by an uproarious multitude, who rushed
him along the deck at a railroad gallop. The living mass of arms all
round and beneath him was so dense, that every time he inclined one
side he was instantly pushed upright, but only to fall over again, to
receive another push from the contrary direction. Presently,
disengaging his hands from those who held them, the enraged seaman drew
from his bosom an iron belaying-pin, and recklessly laid about him to
right and left. Most of his persecutors fled; but some eight or ten
still stood their ground, and, while bearing him aloft, endeavoured to
wrest the weapon from his hands. In this attempt, one man was struck on
the head, and dropped insensible. He was taken up for dead, and carried
below to Cuticle, the surgeon, while the Portuguese was put under
guard. But the wound did not prove very serious; and in a few days the
man was walking about the deck, with his head well bandaged.

This occurrence put an end to the "skylarking," further head-breaking
being strictly prohibited. In due time the Portuguese paid the penalty
of his rashness at the gangway; while once again the officers _shipped
their quarter-deck faces_.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PITCH OF THE CAPE.


Ere the calm had yet left us, a sail had been discerned from the
fore-top-mast-head, at a great distance, probably three leagues or
more. At first it was a mere speck, altogether out of sight from the
deck. By the force of attraction, or something else equally
inscrutable, two ships in a calm, and equally affected by the currents,
will always approximate, more or less. Though there was not a breath of
wind, it was not a great while before the strange sail was descried
from our bulwarks; gradually, it drew still nearer.

What was she, and whence? There is no object which so excites interest
and conjecture, and, at the same time, baffles both, as a sail, seen as
a mere speck on these remote seas off Cape Horn. A breeze! a breeze!
for lo! the stranger is now perceptibly nearing the frigate; the
officer's spy-glass pronounces her a full-rigged ship, with all sail
set, and coming right down to us, though in our own vicinity the calm
still reigns.

She is bringing the wind with her. Hurrah! Ay, there it is! Behold how
mincingly it creeps over the sea, just ruffling and crisping it.

Our top-men were at once sent aloft to loose the sails, and presently
they faintly began to distend. As yet we hardly had steerage-way.
Toward sunset the stranger bore down before the wind, a complete
pyramid of canvas. Never before, I venture to say, was Cape Horn so
audaciously insulted. Stun'-sails alow and aloft; royals, moon-sails,
and everything else. She glided under our stern, within hailing
distance, and the signal-quarter-master ran up our ensign to the gaff.

"Ship ahoy!" cried the Lieutenant of the Watch, through his trumpet.

"Halloa!" bawled an old fellow in a green jacket, clap-ping one hand to
his mouth, while he held on with the other to the mizzen-shrouds.

"What ship's that?"

"The Sultan, Indiaman, from New York, and bound to Callao and Canton,
sixty days out, all well. What frigate's that?"

"The United States ship Neversink, homeward bound." "Hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!" yelled our enthusiastic countryman, transported with
patriotism.

By this time the Sultan had swept past, but the Lieutenant of the Watch
could not withhold a parting admonition.

"D'ye hear? You'd better take in some of your flying-kites there. Look
out for Cape Horn!"

But the friendly advice was lost in the now increasing wind. With a
suddenness by no means unusual in these latitudes, the light breeze
soon became a succession of sharp squalls, and our sail-proud
braggadacio of an India-man was observed to let everything go by the
run, his t'-gallant stun'-sails and flying-jib taking quick leave of
the spars; the flying-jib was swept into the air, rolled together for a
few minutes, and tossed about in the squalls like a foot-ball. But the
wind played no such pranks with the more prudently managed canvas of
the Neversink, though before many hours it was stirring times with us.

About midnight, when the starboard watch, to which, I belonged, was
below, the boatswain's whistle was heard, followed by the shrill cry of
"_All hands take in sail_! jump, men, and save ship!"

Springing from our hammocks, we found the frigate leaning over to it so
steeply, that it was with difficulty we could climb the ladders leading
to the upper deck.

Here the scene was awful. The vessel seemed to be sailing on her side.
The main-deck guns had several days previous been run in and housed,
and the port-holes closed, but the lee carronades on the quarter-deck
and forecastle were plunging through the sea, which undulated over them
in milk-white billows of foam. With every lurch to leeward the
yard-arm-ends seemed to dip in the sea, while forward the spray dashed
over the bows in cataracts, and drenched the men who were on the
fore-yard. By this time the deck was alive with the whole strength of
the ship's company, five hundred men, officers and all, mostly clinging
to the weather bulwarks. The occasional phosphorescence of the yeasting
sea cast a glare upon their uplifted faces, as a night fire in a
populous city lights up the panic-stricken crowd.

In a sudden gale, or when a large quantity of sail is suddenly to be
furled, it is the custom for the First Lieutenant to take the trumpet
from whoever happens then to be officer of the deck. But Mad Jack had
the trumpet that watch; nor did the First Lieutenant now seek to wrest
it from his hands. Every eye was upon him, as if we had chosen him from
among us all, to decide this battle with the elements, by single combat
with the spirit of the Cape; for Mad Jack was the saving genius of the
ship, and so proved himself that night. I owe this right hand, that is
this moment flying over my sheet, and all my present being to Mad Jack.
The ship's bows were now butting, battering, ramming, and thundering
over and upon the head seas, and with a horrible wallowing sound our
whole hull was rolling in the trough of the foam. The gale came athwart
the deck, and every sail seemed bursting with its wild breath.

All the quarter-masters, and several of the forecastle-men, were
swarming round the double-wheel on the quarter-deck. Some jumping up
and down, with their hands upon the spokes; for the whole helm and
galvanised keel were fiercely feverish, with the life imparted to them
by the tempest.

"Hard _up_ the helm!" shouted Captain Claret, bursting from his cabin
like a ghost in his night-dress.

"Damn you!" raged Mad Jack to the quarter-masters; "hard down--hard
_down_, I say, and be damned to you!"

Contrary orders! but Mad Jack's were obeyed. His object was to throw
the ship into the wind, so as the better to admit of close-reefing the
top-sails. But though the halyards were let go, it was impossible to
clew down the yards, owing to the enormous horizontal strain on the
canvas. It now blew a hurricane. The spray flew over the ship in
floods. The gigantic masts seemed about to snap under the world-wide
strain of the three entire top-sails.

"Clew down! clew down!" shouted Mad Jack, husky with excitement, and in
a frenzy, beating his trumpet against one of the shrouds. But, owing to
the slant of the ship, the thing could not be done. It was obvious that
before many minutes something must go--either sails, rigging, or
sticks; perhaps the hull itself, and all hands.

Presently a voice from the top exclaimed that there was a rent in the
main-top-sail. And instantly we heard a re-port like two or three
muskets discharged together; the vast sail was rent up and clown like
the Vail of the Temple. This saved the main-mast; for the yard was now
clewed down with comparative ease, and the top-men laid out to stow the
shattered canvas. Soon, the two remaining top-sails were also clewed
down and close reefed.

Above all the roar of the tempest and the shouts of the crew, was heard
the dismal tolling of the ship's bell--almost as large as that of a
village church--which the violent rolling of the ship was occasioning.
Imagination cannot conceive the horror of such a sound in a
night-tempest at sea.

"Stop that ghost!" roared Mad Jack; "away, one of you, and wrench off
the clapper!"

But no sooner was this ghost gagged, than a still more appalling sound
was heard, the rolling to and fro of the heavy shot, which, on the
gun-deck, had broken loose from the gun-racks, and converted that part
of the ship into an immense bowling-alley. Some hands were sent down to
secure them; but it was as much as their lives were worth. Several were
maimed; and the midshipmen who were ordered to see the duty performed
reported it impossible, until the storm abated.

The most terrific job of all was to furl the main-sail, which, at the
commencement of the squalls, had been clewed up, coaxed and quieted as
much as possible with the bunt-lines and slab-lines. Mad Jack waited
some time for a lull, ere he gave an order so perilous to be executed.
For to furl this enormous sail, in such a gale, required at least fifty
men on the yard; whose weight, superadded to that of the ponderous
stick itself, still further jeopardised their lives. But there was no
prospect of a cessation of the gale, and the order was at last given.

At this time a hurricane of slanting sleet and hail was descending upon
us; the rigging was coated with a thin glare of ice, formed within the
hour.

"Aloft, main-yard-men! and all you main-top-men! and furl the
main-sail!" cried Mad Jack.

I dashed down my hat, slipped out of my quilted jacket in an instant,
kicked the shoes from my feet, and, with a crowd of others, sprang for
the rigging. Above the bulwarks (which in a frigate are so high as to
afford much protection to those on deck) the gale was horrible. The
sheer force of the wind flattened us to the rigging as we ascended, and
every hand seemed congealing to the icy shrouds by which we held.

"Up--up, my brave hearties!" shouted Mad Jack; and up we got, some way
or other, all of us, and groped our way out on the yard-arms.

"Hold on, every mother's son!" cried an old quarter-gunner at my side.
He was bawling at the top of his compass; but in the gale, he seemed to
be whispering; and I only heard him from his being right to windward of
me.

But his hint was unnecessary; I dug my nails into the _jack-stays_, and
swore that nothing but death should part me and them until I was able
to turn round and look to windward. As yet, this was impossible; I
could scarcely hear the man to leeward at my elbow; the wind seemed to
snatch the words from his mouth and fly away with them to the South
Pole.

All this while the sail itself was flying about, sometimes catching
over our heads, and threatening to tear us from the yard in spite of
all our hugging. For about three quarters of an hour we thus hung
suspended right over the rampant billows, which curled their very
crests under the feet of some four or five of us clinging to the
lee-yard-arm, as if to float us from our place.

Presently, the word passed along the yard from wind-ward, that we were
ordered to come down and leave the sail to blow, since it could not be
furled. A midshipman, it seemed, had been sent up by the officer of the
deck to give the order, as no trumpet could be heard where we were.

Those on the weather yard-arm managed to crawl upon the spar and
scramble down the rigging; but with us, upon the extreme leeward side,
this feat was out of the question; it was, literary, like climbing a
precipice to get to wind-ward in order to reach the shrouds: besides,
the entire yard was now encased in ice, and our hands and feet were so
numb that we dared not trust our lives to them. Nevertheless, by
assisting each other, we contrived to throw ourselves prostrate along
the yard, and embrace it with our arms and legs. In this position, the
stun'-sail-booms greatly assisted in securing our hold. Strange as it
may appear, I do not suppose that, at this moment, the slightest
sensation of fear was felt by one man on that yard. We clung to it with
might and main; but this was instinct. The truth is, that, in
circumstances like these, the sense of fear is annihilated in the
unutterable sights that fill all the eye, and the sounds that fill all
the ear. You become identified with the tempest; your insignificance is
lost in the riot of the stormy universe around.

Below us, our noble frigate seemed thrice its real length--a vast black
wedge, opposing its widest end to the combined fury of the sea and wind.

At length the first fury of the gale began to abate, and we at once
fell to pounding our hands, as a preliminary operation to going to
work; for a gang of men had now ascended to help secure what was left
of the sail; we somehow packed it away, at last, and came down.

About noon the next day, the gale so moderated that we shook two reefs
out of the top-sails, set new courses, and stood due east, with the
wind astern.

Thus, all the fine weather we encountered after first weighing anchor
on the pleasant Spanish coast, was but the prelude to this one terrific
night; more especially, that treacherous calm immediately preceding it.
But how could we reach our long-promised homes without encountering
Cape Horn? by what possibility avoid it? And though some ships have
weathered it without these perils, yet by far the greater part must
encounter them. Lucky it is that it comes about midway in the
homeward-bound passage, so that the sailors have time to prepare for
it, and time to recover from it after it is astern.

But, sailor or landsman, there is some sort of a Cape Horn for all.
Boys! beware of it; prepare for it in time. Gray-beards! thank God it
is passed. And ye lucky livers, to whom, by some rare fatality, your
Cape Horns are placid as Lake Lemans, flatter not yourselves that good
luck is judgment and discretion; for all the yolk in your eggs, you
might have foundered and gone down, had the Spirit of the Cape said the
word.




CHAPTER XXVII.

SOME THOUGHTS GROWING OUT OF MAD JACK'S COUNTERMANDING HIS SUPERIOR'S
ORDER.


In time of peril, like the needle to the loadstone, obedience,
irrespective of rank, generally flies to him who is best fitted to
command. The truth of this seemed evinced in the case of Mad Jack,
during the gale, and especially at that perilous moment when he
countermanded the Captain's order at the helm. But every seaman knew,
at the time, that the Captain's order was an unwise one in the extreme;
perhaps worse than unwise.

These two orders given, by the Captain and his Lieutenant, exactly
contrasted their characters. By putting the helm _hard up_, the Captain
was for _scudding_; that is, for flying away from the gale. Whereas,
Mad Jack was for running the ship into its teeth. It is needless to say
that, in almost all cases of similar hard squalls and gales, the latter
step, though attended with more appalling appearances is, in reality,
the safer of the two, and the most generally adopted.

Scudding makes you a slave to the blast, which drives you headlong
before it; but _running up into the wind's eye_ enables you, in a
degree, to hold it at bay. Scudding exposes to the gale your stern, the
weakest part of your hull; the contrary course presents to it your
bows, your strongest part. As with ships, so with men; he who turns his
back to his foe gives him an advantage. Whereas, our ribbed chests,
like the ribbed bows of a frigate, are as bulkheads to dam off an onset.

That night, off the pitch of the Cape, Captain Claret was hurried forth
from his disguises, and, at a manhood-testing conjuncture, appeared in
his true colours. A thing which every man in the ship had long
suspected that night was proved true. Hitherto, in going about the
ship, and casting his glances among the men, the peculiarly lustreless
repose of the Captain's eye--his slow, even, unnecessarily methodical
step, and the forced firmness of his whole demeanour--though, to a
casual observer, expressive of the consciousness of command and a
desire to strike subjection among the crew--all this, to some minds,
had only been deemed indications of the fact that Captain Claret, while
carefully shunning positive excesses, continually kept himself in an
uncertain equilibrio between soberness and its reverse; which
equilibrio might be destroyed by the first sharp vicissitude of events.

And though this is only a surmise, nevertheless, as having some
knowledge of brandy and mankind, White-Jacket will venture to state
that, had Captain Claret been an out-and-out temperance man, he would
never have given that most imprudent order to _hard up_ the helm. He
would either have held his peace, and stayed in his cabin, like his
gracious majesty the Commodore, or else have anticipated Mad Jack's
order, and thundered forth "Hard down the helm!"

To show how little real sway at times have the severest restrictive
laws, and how spontaneous is the instinct of discretion in some minds,
it must here be added, that though Mad Jack, under a hot impulse, had
countermanded an order of his superior officer before his very face,
yet that severe Article of War, to which he thus rendered himself
obnoxious, was never enforced against him. Nor, so far as any of the
crew ever knew, did the Captain even venture to reprimand him for his
temerity.

It has been said that Mad Jack himself was a lover of strong drink. So
he was. But here we only see the virtue of being placed in a station
constantly demanding a cool head and steady nerves, and the misfortune
of filling a post that does _not_ at all times demand these qualities.
So exact and methodical in most things was the discipline of the
frigate, that, to a certain extent, Captain Claret was exempted from
personal interposition in many of its current events, and thereby,
perhaps, was he lulled into security, under the enticing lee of his
decanter.

But as for Mad Jack, he must stand his regular watches, and pace the
quarter-deck at night, and keep a sharp eye to windward. Hence, at sea,
Mad Jack tried to make a point of keeping sober, though in very fine
weather he was sometimes betrayed into a glass too many. But with Cape
Horn before him, he took the temperance pledge outright, till that
perilous promontory should be far astern.

The leading incident of the gale irresistibly invites the question, Are
there incompetent officers in the American navy?--that is, incompetent
to the due performance of whatever duties may devolve upon them. But in
that gallant marine, which, during the late war, gained so much of what
is called _glory_, can there possibly be to-day incompetent officers?

As in the camp ashore, so on the quarter-deck at sea--the trumpets of
one victory drown the muffled drums of a thousand defeats. And, in
degree, this holds true of those events of war which are neuter in
their character, neither making renown nor disgrace. Besides, as a long
array of ciphers, led by but one solitary numeral, swell, by mere force
of aggregation, into an immense arithmetical sum, even so, in some
brilliant actions, do a crowd of officers, each inefficient in himself,
aggregate renown when banded together, and led by a numeral Nelson or a
Wellington. And the renown of such heroes, by outliving themselves,
descends as a heritage to their subordinate survivors. One large brain
and one large heart have virtue sufficient to magnetise a whole fleet
or an army. And if all the men who, since the beginning of the world,
have mainly contributed to the warlike successes or reverses of
nations, were now mustered together, we should be amazed to behold but
a handful of heroes. For there is no heroism in merely running in and
out a gun at a port-hole, enveloped in smoke or vapour, or in firing
off muskets in platoons at the word of command. This kind of merely
manual valour is often born of trepidation at the heart. There may be
men, individually craven, who, united, may display even temerity. Yet
it would be false to deny that, in some in-stances, the lowest privates
have acquitted themselves with even more gallantry than their
commodores. True heroism is not in the hand, but in the heart and the
head.

But are there incompetent officers in the gallant American navy? For an
American, the question is of no grateful cast. White Jacket must again
evade it, by referring to an historical fact in the history of a
kindred marine, which, from its long standing and magnitude, furnishes
many more examples of all kinds than our own. And this is the only
reason why it is ever referred to in this narrative. I thank God I am
free from all national invidiousness.

It is indirectly on record in the books of the English Admiralty, that
in the year 1808--after the death of Lord Nelson--when Lord Collingwood
commanded on the Mediterranean station, and his broken health induced
him to solicit a furlough, that out of a list of upward of one hundred
admirals, not a single officer was found who was deemed qualified to
relieve the applicant with credit to the country. This fact Collingwood
sealed with his life; for, hopeless of being recalled, he shortly after
died, worn out, at his post. Now, if this was the case in so renowned a
marine as England's, what must be inferred with respect to our own? But
herein no special disgrace is involved. For the truth is, that to be an
accomplished and skillful naval generalissimo needs natural
capabilities of an uncommon order. Still more, it may safely be
asserted, that, worthily to command even a frigate, requires a degree
of natural heroism, talent, judgment, and integrity, that is denied to
mediocrity. Yet these qualifications are not only required, but
demanded; and no one has a right to be a naval captain unless he
possesses them.

Regarding Lieutenants, there are not a few Selvagees and Paper Jacks in
the American navy. Many Commodores know that they have seldom taken a
line-of-battle ship to sea, without feeling more or less nervousness
when some of the Lieutenants have the deck at night.

According to the last Navy Register (1849), there are now 68 Captains
in the American navy, collectively drawing about $300,000 annually from
the public treasury; also, 297 Commanders, drawing about $200,000; and
377 Lieutenants, drawing about half a million; and 451 Midshipmen
(including Passed-midshipmen), also drawing nearly half a million.
Considering the known facts, that some of these officers are seldom or
never sent to sea, owing to the Navy Department being well aware of
their inefficiency; that others are detailed for pen-and-ink work at
observatories, and solvers of logarithms in the Coast Survey; while the
really meritorious officers, who are accomplished practical seamen, are
known to be sent from ship to ship, with but small interval of a
furlough; considering all this, it is not too much to say, that no
small portion of the million and a half of money above mentioned is
annually paid to national pensioners in disguise, who live on the navy
without serving it.

Nothing like this can be even insinuated against the "_forward
officers_"--Boatswains, Gunners, etc.; nor against the _petty
officers_--Captains of the Tops, etc.; nor against the able seamen in
the navy. For if any of _these_ are found wanting, they are forthwith
disrated or discharged.

True, all experience teaches that, whenever there is a great national
establishment, employing large numbers of officials, the public must be
reconciled to support many incompetent men; for such is the favouritism
and nepotism always prevailing in the purlieus of these establishments,
that some incompetent persons are always admitted, to the exclusion of
many of the worthy.

Nevertheless, in a country like ours, boasting of the political
equality of all social conditions, it is a great reproach that such a
thing as a common seaman rising to the rank of a commissioned officer
in our navy, is nowadays almost unheard-of. Yet, in former times, when
officers have so risen to rank, they have generally proved of signal
usefulness in the service, and sometimes have reflected solid honour
upon the country. Instances in point might be mentioned.

Is it not well to have our institutions of a piece? Any American
landsman may hope to become President of the Union--commodore of our
squadron of states. And every American sailor should be placed in such
a position, that he might freely aspire to command a squadron of
frigates.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

EDGING AWAY.


Right before the wind! Ay, blow, blow, ye breezes; so long as ye stay
fair, and we are homeward bound, what care the jolly crew?

It is worth mentioning here that, in nineteen cases out of twenty, a
passage from the Pacific round the Cape is almost sure to be much
shorter, and attended with less hardship, than a passage undertaken
from the Atlantic. The reason is, that the gales are mostly from the
westward, also the currents.

But, after all, going before the wind in a frigate, in such a tempest,
has its annoyances and drawbacks, as well as many other blessings. The
disproportionate weight of metal upon the spar and gun decks induces a
violent rolling, unknown to merchant ships. We rolled and rolled on our
way, like the world in its orbit, shipping green seas on both sides,
until the old frigate dipped and went into it like a diving-bell.

The hatchways of some armed vessels are but poorly secured in bad
weather. This was peculiarly the ease with those of the Neversink. They
were merely spread over with an old tarpaulin, cracked and rent in
every direction.

In fair weather, the ship's company messed on the gun-deck; but as this
was now flooded almost continually, we were obliged to take our meals
upon the berth-deck, the next one below. One day, the messes of the
starboard-watch were seated here at dinner; forming little groups,
twelve or fifteen men in each, reclining about the beef-kids and their
pots and pans; when all of a sudden the ship was seized with such a
paroxysm of rolling that, in a single instant, everything on the
berth-deck--pots, kids, sailors, pieces of beef, bread-bags,
clothes-bags, and barges--were tossed indiscriminately from side to
side. It was impossible to stay one's self; there was nothing but the
bare deck to cling to, which was slippery with the contents of the
kids, and heaving under us as if there were a volcano in the frigate's
hold. While we were yet sliding in uproarious crowds--all seated--the
windows of the deck opened, and floods of brine descended,
simultaneously with a violent lee-roll. The shower was hailed by the
reckless tars with a hurricane of yells; although, for an instant, I
really imagined we were about being swamped in the sea, such volumes of
water came cascading down.

A day or two after, we had made sufficient Easting to stand to the
northward, which we did, with the wind astern; thus fairly turning the
corner without abating our rate of progress. Though we had seen no land
since leaving Callao, Cape Horn was said to be somewhere to the west of
us; and though there was no positive evidence of the fact, the weather
encountered might be accounted pretty good presumptive proof.

The land near Cape Horn, however, is well worth seeing, especially
Staten Land. Upon one occasion, the ship in which I then happened to be
sailing drew near this place from the northward, with a fair, free
wind, blowing steadily, through a bright translucent clay, whose air
was almost musical with the clear, glittering cold. On our starboard
beam, like a pile of glaciers in Switzerland, lay this Staten Land,
gleaming in snow-white barrenness and solitude. Unnumbered white
albatross were skimming the sea near by, and clouds of smaller white
wings fell through the air like snow-flakes. High, towering in their
own turbaned snows, the far-inland pinnacles loomed up, like the border
of some other world. Flashing walls and crystal battlements, like the
diamond watch-towers along heaven's furthest frontier.

After leaving the latitude of the Cape, we had several storms of snow;
one night a considerable quantity laid upon the decks, and some of the
sailors enjoyed the juvenile diversion of snow-balling. Woe unto the
"middy" who that night went forward of the booms. Such a target for
snow-balls! The throwers could never be known. By some curious sleight
in hurling the missiles, they seemed to be thrown on board by some
hoydenish sea-nymphs outside the frigate.

At daybreak Midshipman Pert went below to the surgeon with an alarming
wound, gallantly received in discharging his perilous duty on the
forecastle. The officer of the deck had sent him on an errand, to tell
the boatswain that he was wanted in the captain's cabin. While in the
very act of performing the exploit of delivering the message, Mr. Pert
was struck on the nose with a snow-ball of wondrous compactness. Upon
being informed of the disaster, the rogues expressed the liveliest
sympathy. Pert was no favourite.

After one of these storms, it was a curious sight to see the men
relieving the uppermost deck of its load of snow. It became the duty of
the captain of each gun to keep his own station clean; accordingly,
with an old broom, or "squilgee," he proceeded to business, often
quarrelling with his next-door neighbours about their scraping their
snow on his premises. It was like Broadway in winter, the morning after
a storm, when rival shop-boys are at work cleaning the sidewalk.

Now and then, by way of variety, we had a fall of hailstones, so big
that sometimes we found ourselves dodging them.

The Commodore had a Polynesian servant on board, whose services he had
engaged at the Society Islands. Unlike his countrymen, Wooloo was of a
sedate, earnest, and philosophic temperament. Having never been outside
of the tropics before, he found many phenomena off Cape Horn, which
absorbed his attention, and set him, like other philosophers, to feign
theories corresponding to the marvels he beheld. At the first snow,
when he saw the deck covered all over with a white powder, as it were,
he expanded his eyes into stewpans; but upon examining the strange
substance, he decided that this must be a species of super-fine flower,
such as was compounded into his master's "_duffs_," and other dainties.
In vain did an experienced natural philosopher belonging to the
fore-top maintain before his face, that in this hypothesis Wooloo was
mistaken. Wooloo's opinion remained unchanged for some time.

As for the hailstones, they transported him; he went about with a
bucket, making collections, and receiving contributions, for the
purpose of carrying them home to his sweethearts for glass beads; but
having put his bucket away, and returning to it again, and finding
nothing but a little water, he accused the by-standers of stealing his
precious stones.

This suggests another story concerning him. The first time he was given
a piece of "duff" to eat, he was observed to pick out very carefully
every raisin, and throw it away, with a gesture indicative of the
highest disgust. It turned out that he had taken the raisins for bugs.

In our man-of-war, this semi-savage, wandering about the gun-deck in
his barbaric robe, seemed a being from some other sphere. His tastes
were our abominations: ours his. Our creed he rejected: his we. We
thought him a loon: he fancied us fools. Had the case been reversed;
had we been Polynesians and he an American, our mutual opinion of each
other would still have remained the same. A fact proving that neither
was wrong, but both right.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE NIGHT-WATCHES.


Though leaving the Cape behind us, the severe cold still continued, and
one of its worst consequences was the almost incurable drowsiness
induced thereby during the long night-watches. All along the decks,
huddled between the guns, stretched out on the carronade slides, and in
every accessible nook and corner, you would see the sailors wrapped in
their monkey jackets, in a state of half-conscious torpidity, lying
still and freezing alive, without the power to rise and shake
themselves.

"Up--up, you lazy dogs!" our good-natured Third Lieutenant, a
Virginian, would cry, rapping them with his speaking trumpet. "Get up,
and stir about."

But in vain. They would rise for an instant, and as soon as his back
was turned, down they would drop, as if shot through the heart.

Often I have lain thus when the fact, that if I laid much longer I
would actually freeze to death, would come over me with such
overpowering force as to break the icy spell, and starting to my feet,
I would endeavour to go through the combined manual and pedal exercise
to restore the circulation. The first fling of my benumbed arm
generally struck me in the face, instead of smiting my chest, its true
destination. But in these cases one's muscles have their own way.

In exercising my other extremities, I was obliged to hold on to
something, and leap with both feet; for my limbs seemed as destitute of
joints as a pair of canvas pants spread to dry, and frozen stiff.

When an order was given to haul the braces--which required the strength
of the entire watch, some two hundred men--a spectator would have
supposed that all hands had received a stroke of the palsy. Roused from
their state of enchantment, they came halting and limping across the
decks, falling against each other, and, for a few moments, almost
unable to handle the ropes. The slightest exertion seemed intolerable;
and frequently a body of eighty or a hundred men summoned to brace the
main-yard, would hang over the rope for several minutes, waiting for
some active fellow to pick it up and put it into their hands. Even
then, it was some time before they were able to do anything. They made
all the motions usual in hauling a rope, but it was a long time before
the yard budged an inch. It was to no purpose that the officers swore
at them, or sent the midshipmen among them to find out who those
"_horse-marines_" and "_sogers_" were. The sailors were so enveloped in
monkey jackets, that in the dark night there was no telling one from
the other.

"Here, _you_, sir!" cries little Mr. Pert eagerly catching hold of the
skirts of an old sea-dog, and trying to turn him round, so as to peer
under his tarpaulin. "Who are _you_, sir? What's your name?"

"Find out, Milk-and-Water," was the impertinent rejoinder.

"Blast you! you old rascal; I'll have you licked for that! Tell me his
name, some of you!" turning round to the bystanders.

"Gammon!" cries a voice at a distance.

"Hang me, but I know _you_, sir! and here's at you!" and, so saying,
Mr. Pert drops the impenetrable unknown, and makes into the crowd after
the bodiless voice. But the attempt to find an owner for that voice is
quite as idle as the effort to discover the contents of the monkey
jacket.

And here sorrowful mention must be made of something which, during this
state of affairs, most sorely afflicted me. Most monkey jackets are of
a dark hue; mine, as I have fifty times repeated, and say again, was
white. And thus, in those long, dark nights, when it was my
quarter-watch on deck, and not in the top, and others went skulking and
"sogering" about the decks, secure from detection--their identity
undiscoverable--my own hapless jacket for ever proclaimed the name of
its wearer. It gave me many a hard job, which otherwise I should have
escaped. When an officer wanted a man for any particular duty--running
aloft, say, to communicate some slight order to the captains of the
tops--how easy, in that mob of incognitoes, to individualise "_that
white jacket_," and dispatch him on the errand. Then, it would never do
for me to hang back when the ropes were being pulled.

Indeed, upon all these occasions, such alacrity and cheerfulness was I
obliged to display, that I was frequently held up as an illustrious
example of activity, which the rest were called upon to emulate.
"Pull--pull! you lazy lubbers! Look at White-Jacket, there; pull like
him!"

Oh! how I execrated my luckless garment; how often I scoured the deck
with it to give it a tawny hue; how often I supplicated the inexorable
Brush, captain of the paint-room, for just one brushful of his
invaluable pigment. Frequently, I meditated giving it a toss overboard;
but I had not the resolution. Jacketless at sea! Jacketless so near
Cape Horn! The thought was unendurable. And, at least, my garment was a
jacket in name, if not in utility.

At length I essayed a "swap." "Here, Bob," said I, assuming all
possible suavity, and accosting a mess-mate with a sort of diplomatic
assumption of superiority, "suppose I was ready to part with this
'grego' of mine, and take yours in exchange--what would you give me to
boot?"

"Give you to _boot?_" he exclaimed, with horror; "I wouldn't take your
infernal jacket for a gift!"

How I hailed every snow-squall; for then--blessings on them!--many of
the men became _white-jackets_ along with myself; and, powdered with
the flakes, we all looked like millers.

We had six lieutenants, all of whom, with the exception of the First
Lieutenant, by turns headed the watches. Three of these officers,
including Mad Jack, were strict disciplinarians, and never permitted us
to lay down on deck during the night. And, to tell the truth, though it
caused much growling, it was far better for our health to be thus kept
on our feet. So promenading was all the vogue. For some of us, however,
it was like pacing in a dungeon; for, as we had to keep at our
stations--some at the halyards, some at the braces, and elsewhere--and
were not allowed to stroll about indefinitely, and fairly take the
measure of the ship's entire keel, we were fain to confine ourselves to
the space of a very few feet. But the worse of this was soon over. The
suddenness of the change in the temperature consequent on leaving Cape
Horn, and steering to the northward with a ten-knot breeze, is a
noteworthy thing. To-day, you are assailed by a blast that seems to
have edged itself on icebergs; but in a little more than a week, your
jacket may be superfluous.

One word more about Cape Horn, and we have done with it.

Years hence, when a ship-canal shall have penetrated the Isthmus of
Darien, and the traveller be taking his seat in the ears at Cape Cod
for Astoria, it will be held a thing almost incredible that, for so
long a period, vessels bound to the Nor'-west Coast from New York
should, by going round Cape Horn, have lengthened their voyages some
thousands of miles. "In those unenlightened days" (I quote, in advance,
the language of some future philosopher), "entire years were frequently
consumed in making the voyage to and from the Spice Islands, the
present fashionable watering-place of the beau-monde of Oregon." Such
must be our national progress.

Why, sir, that boy of yours will, one of these days, be sending your
grandson to the salubrious city of Jeddo to spend his summer vacations.




CHAPTER XXX.

A PEEP THROUGH A PORT-HOLE AT THE SUBTERRANEAN PARTS OF A MAN-OF-WAR.


While now running rapidly away from the bitter coast of Patagonia,
battling with the night-watches--still cold--as best we may; come under
the lee of my white-jacket, reader, while I tell of the less painful
sights to be seen in a frigate.

A hint has already been conveyed concerning the subterranean depths of
the Neversink's hold. But there is no time here to speak of the
_spirit-room_, a cellar down in the after-hold, where the sailor's
"grog" is kept; nor of the _cabletiers_, where the great hawsers and
chains are piled, as you see them at a large ship-chandler's on shore;
nor of the grocer's vaults, where tierces of sugar, molasses, vinegar,
rice, and flour are snugly stowed; nor of the _sail-room_, full as a
sail-maker's loft ashore--piled up with great top-sails and
top-gallant-sails, all ready-folded in their places, like so many white
vests in a gentleman's wardrobe; nor of the copper and copper-fastened
_magazine_, closely packed with kegs of powder, great-gun and small-arm
cartridges; nor of the immense _shot-lockers_, or subterranean
arsenals, full as a bushel of apples with twenty-four-pound balls; nor
of the _bread-room_, a large apartment, tinned all round within to keep
out the mice, where the hard biscuit destined for the consumption of
five hundred men on a long voyage is stowed away by the cubic yard; nor
of the vast iron tanks for fresh water in the hold, like the reservoir
lakes at Fairmount, in Philadelphia; nor of the _paint-room_, where the
kegs of white-lead, and casks of linseed oil, and all sorts of pots and
brushes, are kept; nor of the _armoror's smithy_, where the ship's
forges and anvils may be heard ringing at times; I say I have no time
to speak of these things, and many more places of note.

But there is one very extensive warehouse among the rest that needs
special mention--_the ship's Yeoman's storeroom_. In the Neversink it
was down in the ship's basement, beneath the berth-deck, and you went
to it by way of the _Fore-passage_, a very dim, devious corridor,
indeed. Entering--say at noonday--you find yourself in a gloomy
apartment, lit by a solitary lamp. On one side are shelves, filled with
balls of _marline, ratlin-stuf, seizing-stuff, spun-yarn_, and numerous
twines of assorted sizes. In another direction you see large cases
containing heaps of articles, reminding one of a shoemaker's
furnishing-store--wooden _serving-mallets, fids, toggles_, and
_heavers:_ iron _prickers_ and _marling-spikes;_ in a third quarter you
see a sort of hardware shop--shelves piled with all manner of hooks,
bolts, nails, screws, and _thimbles;_ and, in still another direction,
you see a block-maker's store, heaped up with lignum-vitae sheeves and
wheels.

Through low arches in the bulkhead beyond, you peep in upon distant
vaults and catacombs, obscurely lighted in the far end, and showing
immense coils of new ropes, and other bulky articles, stowed in tiers,
all savouring of tar.

But by far the most curious department of these mysterious store-rooms
is the armoury, where the spikes, cutlasses, pistols, and belts,
forming the arms of the boarders in time of action, are hung against
the walls, and suspended in thick rows from the beams overhead. Here,
too, are to be seen scores of Colt's patent revolvers, which, though
furnished with but one tube, multiply the fatal bullets, as the naval
cat-o'-nine-tails, with a cannibal cruelty, in one blow nine times
multiplies a culprit's lashes; so that when a sailor is ordered one
dozen lashes, the sentence should read one hundred and eight. All these
arms are kept in the brightest order, wearing a fine polish, and may
truly be said to _reflect_ credit on the Yeoman and his mates.

Among the lower grade of officers in a man-of-war, that of Yeoman is
not the least important. His responsibilities are denoted by his pay.
While the _petty officers_, quarter-gunners, captains of the tops, and
others, receive but fifteen and eighteen dollars a month--but little
more than a mere able seamen--the Yeoman in an American line-of-battle
ship receives forty dollars, and in a frigate thirty-five dollars per
month.

He is accountable for all the articles under his charge, and on no
account must deliver a yard of twine or a ten-penny nail to the
boatswain or carpenter, unless shown a written requisition and order
from the Senior Lieutenant. The Yeoman is to be found burrowing in his
underground store-rooms all the day long, in readiness to serve
licensed customers. But in the counter, behind which he usually stands,
there is no place for a till to drop the shillings in, which takes away
not a little from the most agreeable part of a storekeeper's duties.
Nor, among the musty, old account-books in his desk, where he registers
all expenditures of his stuffs, is there any cash or check book.

The Yeoman of the Neversink was a somewhat odd specimen of a
Troglodyte. He was a little old man, round-shouldered, bald-headed,
with great goggle-eyes, looking through portentous round spectacles,
which he called his _barnacles_. He was imbued with a wonderful zeal
for the naval service, and seemed to think that, in keeping his pistols
and cutlasses free from rust, he preserved the national honour
untarnished. After _general quarters_, it was amusing to watch his
anxious air as the various _petty officers_ restored to him the arms
used at the martial exercises of the crew. As successive bundles would
be deposited on his counter, he would count over the pistols and
cutlasses, like an old housekeeper telling over her silver forks and
spoons in a pantry before retiring for the night. And often, with a
sort of dark lantern in his hand, he might be seen poking into his
furthest vaults and cellars, and counting over his great coils of
ropes, as if they were all jolly puncheons of old Port and Madeira.

By reason of his incessant watchfulness and unaccountable bachelor
oddities, it was very difficult for him to retain in his employment the
various sailors who, from time to time, were billeted with him to do
the duty of subalterns. In particular, he was always desirous of having
at least one steady, faultless young man, of a literary taste, to keep
an eye to his account-books, and swab out the armoury every morning. It
was an odious business this, to be immured all day in such a bottomless
hole, among tarry old ropes and villainous guns and pistols. It was
with peculiar dread that I one day noticed the goggle-eyes of _Old
Revolver_, as they called him, fastened upon me with a fatal glance of
good-will and approbation. He had somehow heard of my being a very
learned person, who could both read and write with extraordinary
facility; and moreover that I was a rather reserved youth, who kept his
modest, unassuming merits in the background. But though, from the keen
sense of my situation as a man-of-war's-man all this about my keeping
myself in the _back_ ground was true enough, yet I had no idea of
hiding my diffident merits _under_ ground. I became alarmed at the old
Yeoman's goggling glances, lest he should drag me down into tarry
perdition in his hideous store-rooms. But this fate was providentially
averted, owing to mysterious causes which I never could fathom.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE GUNNER UNDER HATCHES.


Among such a crowd of marked characters as were to be met with on board
our frigate, many of whom moved in mysterious circles beneath the
lowermost deck, and at long intervals flitted into sight like
apparitions, and disappeared again for whole weeks together, there were
some who inordinately excited my curiosity, and whose names, callings,
and precise abodes I industriously sought out, in order to learn
something satisfactory concerning them.

While engaged in these inquiries, often fruitless, or but partially
gratified, I could not but regret that there was no public printed
Directory for the Neversink, such as they have in large towns,
containing an alphabetic list of all the crew, and where they might be
found. Also, in losing myself in some remote, dark corner of the bowels
of the frigate, in the vicinity of the various store-rooms, shops, and
warehouses, I much lamented that no enterprising tar had yet thought of
compiling a _Hand-book of the Neversink_, so that the tourist might
have a reliable guide.

Indeed, there were several parts of the ship under hatches shrouded in
mystery, and completely inaccessible to the sailor.

Wondrous old doors, barred and bolted in dingy bulkheads, must have
opened into regions full of interest to a successful explorer.

They looked like the gloomy entrances to family vaults of buried dead;
and when I chanced to see some unknown functionary insert his key, and
enter these inexplicable apartments with a battle-lantern, as if on
solemn official business, I almost quaked to dive in with him, and
satisfy myself whether these vaults indeed contained the mouldering
relics of by-gone old Commodores and Post-captains. But the habitations
of the living commodore and captain--their spacious and curtained
cabins--were themselves almost as sealed volumes, and I passed them in
hopeless wonderment, like a peasant before a prince's palace. Night and
day armed sentries guarded their sacred portals, cutlass in hand; and
had I dared to cross their path, I would infallibly have been cut down,
as if in battle. Thus, though for a period of more than a year I was an
inmate of this floating box of live-oak, yet there were numberless
things in it that, to the last, remained wrapped in obscurity, or
concerning which I could only lose myself in vague speculations. I was
as a Roman Jew of the Middle Ages, confined to the Jews' quarter of the
town, and forbidden to stray beyond my limits. Or I was as a modern
traveller in the same famous city, forced to quit it at last without
gaining ingress to the most mysterious haunts--the innermost shrine of
the Pope, and the dungeons and cells of the Inquisition.

But among all the persons and things on board that puzzled me, and
filled me most with strange emotions of doubt, misgivings and mystery,
was the Gunner--a short, square, grim man, his hair and beard grizzled
and singed, as if with gunpowder. His skin was of a flecky brown, like
the stained barrel of a fowling-piece, and his hollow eyes burned in
his head like blue-lights. He it was who had access to many of those
mysterious vaults I have spoken of. Often he might be seen groping his
way into them, followed by his subalterns, the old quarter-gunners, as
if intent upon laying a train of powder to blow up the ship. I
remembered Guy Fawkes and the Parliament-house, and made earnest
inquiry whether this gunner was a Roman Catholic. I felt relieved when
informed that he was not.

A little circumstance which one of his _mates_ once told me heightened
the gloomy interest with which I regarded his chief. He told me that,
at periodical intervals, his master the Gunner, accompanied by his
phalanx, entered into the great Magazine under the Gun-room, of which
he had sole custody and kept the key, nearly as big as the key of the
Bastile, and provided with lanterns, something like Sir Humphrey Davy's
Safety-lamp for coal mines, proceeded to turn, end for end, all the
kegs of powder and packages of cartridges stored in this innermost
explosive vault, lined throughout with sheets of copper. In the
vestibule of the Magazine, against the panelling, were several pegs for
slippers, and, before penetrating further than that vestibule, every
man of the gunner's gang silently removed his shoes, for fear that the
nails in their heels might possibly create a spark, by striking against
the coppered floor within. Then, with slippered feet and with hushed
whispers, they stole into the heart of the place.

This turning of the powder was to preserve its inflammability. And
surely it was a business full of direful interest, to be buried so deep
below the sun, handling whole barrels of powder, any one of which,
touched by the smallest spark, was powerful enough to blow up a whole
street of warehouses.

The gunner went by the name of _Old Combustibles_, though I thought
this an undignified name for so momentous a personage, who had all our
lives in his hand.

While we lay in Callao, we received from shore several barrels of
powder. So soon as the _launch_ came alongside with them, orders were
given to extinguish all lights and all fires in the ship; and the
master-at-arms and his corporals inspected every deck to see that this
order was obeyed; a very prudent precaution, no doubt, but not observed
at all in the Turkish navy. The Turkish sailors will sit on their
gun-carriages, tranquilly smoking, while kegs of powder are being
rolled under their ignited pipe-bowls. This shows the great comfort
there is in the doctrine of these Fatalists, and how such a doctrine,
in some things at least, relieves men from nervous anxieties. But we
all are Fatalists at bottom. Nor need we so much marvel at the heroism
of that army officer, who challenged his personal foe to bestride a
barrel of powder with him--the match to be placed between them--and be
blown up in good company, for it is pretty certain that the whole earth
itself is a vast hogshead, full of inflammable materials, and which we
are always bestriding; at the same time, that all good Christians
believe that at any minute the last day may come and the terrible
combustion of the entire planet ensue.

As if impressed with a befitting sense of the awfulness of his calling,
our gunner always wore a fixed expression of solemnity, which was
heightened by his grizzled hair and beard. But what imparted such a
sinister look to him, and what wrought so upon my imagination
concerning this man, was a frightful scar crossing his left cheek and
forehead. He had been almost mortally wounded, they said, with a
sabre-cut, during a frigate engagement in the last war with Britain.

He was the most methodical, exact, and punctual of all the forward
officers. Among his other duties, it pertained to him, while in
harbour, to see that at a certain hour in the evening one of the great
guns was discharged from the forecastle, a ceremony only observed in a
flag-ship. And always at the precise moment you might behold him
blowing his match, then applying it; and with that booming thunder in
his ear, and the smell of the powder in his hair, he retired to his
hammock for the night. What dreams he must have had!

The same precision was observed when ordered to fire a gun to _bring
to_ some ship at sea; for, true to their name, and preserving its
applicability, even in times of peace, all men-of-war are great bullies
on the high seas. They domineer over the poor merchantmen, and with a
hissing hot ball sent bowling across the ocean, compel them to stop
their headway at pleasure.

It was enough to make you a man of method for life, to see the gunner
superintending his subalterns, when preparing the main-deck batteries
for a great national salute. While lying in harbour, intelligence
reached us of the lamentable casualty that befell certain high officers
of state, including the acting Secretary of the Navy himself, some
other member of the President's cabinet, a Commodore, and others, all
engaged in experimenting upon a new-fangled engine of war. At the same
time with the receipt of this sad news, orders arrived to fire
minute-guns for the deceased head of the naval department. Upon this
occasion the gunner was more than usually ceremonious, in seeing that
the long twenty-fours were thoroughly loaded and rammed down, and then
accurately marked with chalk, so as to be discharged in undeviating
rotation, first from the larboard side, and then from the starboard.

But as my ears hummed, and all my bones danced in me with the
reverberating din, and my eyes and nostrils were almost suffocated with
the smoke, and when I saw this grim old gunner firing away so solemnly,
I thought it a strange mode of honouring a man's memory who had himself
been slaughtered by a cannon. Only the smoke, that, after rolling in at
the port-holes, rapidly drifted away to leeward, and was lost to view,
seemed truly emblematical touching the personage thus honoured, since
that great non-combatant, the Bible, assures us that our life is but a
vapour, that quickly passeth away.




CHAPTER XXXII.

A DISH OF DUNDERFUNK.


In men-of-war, the space on the uppermost deck, round about the
main-mast, is the Police-office, Court-house, and yard of execution,
where all charges are lodged, causes tried, and punishment
administered. In frigate phrase, to be _brought up to the mast_, is
equivalent to being presented before the grand-jury, to see whether a
true bill will be found against you.

From the merciless, inquisitorial _baiting_, which sailors, charged
with offences, too often experience _at the mast_, that vicinity is
usually known among them as the _bull-ring_.

The main-mast, moreover, is the only place where the sailor can hold
formal communication with the captain and officers. If any one has been
robbed; if any one has been evilly entreated; if any one's character
has been defamed; if any one has a request to present; if any one has
aught important for the executive of the ship to know--straight to the
main-mast he repairs; and stands there--generally with his hat
off--waiting the pleasure of the officer of the deck, to advance and
communicate with him. Often, the most ludicrous scenes occur, and the
most comical complaints are made.

One clear, cold morning, while we were yet running away from the Cape,
a raw boned, crack-pated Down Easter, belonging to the Waist, made his
appearance at the mast, dolefully exhibiting a blackened tin pan,
bearing a few crusty traces of some sort of a sea-pie, which had been
cooked in it.

"Well, sir, what now?" said the Lieutenant of the Deck, advancing.

"They stole it, sir; all my nice _dunderfunk_, sir; they did, sir,"
whined the Down Easter, ruefully holding up his pan. "Stole your
_dunderfunk!_ what's that?"

"_Dunderfunk_, sir, _dunderfunk_; a cruel nice dish as ever man put
into him."

"Speak out, sir; what's the matter?"

"My _dunderfunk_, sir--as elegant a dish of _dunderfunk_ as you ever
see, sir--they stole it, sir!"

"Go forward, you rascal!" cried the Lieutenant, in a towering rage, "or
else stop your whining. Tell me, what's the matter?"

"Why, sir, them 'ere two fellows, Dobs and Hodnose, stole my
_dunderfunk_."

"Once more, sir, I ask what that _dundledunk_ is? Speak!" "As cruel a
nice----"

"Be off, sir! sheer!" and muttering something about _non compos
mentis_, the Lieutenant stalked away; while the Down Easter beat a
melancholy retreat, holding up his pan like a tambourine, and making
dolorous music on it as he went.

"Where are you going with that tear in your eye, like a travelling
rat?" cried a top-man.


"Oh! he's going home to Down East," said another; "so far eastward, you
know, _shippy_, that they have to pry up the sun with a handspike."

To make this anecdote plainer, be it said that, at sea, the monotonous
round of salt beef and pork at the messes of the sailors--where but
very few of the varieties of the season are to be found--induces them
to adopt many contrivances in order to diversify their meals. Hence the
various sea-rolls, made dishes, and Mediterranean pies, well known by
men-of-war's-men--_Scouse, Lob-scouse, Soft-Tack, Soft-Tommy,
Skillagalee, Burgoo, Dough-boys, Lob-Dominion, Dog's-Body_, and lastly,
and least known, _Dunderfunk_; all of which come under the general
denomination of _Manavalins_.

_Dunderfunk_ is made of hard biscuit, hashed and pounded, mixed with
beef fat, molasses, and water, and baked brown in a pan. And to those
who are beyond all reach of shore delicacies, this _dunderfunk_, in the
feeling language of the Down Easter, is certainly "_a cruel nice dish_."

Now the only way that a sailor, after preparing his _dunderfunk_, could
get it cooked on board the Neversink, was by slily going to _Old
Coffee_, the ship's cook, and bribing him to put it into his oven. And
as some such dishes or other are well known to be all the time in the
oven, a set of unprincipled gourmands are constantly on the look-out
for the chance of stealing them. Generally, two or three league
together, and while one engages _Old Coffee_ in some interesting
conversation touching his wife and family at home, another snatches the
first thing he can lay hands on in the oven, and rapidly passes it to
the third man, who at his earliest leisure disappears with it.

In this manner had the Down Easter lost his precious pie, and afterward
found the empty pan knocking about the forecastle.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

A FLOGGING.


If you begin the day with a laugh, you may, nevertheless, end it with a
sob and a sigh.

Among the many who were exceedingly diverted with the scene between the
Down Easter and the Lieutenant, none laughed more heartily than John,
Peter, Mark, and Antone--four sailors of the starboard-watch. The same
evening these four found themselves prisoners in the "brig," with a
sentry standing over them. They were charged with violating a
well-known law of the ship--having been engaged in one of those
tangled, general fights sometimes occurring among sailors. They had
nothing to anticipate but a flogging, at the captain's pleasure.

Toward evening of the next day, they were startled by the dread summons
of the boatswain and his mates at the principal hatchway--a summons
that ever sends a shudder through every manly heart in a frigate:

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

The hoarseness of the cry, its unrelenting prolongation, its being
caught up at different points, and sent through the lowermost depths of
the ship; all this produces a most dismal effect upon every heart not
calloused by long habituation to it.

However much you may desire to absent yourself from the scene that
ensues, yet behold it you must; or, at least, stand near it you must;
for the regulations enjoin the attendance of the entire ship's company,
from the corpulent Captain himself to the smallest boy who strikes the
bell.

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

To the sensitive seaman that summons sounds like a doom. He knows that
the same law which impels it--the same law by which the culprits of the
day must suffer; that by that very law he also is liable at any time to
be judged and condemned. And the inevitableness of his own presence at
the scene; the strong arm that drags him in view of the scourge, and
holds him there till all is over; forcing upon his loathing eye and
soul the sufferings and groans of men who have familiarly consorted
with him, eaten with him, battled out watches with him--men of his own
type and badge--all this conveys a terrible hint of the omnipotent
authority under which he lives. Indeed, to such a man the naval summons
to witness punishment carries a thrill, somewhat akin to what we may
impute to the quick and the dead, when they shall hear the Last Trump,
that is to bid them all arise in their ranks, and behold the final
penalties inflicted upon the sinners of our race.

But it must not be imagined that to all men-of-war's-men this summons
conveys such poignant emotions; but it is hard to decide whether one
should be glad or sad that this is not the case; whether it is grateful
to know that so much pain is avoided, or whether it is far sadder to
think that, either from constitutional hard-heartedness or the
multiplied searings of habit, hundreds of men-of-war's-men have been
made proof against the sense of degradation, pity, and shame.

As if in sympathy with the scene to be enacted, the sun, which the day
previous had merrily flashed upon the tin pan of the disconsolate Down
Easter, was now setting over the dreary waters, veiling itself in
vapours. The wind blew hoarsely in the cordage; the seas broke heavily
against the bows; and the frigate, staggering under whole top-sails,
strained as in agony on her way.

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

At the summons the crew crowded round the main-mast; multitudes eager
to obtain a good place on the booms, to overlook the scene; many
laughing and chatting, others canvassing the case of the culprits; some
maintaining sad, anxious countenances, or carrying a suppressed
indignation in their eyes; a few purposely keeping behind to avoid
looking on; in short, among five hundred men, there was every possible
shade of character.

All the officers--midshipmen included--stood together in a group on the
starboard side of the main-mast; the First Lieutenant in advance, and
the surgeon, whose special duty it is to be present at such times,
standing close by his side.

Presently the Captain came forward from his cabin, and stood in the
centre of this solemn group, with a small paper in his hand. That paper
was the daily report of offences, regularly laid upon his table every
morning or evening, like the day's journal placed by a bachelor's
napkin at breakfast.

"Master-at-arms, bring up the prisoners," he said.

A few moments elapsed, during which the Captain, now clothed in his
most dreadful attributes, fixed his eyes severely upon the crew, when
suddenly a lane formed through the crowd of seamen, and the prisoners
advanced--the master-at-arms, rattan in hand, on one side, and an armed
marine on the other--and took up their stations at the mast.

"You John, you Peter, you Mark, you Antone," said the Captain, "were
yesterday found fighting on the gun-deck. Have you anything to say?"

Mark and Antone, two steady, middle-aged men, whom I had often admired
for their sobriety, replied that they did not strike the first blow;
that they had submitted to much before they had yielded to their
passions; but as they acknowledged that they had at last defended
themselves, their excuse was overruled.

John--a brutal bully, who, it seems, was the real author of the
disturbance--was about entering into a long extenuation, when he was
cut short by being made to confess, irrespective of circumstances, that
he had been in the fray.

Peter, a handsome lad about nineteen years old, belonging to the
mizzen-top, looked pale and tremulous. He was a great favourite in his
part of the ship, and especially in his own mess, principally composed
of lads of his own age. That morning two of his young mess-mates had
gone to his bag, taken out his best clothes, and, obtaining the
permission of the marine sentry at the "brig," had handed them to him,
to be put on against being summoned to the mast. This was done to
propitiate the Captain, as most captains love to see a tidy sailor. But
it would not do. To all his supplications the Captain turned a deaf
ear. Peter declared that he had been struck twice before he had
returned a blow. "No matter," said the Captain, "you struck at last,
instead of reporting the case to an officer. I allow no man to fight on
board here but myself. I do the fighting."

"Now, men," he added, "you all admit the charge; you know the penalty.
Strip! Quarter-masters, are the gratings rigged?"

The gratings are square frames of barred wood-work, sometimes placed
over the hatchways. One of these squares was now laid on the deck,
close to the ship's bulwarks, and while the remaining preparations were
being made, the master-at-arms assisted the prisoners in removing their
jackets and shirts. This done, their shirts were loosely thrown over
their shoulders.

At a sign from the Captain, John, with a shameless leer, advanced, and
stood passively upon the grating, while the bare-headed old
quarter-master, with grey hair streaming in the wind, bound his feet to
the cross-bars, and, stretching out his arms over his head, secured
them to the hammock-nettings above. He then retreated a little space,
standing silent.

Meanwhile, the boatswain stood solemnly on the other side, with a green
bag in his hand, from which, taking four instruments of punishment, he
gave one to each of his mates; for a fresh "cat" applied by a fresh
hand, is the ceremonious privilege accorded to every man-of-war culprit.

At another sign from the Captain, the master-at-arms, stepping up,
removed the shirt from the prisoner. At this juncture a wave broke
against the ship's side, and clashed the spray over his exposed back.
But though the air was piercing cold, and the water drenched him, John
stood still, without a shudder.

The Captain's finger was now lifted, and the first boatswain's-mate
advanced, combing out the nine tails of his _cat_ with his hand, and
then, sweeping them round his neck, brought them with the whole force
of his body upon the mark. Again, and again, and again; and at every
blow, higher and higher rose the long, purple bars on the prisoner's
back. But he only bowed over his head, and stood still. Meantime, some
of the crew whispered among themselves in applause of their ship-mate's
nerve; but the greater part were breathlessly silent as the keen
scourge hissed through the wintry air, and fell with a cutting, wiry
sound upon the mark. One dozen lashes being applied, the man was taken
down, and went among the crew with a smile, saying, "D----n me! it's
nothing when you're used to it! Who wants to fight?"

The next was Antone, the Portuguese. At every blow he surged from side
to side, pouring out a torrent of involuntary blasphemies. Never before
had he been heard to curse. When cut down, he went among the men,
swearing to have the life of the Captain. Of course, this was unheard
by the officers.

Mark, the third prisoner, only cringed and coughed under his
punishment. He had some pulmonary complaint. He was off duty for
several days after the flogging; but this was partly to be imputed to
his extreme mental misery. It was his first scourging, and he felt the
insult more than the injury. He became silent and sullen for the rest
of the cruise.

The fourth and last was Peter, the mizzen-top lad. He had often boasted
that he had never been degraded at the gangway. The day before his
cheek had worn its usual red but now no ghost was whiter. As he was
being secured to the gratings, and the shudderings and creepings of his
dazzlingly white back were revealed, he turned round his head
imploringly; but his weeping entreaties and vows of contrition were of
no avail. "I would not forgive God Almighty!" cried the Captain. The
fourth boatswain's-mate advanced, and at the first blow, the boy,
shouting "_My God! Oh! my God!_" writhed and leaped so as to displace
the gratings, and scatter the nine tails of the scourge all over his
person. At the next blow he howled, leaped, and raged in unendurable
torture.

"What are you stopping for, boatswain's-mate?" cried the Captain. "Lay
on!" and the whole dozen was applied.

"I don't care what happens to me now!" wept Peter, going among the
crew, with blood-shot eyes, as he put on his shirt. "I have been
flogged once, and they may do it again, if they will. Let them look for
me now!"

"Pipe down!" cried the Captain, and the crew slowly dispersed.

Let us have the charity to believe them--as we do--when some Captains
in the Navy say, that the thing of all others most repulsive to them,
in the routine of what they consider their duty, is the administration
of corporal punishment upon the crew; for, surely, not to feel
scarified to the quick at these scenes would argue a man but a beast.

You see a human being, stripped like a slave; scourged worse than a
hound. And for what? For things not essentially criminal, but only made
so by arbitrary laws.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

SOME OF THE EVIL EFFECTS OF FLOGGING.


There are incidental considerations touching this matter of flogging,
which exaggerate the evil into a great enormity. Many illustrations
might be given, but let us be content with a few.

One of the arguments advanced by officers of the Navy in favour of
corporal punishment is this: it can be inflicted in a moment; it
consumes no valuable time; and when the prisoner's shirt is put on,
_that_ is the last of it. Whereas, if another punishment were
substituted, it would probably occasion a great waste of time and
trouble, besides thereby begetting in the sailor an undue idea of his
importance.

Absurd, or worse than absurd, as it may appear, all this is true; and
if you start from the same premises with these officers, you, must
admit that they advance an irresistible argument. But in accordance
with this principle, captains in the Navy, to a certain extent, inflict
the scourge--which is ever at hand--for nearly all degrees of
transgression. In offences not cognisable by a court-martial, little,
if any, discrimination is shown. It is of a piece with the penal laws
that prevailed in England some sixty years ago, when one hundred and
sixty different offences were declared by the statute-book to be
capital, and the servant-maid who but pilfered a watch was hung beside
the murderer of a family.

It is one of the most common punishments for very trivial offences in
the Navy, to "stop" a seaman's _grog_ for a day or a week. And as most
seamen so cling to their _grog_, the loss of it is generally deemed by
them a very serious penalty. You will sometimes hear them say, "I would
rather have my wind _stopped_ than _my grog!_"

But there are some sober seamen that would much rather draw the money
for it, instead of the grog itself, as provided by law; but they are
too often deterred from this by the thought of receiving a scourging
for some inconsiderable offence, as a substitute for the stopping of
their spirits. This is a most serious obstacle to the cause of
temperance in the Navy. But, in many cases, even the reluctant drawing
of his grog cannot exempt a prudent seaman from ignominy; for besides
the formal administering of the "_cat_" at the gangway for petty
offences, he is liable to the "colt," or rope's-end, a bit of
_ratlin-stuff_, indiscriminately applied--without stripping the
victim--at any time, and in any part of the ship, at the merest wink
from the Captain. By an express order of that officer, most boatswain's
mates carry the "colt" coiled in their hats, in readiness to be
administered at a minute's warning upon any offender. This was the
custom in the Neversink. And until so recent a period as the
administration of President Polk, when the historian Bancroft,
Secretary of the Navy, officially interposed, it was an almost
universal thing for the officers of the watch, at their own discretion,
to inflict chastisement upon a sailor, and this, too, in the face of
the ordinance restricting the power of flogging solely to Captains and
Courts Martial. Nor was it a thing unknown for a Lieutenant, in a
sudden outburst of passion, perhaps inflamed by brandy, or smarting
under the sense of being disliked or hated by the seamen, to order a
whole watch of two hundred and fifty men, at dead of night, to undergo
the indignity of the "colt."

It is believed that, even at the present day, there are instances of
Commanders still violating the law, by delegating the power of the colt
to subordinates. At all events, it is certain that, almost to a man,
the Lieutenants in the Navy bitterly rail against the officiousness of
Bancroft,  in so materially abridging their usurped functions by
snatching the colt from their hands. At the time, they predicted that
this rash and most ill-judged interference of the Secretary would end
in the breaking up of all discipline in the Navy. But it has not so
proved. These officers _now_ predict that, if the "cat" be abolished,
the same unfulfilled prediction would be verified.

Concerning the license with which many captains violate the express
laws laid down by Congress for the government of the Navy, a glaring
instance may be quoted. For upward of forty years there has been on the
American Statute-book a law prohibiting a captain from inflicting, on
his own authority, more than twelve lashes at one time. If more are to
be given, the sentence must be passed by a Court-martial. Yet, for
nearly half a century, this law has been frequently, and with almost
perfect impunity, set at naught: though of late, through the exertions
of Bancroft and others, it has been much better observed than formerly;
indeed, at the present day, it is generally respected. Still, while the
Neversink was lying in a South American port, on the cruise now written
of, the seamen belonging to another American frigate informed us that
their captain sometimes inflicted, upon his own authority, eighteen and
twenty lashes. It is worth while to state that this frigate was vastly
admired by the shore ladies for her wonderfully neat appearance. One of
her forecastle-men told me that he had used up three jack-knives
(charged to him on the books of the purser) in scraping the
belaying-pins and the combings of the hatchways.

It is singular that while the Lieutenants of the watch in American
men-of-war so long usurped the power of inflicting corporal punishment
with the _colt_, few or no similar abuses were known in the English
Navy. And though the captain of an English armed ship is authorised to
inflict, at his own discretion, _more_ than a dozen lashes (I think
three dozen), yet it is to be doubted whether, upon the whole, there is
as much flogging at present in the English Navy as in the American. The
chivalric Virginian, John Randolph of Roanoke, declared, in his place
in Congress, that on board of the American man-of-war that carried him
out Ambassador to Russia he had witnessed more flogging than had taken
place on his own plantation of five hundred African slaves in ten
years. Certain it is, from what I have personally seen, that the
English officers, as a general thing, seem to be less disliked by their
crews than the American officers by theirs. The reason probably is,
that many of them, from their station in life, have been more
accustomed to social command; hence, quarter-deck authority sits more
naturally on them. A coarse, vulgar man, who happens to rise to high
naval rank by the exhibition of talents not incompatible with
vulgarity, invariably proves a tyrant to his crew. It is a thing that
American men-of-war's-men have often observed, that the Lieutenants
from the Southern States, the descendants of the old Virginians, are
much less severe, and much more gentle and gentlemanly in command, than
the Northern officers, as a class.

According to the present laws and usages of the Navy, a seaman, for the
most trivial alleged offences, of which he may be entirely innocent,
must, without a trial, undergo a penalty the traces whereof he carries
to the grave; for to a man-of-war's-man's experienced eye the marks of
a naval scourging with the "_cat_" are through life discernible. And
with these marks on his back, this image of his Creator must rise at
the Last Day. Yet so untouchable is true dignity, that there are cases
wherein to be flogged at the gangway is no dishonour; though, to abase
and hurl down the last pride of some sailor who has piqued him, be
some-times the secret motive, with some malicious officer, in procuring
him to be condemned to the lash. But this feeling of the innate dignity
remaining untouched, though outwardly the body be scarred for the whole
term of the natural life, is one of the hushed things, buried among the
holiest privacies of the soul; a thing between a man's God and himself;
and for ever undiscernible by our fellow-men, who account _that_ a
degradation which seems so to the corporal eye. But what torments must
that seaman undergo who, while his back bleeds at the gangway, bleeds
agonized drops of shame from his soul! Are we not justified in
immeasurably denouncing this thing? Join hands with me, then; and, in
the name of that Being in whose image the flogged sailor is made, let
us demand of Legislators, by what right they dare profane what God
himself accounts sacred.

Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Roman? asks the
intrepid Apostle, well knowing, as a Roman citizen, that it was not.
And now, eighteen hundred years after, is it lawful for you, my
countrymen, to scourge a man that is an American? to scourge him round
the world in your frigates?

It is to no purpose that you apologetically appeal to the general
depravity of the man-of-war's-man. Depravity in the oppressed is no
apology for the oppressor; but rather an additional stigma to him, as
being, in a large degree, the effect, and not the cause and
justification of oppression.




CHAPTER XXXV.

FLOGGING NOT LAWFUL.


It is next to idle, at the present day, merely to denounce an iniquity.
Be ours, then, a different task.

If there are any three things opposed to the genius of the American
Constitution, they are these: irresponsibility in a judge, unlimited
discretionary authority in an executive, and the union of an
irresponsible judge and an unlimited executive in one person.

Yet by virtue of an enactment of Congress, all the Commodores in the
American navy are obnoxious to these three charges, so far as concerns
the punishment of the sailor for alleged misdemeanors not particularly
set forth in the Articles of War.

Here is the enactment in question.

XXXII. _Of the Articles of War_.--"All crimes committed by persons
belonging to the Navy, which are not specified in the foregoing
articles, shall be punished according to the laws and customs in such
cases at sea."

This is the article that, above all others, puts the scourge into the
hands of the Captain, calls him to no account for its exercise, and
furnishes him with an ample warrant for inflictions of cruelty upon the
common sailor, hardly credible to landsmen.

By this article the Captain is made a legislator, as well as a judge
and an executive. So far as it goes, it absolutely leaves to his
discretion to decide what things shall be considered crimes, and what
shall be the penalty; whether an accused person has been guilty of
actions by him declared to be crimes; and how, when, and where the
penalty shall be inflicted.

In the American Navy there is an everlasting suspension of the Habeas
Corpus. Upon the bare allegation of misconduct there is no law to
restrain the Captain from imprisoning a seaman, and keeping him
confined at his pleasure. While I was in the Neversink, the Captain of
an American sloop of war, from undoubted motives of personal pique,
kept a seaman confined in the brig for upward of a month.

Certainly the necessities of navies warrant a code for their government
more stringent than the law that governs the land; but that code should
conform to the spirit of the political institutions of the country that
ordains it. It should not convert into slaves some of the citizens of a
nation of free-men. Such objections cannot be urged against the laws of
the Russian navy (not essentially different from our own), because the
laws of that navy, creating the absolute one-man power in the Captain,
and vesting in him the authority to scourge, conform in spirit to the
territorial laws of Russia, which is ruled by an autocrat, and whose
courts inflict the _knout_ upon the subjects of the land. But with us
it is different. Our institutions claim to be based upon broad
principles of political liberty and equality. Whereas, it would hardly
affect one iota the condition on shipboard of an American
man-of-war's-man, were he transferred to the Russian navy and made a
subject of the Czar.

As a sailor, he shares none of our civil immunities; the law of our
soil in no respect accompanies the national floating timbers grown
thereon, and to which he clings as his home. For him our Revolution was
in vain; to him our Declaration of Independence is a lie.

It is not sufficiently borne in mind, perhaps, that though the naval
code comes under the head of the martial law, yet, in time of peace,
and in the thousand questions arising between man and man on board
ship, this code, to a certain extent, may not improperly be deemed
municipal. With its crew of 800 or 1,000 men, a three-decker is a city
on the sea. But in most of these matters between man and man, the
Captain instead of being a magistrate, dispensing what the law
promulgates, is an absolute ruler, making and unmaking law as he
pleases.

It will be seen that the XXth of the Articles of War provides, that if
any person in the Navy negligently perform the duties assigned him, he
shall suffer such punishment as a court-martial shall adjudge; but if
the offender be a private (common sailor) he may, at the discretion of
the Captain, be put in irons or flogged. It is needless to say, that in
cases where an officer commits a trivial violation of this law, a
court-martial is seldom or never called to sit upon his trial; but in
the sailor's case, he is at once condemned to the lash. Thus, one set
of sea-citizens is exempted from a law that is hung in terror over
others. What would landsmen think, were the State of New York to pass a
law against some offence, affixing a fine as a penalty, and then add to
that law a section restricting its penal operation to mechanics and day
laborers, exempting all gentlemen with an income of one thousand
dollars? Yet thus, in the spirit of its practical operation, even thus,
stands a good part of the naval laws wherein naval flogging is involved.

But a law should be "universal," and include in its possible penal
operations the very judge himself who gives decisions upon it; nay, the
very judge who expounds it. Had Sir William Blackstone violated the
laws of England, he would have been brought before the bar over which
he had presided, and would there have been tried, with the counsel for
the crown reading to him, perhaps, from a copy of his own
_Commentaries_. And should he have been found guilty, he would have
suffered like the meanest subject, "according to law."

How is it in an American frigate? Let one example suffice. By the
Articles of War, and especially by Article I., an American Captain may,
and frequently does, inflict a severe and degrading punishment upon a
sailor, while he himself is for ever removed from the possibility of
undergoing the like disgrace; and, in all probability, from undergoing
any punishment whatever, even if guilty of the same thing--contention
with his equals, for instance--for which he punishes another. Yet both
sailor and captain are American citizens.

Now, in the language of Blackstone, again, there is a law, "coeval with
mankind, dictated by God himself, superior in obligation to any other,
and no human laws are of any validity if contrary to this." That law is
the Law of Nature; among the three great principles of which Justinian
includes "that to every man should be rendered his due." But we have
seen that the laws involving flogging in the Navy do _not_ render to
every man his due, since in some cases they indirectly exclude the
officers from any punishment whatever, and in all cases protect them
from the scourge, which is inflicted upon the sailor. Therefore,
according to Blackstone and Justinian, those laws have no binding
force; and every American man-of-war's-man would be morally justified
in resisting the scourge to the uttermost; and, in so resisting, would
be religiously justified in what would be judicially styled "the act of
mutiny" itself.

If, then, these scourging laws be for any reason necessary, make them
binding upon all who of right come under their sway; and let us see an
honest Commodore, duly authorised by Congress, condemning to the lash a
transgressing Captain by the side of a transgressing sailor. And if the
Commodore himself prove a transgressor, let us see one of his brother
Commodores take up the lash against _him_, even as the boatswain's
mates, the navy executioners, are often called upon to scourge each
other.

Or will you say that a navy officer is a man, but that an American-born
citizen, whose grandsire may have ennobled him by pouring out his blood
at Bunker Hill--will you say that, by entering the service of his
country as a common seaman, and standing ready to fight her foes, he
thereby loses his manhood at the very time he most asserts it? Will you
say that, by so doing, he degrades himself to the liability of the
scourge, but if he tarries ashore in time of danger, he is safe from
that indignity? All our linked states, all four continents of mankind,
unite in denouncing such a thought.

We plant the question, then, on the topmost argument of all.
Irrespective of incidental considerations, we assert that flogging in
the navy is opposed to the essential dignity, of man, which no
legislator has a right to violate; that it is oppressive, and glaringly
unequal in its operations; that it is utterly repugnant to the spirit
of our democratic institutions; indeed, that it involves a lingering
trait of the worst times of a barbarous feudal aristocracy; in a word,
we denounce it as religiously, morally, and immutably _wrong_.

No matter, then, what may be the consequences of its abolition; no
matter if we have to dismantle our fleets, and our unprotected commerce
should fall a prey to the spoiler, the awful admonitions of justice and
humanity demand that abolition without procrastination; in a voice that
is not to be mistaken, demand that abolition today. It is not a
dollar-and-cent question of expediency; it is a matter of _right and
wrong_. And if any man can lay his hand on his heart, and solemnly say
that this scourging is right, let that man but once feel the lash on
his own back, and in his agony you will hear the apostate call the
seventh heavens to witness that it is _wrong_. And, in the name of
immortal manhood, would to God that every man who upholds this thing
were scourged at the gangway till he recanted.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

FLOGGING NOT NECESSARY.


But White-Jacket is ready to come down from the lofty mast-head of an
eternal principle, and fight you--Commodores and Captains of the
navy--on your own quarter-deck, with your own weapons, at your own
paces.

Exempt yourselves from the lash, you take Bible oaths to it that it is
indispensable for others; you swear that, without the lash, no armed
ship can be kept in suitable discipline. Be it proved to you, officers,
and stamped upon your foreheads, that herein you are utterly wrong.

"Send them to Collingwood," said Lord Nelson, "and _he_ will bring them
to order." This was the language of that renowned Admiral, when his
officers reported to him certain seamen of the fleet as wholly
ungovernable. "Send them to Collingwood." And who was Collingwood,
that, after these navy rebels had been imprisoned and scourged without
being brought to order, Collingwood could convert them to docility?

Who Admiral Collinngwood was, as an historical hero, history herself
will tell you; nor, in whatever triumphal hall they may be hanging,
will the captured flags of Trafalgar fail to rustle at the mention of
that name. But what Collingwood was as a disciplinarian on board the
ships he commanded perhaps needs to be said. He was an officer, then,
who held in abhorrence all corporal punishment; who, though seeing more
active service than any sea-officer of his time, yet, for years
together, governed his men without inflicting the lash.

But these seaman of his must have been most exemplary saints to have
proved docile under so lenient a sway. Were they saints? Answer, ye
jails and alms-houses throughout the length and breadth of Great
Britain, which, in Collingwood's time, were swept clean of the last
lingering villain and pauper to man his majesty's fleets.

Still more, _that_ was a period when the uttermost resources of England
were taxed to the quick; when the masts of her multiplied fleets almost
transplanted her forests, all standing to the sea; when British
press-gangs not only boarded foreign ships on the high seas, and
boarded foreign pier-heads, but boarded their own merchantmen at the
mouth of the Thames, and boarded the very fire-sides along its banks;
when Englishmen were knocked down and dragged into the navy, like
cattle into the slaughter-house, with every mortal provocation to a mad
desperation against the service that thus ran their unwilling heads
into the muzzles of the enemy's cannon. _This_ was the time, and
_these_ the men that Collingwood governed without the lash.

I know it has been said that Lord Collingwood began by inflicting
severe punishments, and afterward ruling his sailors by the mere memory
of a by-gone terror, which he could at pleasure revive; and that his
sailors knew this, and hence their good behaviour under a lenient sway.
But, granting the quoted assertion to be true, how comes it that many
American Captains, who, after inflicting as severe punishment as ever
Collingwood could have authorized--how comes it that _they_, also, have
not been able to maintain good order without subsequent floggings,
after once showing to the crew with what terrible attributes they were
invested? But it is notorious, and a thing that I myself, in several
instances, _know_ to have been the case, that in the American navy,
where corporal punishment has been most severe, it has also been most
frequent.

But it is incredible that, with such crews as Lord
Collingwood's--composed, in part, of the most desperate characters, the
rakings of the jails--it is incredible that such a set of men could
have been governed by the mere _memory_ of the lash. Some other
influence must have been brought to bear; mainly, no doubt, the
influence wrought by a powerful brain, and a determined, intrepid
spirit over a miscellaneous rabble.

It is well known that Lord Nelson himself, in point of policy, was
averse to flogging; and that, too, when he had witnessed the mutinous
effects of government abuses in the navy--unknown in our times--and
which, to the terror of all England, developed themselves at the great
mutiny of the Nore: an outbreak that for several weeks jeopardised the
very existence of the British navy.

But we may press this thing nearly two centuries further back, for it
is a matter of historical doubt whether, in Robert Blake's time,
Cromwell's great admiral, such a thing as flogging was known at the
gangways of his victorious fleets. And as in this matter we cannot go
further back than to Blake, so we cannot advance further than to our
own time, which shows Commodore Stockton, during the recent war with
Mexico, governing the American squadron in the Pacific without
employing the scourge.

But if of three famous English Admirals one has abhorred flogging,
another almost governed his ships without it, and to the third it may
be supposed to have been unknown, while an American Commander has,
within the present year almost, been enabled to sustain the good
discipline of an entire squadron in time of war without having an
instrument of scourging on board, what inevitable inferences must be
drawn, and how disastrous to the mental character of all advocates of
navy flogging, who may happen to be navy officers themselves.

It cannot have escaped the discernment of any observer of mankind,
that, in the presence of its conventional inferiors, conscious
imbecility in power often seeks to carry off that imbecility by
assumptions of lordly severity. The amount of flogging on board an
American man-of-war is, in many cases, in exact proportion to the
professional and intellectual incapacity of her officers to command.
Thus, in these cases, the law that authorises flogging does but put a
scourge into the hand of a fool. In most calamitous instances this has
been shown.

It is a matter of record, that some English ships of war have fallen a
prey to the enemy through the insubordination of the crew, induced by
the witless cruelty of their officers; officers so armed by the law
that they could inflict that cruelty without restraint. Nor have there
been wanting instances where the seamen have ran away with their ships,
as in the case of the Hermione and Danae, and forever rid themselves of
the outrageous inflictions of their officers by sacrificing their lives
to their fury.

Events like these aroused the attention of the British public at the
time. But it was a tender theme, the public agitation of which the
government was anxious to suppress. Nevertheless, whenever the thing
was privately discussed, these terrific mutinies, together with the
then prevailing insubordination of the men in the navy, were almost
universally attributed to the exasperating system of flogging. And the
necessity for flogging was generally believed to be directly referable
to the impressment of such crowds of dissatisfied men. And in high
quarters it was held that if, by any mode, the English fleet could be
manned without resource to coercive measures, then the necessity of
flogging would cease.

"If we abolish either impressment or flogging, the abolition of the
other will follow as a matter of course." This was the language of the
_Edinburgh Review_, at a still later period, 1824.

If, then, the necessity of flogging in the British armed marine was
solely attributed to the impressment of the seamen, what faintest
shadow of reason is there for the continuance of this barbarity in the
American service, which is wholly freed from the reproach of
impressment?

It is true that, during a long period of non-impressment, and even down
to the present day, flogging has been, and still is, the law of the
English navy. But in things of this kind England should be nothing to
us, except an example to be shunned. Nor should wise legislators wholly
govern themselves by precedents, and conclude that, since scourging has
so long prevailed, some virtue must reside in it. Not so. The world has
arrived at a period which renders it the part of Wisdom to pay homage
to the prospective precedents of the Future in preference to those of
the Past. The Past is dead, and has no resurrection; but the Future is
endowed with such a life, that it lives to us even in anticipation. The
Past is, in many things, the foe of mankind; the Future is, in all
things, our friend. In the Past is no hope; the Future is both hope and
fruition. The Past is the text-book of tyrants; the Future the Bible of
the Free. Those who are solely governed by the Past stand like Lot's
wife, crystallised in the act of looking backward, and forever
incapable of looking before.

Let us leave the Past, then, to dictate laws to immovable China; let us
abandon it to the Chinese Legitimists of Europe. But for us, we will
have another captain to rule over us--that captain who ever marches at
the head of his troop and beckons them forward, not lingering in the
rear, and impeding their march with lumbering baggage-wagons of old
precedents. _This_ is the Past.

But in many things we Americans are driven to a rejection of the maxims
of the Past, seeing that, ere long, the van of the nations must, of
right, belong to ourselves. There are occasions when it is for America
to make precedents, and not to obey them. We should, if possible, prove
a teacher to posterity, instead of being the pupil of by-gone
generations. More shall come after us than have gone before; the world
is not yet middle-aged.

Escaped from the house of bondage, Israel of old did not follow after
the ways of the Egyptians. To her was given an express dispensation; to
her were given new things under the sun. And we Americans are the
peculiar, chosen people--the Israel of our time; we bear the ark of the
liberties of the world. Seventy years ago we escaped from thrall; and,
besides our first birthright--embracing one continent of earth--God has
given to us, for a future inheritance, the broad domains of the
political pagans, that shall yet come and lie down under the shade of
our ark, without bloody hands being lifted. God has predestinated,
mankind expects, great things from our race; and great things we feel
in our souls. The rest of the nations must soon be in our rear. We are
the pioneers of the world; the advance-guard, sent on through the
wilderness of untried things, to break a new path in the New World that
is ours. In our youth is our strength; in our inexperience, our wisdom.
At a period when other nations have but lisped, our deep voice is heard
afar. Long enough, have we been skeptics with regard to ourselves, and
doubted whether, indeed, the political Messiah had come. But he has
come in us, if we would but give utterance to his promptings. And let
us always remember that with ourselves, almost for the first time in
the history of earth, national selfishness is unbounded philanthropy;
for we can not do a good to America but we give alms to the world.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

SOME SUPERIOR OLD "LONDON DOCK" FROM THE WINE-COOLERS OF NEPTUNE.


We had just slid into pleasant weather, drawing near to the Tropics,
when all hands were thrown into a wonderful excitement by an event that
eloquently appealed to many palates.

A man at the fore-top-sail-yard sung out that there were eight or ten
dark objects floating on the sea, some three points off our lee-bow.

"Keep her off three points!" cried Captain Claret, to the
quarter-master at the _cun_.

And thus, with all our batteries, store-rooms, and five hundred men,
with their baggage, and beds, and provisions, at one move of a round
bit of mahogany, our great-embattled ark edged away for the strangers,
as easily as a boy turns to the right or left in pursuit of insects in
the field.

Directly the man on the top-sail-yard reported the dark objects to be
hogsheads. Instantly all the top-men were straining their eyes, in
delirious expectation of having their long _grog fast_ broken at last,
and that, too, by what seemed an almost miraculous intervention. It was
a curious circumstance that, without knowing the contents of the
hogsheads, they yet seemed certain that the staves encompassed the
thing they longed for.

Sail was now shortened, our headway was stopped, and a cutter was
lowered, with orders to tow the fleet of strangers alongside. The men
sprang to their oars with a will, and soon five goodly puncheons lay
wallowing in the sea, just under the main-chains. We got overboard the
slings, and hoisted them out of the water.

It was a sight that Bacchus and his bacchanals would have gloated over.
Each puncheon was of a deep-green color, so covered with minute
barnacles and shell-fish, and streaming with sea-weed, that it needed
long searching to find out their bung-holes; they looked like venerable
old _loggerhead-turtles._ How long they had been tossing about, and
making voyages for the benefit of the flavour of their contents, no one
could tell. In trying to raft them ashore, or on board of some
merchant-ship, they must have drifted off to sea. This we inferred from
the ropes that length-wise united them, and which, from one point of
view, made them resemble a long sea-serpent. They were _struck_ into
the gun-deck, where, the eager crowd being kept off by sentries, the
cooper was called with his tools.

"Bung up, and bilge free!" he cried, in an ecstasy, flourishing his
driver and hammer.

Upon clearing away the barnacles and moss, a flat sort of shell-fish
was found, closely adhering, like a California-shell, right over one of
the bungs. Doubtless this shell-fish had there taken up his quarters,
and thrown his own body into the breach, in order the better to
preserve the precious contents of the cask. The by-standers were
breathless, when at last this puncheon was canted over and a tin-pot
held to the orifice. What was to come forth? salt-water or wine? But a
rich purple tide soon settled the question, and the lieutenant assigned
to taste it, with a loud and satisfactory smack of his lips, pronounced
it Port!

"Oporto!" cried Mad Jack, "and no mistake!"

But, to the surprise, grief, and consternation of the sailors, an order
now came from the quarter-deck to strike the "strangers down into the
main-hold!" This proceeding occasioned all sorts of censorious
observations upon the Captain, who, of course, had authorised it.

It must be related here that, on the passage out from home, the
Neversink had touched at Madeira; and there, as is often the case with
men-of-war, the Commodore and Captain had laid in a goodly stock of
wines for their own private tables, and the benefit of their foreign
visitors. And although the Commodore was a small, spare man, who
evidently emptied but few glasses, yet Captain Claret was a portly
gentleman, with a crimson face, whose father had fought at the battle
of the Brandywine, and whose brother had commanded the well-known
frigate named in honour of that engagement. And his whole appearance
evinced that Captain Claret himself had fought many Brandywine battles
ashore in honour of his sire's memory, and commanded in many bloodless
Brandywine actions at sea.

It was therefore with some savour of provocation that the sailors held
forth on the ungenerous conduct of Captain Claret, in stepping in
between them and Providence, as it were, which by this lucky windfall,
they held, seemed bent upon relieving their necessities; while Captain
Claret himself, with an inexhaustible cellar, emptied his Madeira
decanters at his leisure.

But next day all hands were electrified by the old familiar sound--so
long hushed--of the drum rolling to grog.

After that the port was served out twice a day, till all was expended.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE CHAPLAIN AND CHAPEL IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


The next day was Sunday; a fact set down in the almanac, spite of
merchant seamen's maxim, that _there are no Sundays of soundings_.

_No Sundays off soundings, _indeed! No Sundays on shipboard! You may as
well say there should be no Sundays in churches; for is not a ship
modeled after a church? has it not three spires--three steeples? yea,
and on the gun-deck, a bell and a belfry? And does not that bell
merrily peal every Sunday morning, to summon the crew to devotions?

At any rate, there were Sundays on board this particular frigate of
ours, and a clergyman also. He was a slender, middle-aged man, of an
amiable deportment and irreproachable conversation; but I must say,
that his sermons were but ill calculated to benefit the crew. He had
drank at the mystic fountain of Plato; his head had been turned by the
Germans; and this I will say, that White-Jacket himself saw him with
Coleridge's Biographia Literaria in his hand.

Fancy, now, this transcendental divine standing behind a gun-carriage
on the main-deck, and addressing five hundred salt-sea sinners upon the
psychological phenomena of the soul, and the ontological necessity of
every sailor's saving it at all hazards. He enlarged upon the follies
of the ancient philosophers; learnedly alluded to the Phiedon of Plato;
exposed the follies of Simplicius's Commentary on Aristotle's "De
Coelo," by arraying against that clever Pagan author the admired tract
of Tertullian--_De Prascriptionibus Haereticorum_--and concluded by a
Sanscrit invocation. He was particularly hard upon the Gnostics and
Marcionites of the second century of the Christian era; but he never,
in the remotest manner, attacked the everyday vices of the nineteenth
century, as eminently illustrated in our man-of-war world. Concerning
drunkenness, fighting, flogging, and oppression--things expressly or
impliedly prohibited by Christianity--he never said aught. But the most
mighty Commodore and Captain sat before him; and in general, if, in a
monarchy, the state form the audience of the church, little evangelical
piety will be preached. Hence, the harmless, non-committal abstrusities
of our Chaplain were not to be wondered at. He was no Massillon, to
thunder forth his ecclesiastical rhetoric, even when a Louis le Grand
was enthroned among his congregation. Nor did the chaplains who
preached on the quarter-deck of Lord Nelson ever allude to the guilty
Felix, nor to Delilah, nor practically reason of righteousness,
temperance, and judgment
 to come, when that renowned Admiral sat, sword-belted, before them.

During these Sunday discourses, the officers always sat in a circle
round the Chaplain, and, with a business-like air, steadily preserved
the utmost propriety. In particular, our old Commodore himself made a
point of looking intensely edified; and not a sailor on board but
believed that the Commodore, being the greatest man present, must alone
comprehend the mystic sentences that fell from our parson's lips.

Of all the noble lords in the ward-room, this lord-spiritual, with the
exception of the Purser, was in the highest favour with the Commodore,
who frequently conversed with him in a close and confidential manner.
Nor, upon reflection, was this to be marvelled at, seeing how
efficacious, in all despotic governments, it is for the throne and
altar to go hand-in-hand.

The accommodations of our chapel were very poor. We had nothing to sit
on but the great gun-rammers and capstan-bars, placed horizontally upon
shot-boxes. These seats were exceedingly uncomfortable, wearing out our
trowsers and our tempers, and, no doubt, impeded the con-version of
many valuable souls.

To say the truth, men-of-war's-men, in general, make but poor auditors
upon these occasions, and adopt every possible means to elude them.
Often the boatswain's-mates were obliged to drive the men to service,
violently swearing upon these occasions, as upon every other.

"Go to prayers, d----n you! To prayers, you rascals--to prayers!" In
this clerical invitation Captain Claret would frequently unite.

At this Jack Chase would sometimes make merry. "Come, boys, don't hang
back," he would say; "come, let us go hear the parson talk about his
Lord High Admiral Plato, and Commodore Socrates."

But, in one instance, grave exception was taken to this summons. A
remarkably serious, but bigoted seaman, a sheet-anchor-man--whose
private devotions may hereafter be alluded to--once touched his hat to
the Captain, and respectfully said, "Sir, I am a Baptist; the chaplain
is an Episcopalian; his form of worship is not mine; I do not believe
with him, and it is against my conscience to be under his ministry. May
I be allowed, sir, _not_ to attend service on the half-deck?"

"You will be allowed, sir!" said the Captain, haughtily, "to obey the
laws of the ship. If you absent yourself from prayers on Sunday
mornings, you know the penalty."

According to the Articles of War, the Captain was perfectly right; but
if any law requiring an American to attend divine service against his
will be a law respecting the establishment of religion, then the
Articles of War are, in this one particular, opposed to the American
Constitution, which expressly says, "Congress shall make no law
respecting the establishment of religion, or the free exercise
thereof." But this is only one of several things in which the Articles
of War are repugnant to that instrument. They will be glanced at in
another part of the narrative.

The motive which prompts the introduction of chaplains into the Navy
cannot but be warmly responded to by every Christian. But it does not
follow, that because chaplains are to be found in men-of-war, that,
under the present system, they achieve much good, or that, under any
other, they ever will.

How can it be expected that the religion of peace should flourish in an
oaken castle of war? How can it be expected that the clergyman, whose
pulpit is a forty-two-pounder, should convert sinners to a faith that
enjoins them to turn the right cheek when the left is smitten? How is
it to be expected that when, according to the XLII. of the Articles of
War, as they now stand unrepealed on the Statute-book, "a bounty shall
be paid" (to the officers and crew) "by the United States government of
$20 for each person on board any ship of an enemy which shall be sunk
or destroyed by any United States ship;" and when, by a subsequent
section (vii.), it is provided, among other apportionings, that the
chaplain shall receive "two twentieths" of this price paid for sinking
and destroying ships full of human beings? I How is it to be expected
that a clergyman, thus provided for, should prove efficacious in
enlarging upon the criminality of Judas, who, for thirty pieces of
silver, betrayed his Master?

Although, by the regulations of the Navy, each seaman's mess on board
the Neversink was furnished with a Bible, these Bibles were seldom or
never to be seen, except on Sunday mornings, when usage demands that
they shall be exhibited by the cooks of the messes, when the
master-at-arms goes his rounds on the berth-deck. At such times, they
usually surmounted a highly-polished tin-pot placed on the lid of the
chest.

Yet, for all this, the Christianity of men-of-war's men, and their
disposition to contribute to pious enterprises, are often relied upon.
Several times subscription papers were circulated among the crew of the
Neversink, while in harbour, under the direct patronage of the
Chaplain. One was for the purpose of building a seaman's chapel in
China; another to pay the salary of a tract-distributor in Greece; a
third to raise a fund for the benefit of an African Colonization
Society.

Where the Captain himself is a moral man, he makes a far better
chaplain for his crew than any clergyman can be. This is sometimes
illustrated in the case of sloops of war and armed brigs, which are not
allowed a regular chaplain. I have known one crew, who were warmly
attached to a naval commander worthy of their love, who have mustered
even with alacrity to the call to prayer; and when their Captain would
read the Church of England service to them, would present a
congregation not to be surpassed for earnestness and devotion by any
Scottish Kirk. It seemed like family devotions, where the head of the
house is foremost in confessing himself before his Maker. But our own
hearts are our best prayer-rooms, and the chaplains who can most help
us are ourselves.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE FRIGATE IN HARBOUR.--THE BOATS.--GRAND STATE RECEPTION OF THE
COMMODORE.


In good time we were up with the parallel of Rio de Janeiro, and,
standing in for the land, the mist soon cleared; and high aloft the
famed Sugar Loaf pinnacle was seen, our bowsprit pointing for it
straight as a die.

As we glided on toward our anchorage, the bands of the various
men-of-war in harbour saluted us with national airs, and gallantly
lowered their ensigns. Nothing can exceed the courteous etiquette of
these ships, of all nations, in greeting their brethren. Of all men,
your accomplished duellist is generally the most polite.

We lay in Rio some weeks, lazily taking in stores and otherwise
preparing for the passage home. But though Rio is one of the most
magnificent bays in the world; though the city itself contains many
striking objects; and though much might be said of the Sugar Loaf and
Signal Hill heights; and the little islet of Lucia; and the fortified
Ihla Dos Cobras, or Isle of the Snakes (though the only anacondas and
adders now found in the arsenals there are great guns and pistols); and
Lord Wood's Nose--a lofty eminence said by seamen to resemble his
lordship's conch-shell; and the Prays do Flamingo--a noble tract of
beach, so called from its having been the resort, in olden times, of
those gorgeous birds; and the charming Bay of Botofogo, which, spite of
its name, is fragrant as the neighbouring Larangieros, or Valley of the
Oranges; and the green Gloria Hill, surmounted by the belfries of the
queenly Church of Nossa Senora de Gloria; and the iron-gray Benedictine
convent near by; and the fine drive and promenade, Passeo Publico; and
the massive arch-over-arch aqueduct, Arcos de Carico; and the Emperor's
Palace; and the Empress's Gardens; and the fine Church de Candelaria;
and the gilded throne on wheels, drawn by eight silken, silver-belled
mules, in which, of pleasant evenings, his Imperial Majesty is driven
out of town to his Moorish villa of St. Christova--ay, though much
might be said of all this, yet must I forbear, if I may, and adhere to
my one proper object, _the world in a man-of-war_.

Behold, now, the Neversink under a new aspect. With all her batteries,
she is tranquilly lying in harbour, surrounded by English, French,
Dutch, Portuguese, and Brazilian seventy-fours, moored in the
deep-green water, close under the lee of that oblong, castellated mass
of rock, Ilha Dos Cobras, which, with its port-holes and lofty
flag-staffs, looks like another man-of-war, fast anchored in the way.
But what is an insular fortress, indeed, but an embattled land-slide
into the sea from the world Gibraltars and Quebecs? And what a
main-land fortress but a few decks of a line-of-battle ship
transplanted ashore? They are all one--all, as King David, men-of-war
from their youth.

Ay, behold now the Neversink at her anchors, in many respects
presenting a different appearance from what she presented at sea. Nor
is the routine of life on board the same.

At sea there is more to employ the sailors, and less temptation to
violations of the law. Whereas, in port, unless some particular service
engages them, they lead the laziest of lives, beset by all the
allurements of the shore, though perhaps that shore they may never
touch.

Unless you happen to belong to one of the numerous boats, which, in a
man-of-war in harbour, are continually plying to and from the land, you
are mostly thrown upon your own resources to while away the time. Whole
days frequently pass without your being individually called upon to
lift a finger; for though, in the merchant-service, they make a point
of keeping the men always busy about something or other, yet, to employ
five hundred sailors when there is nothing definite to be done wholly
surpasses the ingenuity of any First Lieutenant in the Navy.

As mention has just been made of the numerous boats employed in
harbour, something more may as well be put down concerning them. Our
frigate carried a very large boat--as big as a small sloop--called a
_launch_, which was generally used for getting off wood, water, and
other bulky articles. Besides this, she carried four boats of an
arithmetical progression in point of size--the largest being known as
the first cutter, the next largest the second cutter, then the third
and fourth cutters. She also carried a Commodore's Barge, a Captain's
Gig, and a "dingy," a small yawl, with a crew of apprentice boys. All
these boats, except the "dingy," had their regular crews, who were
subordinate to their cockswains--_petty officers_, receiving pay in
addition to their seaman's wages.

The _launch_ was manned by the old Tritons of the fore-castle, who were
no ways particular about their dress, while the other
boats--commissioned for genteeler duties--were rowed by young follows,
mostly, who had a dandy eye to their personal appearance. Above all,
the officers see to it that the Commodore's Barge and the Captain's Gig
are manned by gentlemanly youths, who may do credit to their country,
and form agreeable objects for the eyes of the Commodore or Captain to
repose upon as he tranquilly sits in the stern, when pulled ashore by
his barge-men or gig-men, as the case may be. Some sailors are very
fond of belonging to the boats, and deem it a great honour to be a
_Commodore's barge-man_; but others, perceiving no particular
distinction in that office, do not court it so much.

On the second day after arriving at Rio, one of the gig-men fell sick,
and, to my no small concern, I found myself temporarily appointed to
his place.

"Come, White-Jacket, rig yourself in white--that's the gig's uniform
to-day; you are a gig-man, my boy--give ye joy!" This was the first
announcement of the fact that I heard; but soon after it was officially
ratified.

I was about to seek the First Lieutenant, and plead the scantiness of
my wardrobe, which wholly disqualified me to fill so distinguished a
station, when I heard the bugler call away the "gig;" and, without more
ado, I slipped into a clean frock, which a messmate doffed for my
benefit, and soon after found myself pulling off his High Mightiness,
the Captain, to an English seventy-four.

As we were bounding along, the cockswain suddenly cried "Oars!" At the
word every oar was suspended in the air, while our Commodore's barge
floated by, bearing that dignitary himself. At the sight, Captain
Claret removed his chapeau, and saluted profoundly, our boat lying
motionless on the water. But the barge never stopped; and the Commodore
made but a slight return to the obsequious salute he had received.

We then resumed rowing, and presently I heard "Oars!" again; but from
another boat, the second cutter, which turned out to be carrying a
Lieutenant ashore. If was now Captain Claret's turn to be honoured. The
cutter lay still, and the Lieutenant off hat; while the Captain only
nodded, and we kept on our way.

This naval etiquette is very much like the etiquette at the Grand Porte
of Constantinople, where, after washing the Sublime Sultan's feet, the
Grand Vizier avenges himself on an Emir, who does the same office for
him.

When we arrived aboard the English seventy-four, the Captain was
received with the usual honours, and the gig's crew were conducted
below, and hospitably regaled with some spirits, served out by order of
the officer of the deck.

Soon after, the English crew went to quarters; and as they stood up at
their guns, all along the main-deck, a row of beef-fed Britons,
stalwart-looking fellows, I was struck with the contrast they afforded
to similar sights on board of the Neversink.

For on board of us our "_quarters_" showed an array of rather slender,
lean-checked chaps. But then I made no doubt, that, in a sea-tussle,
these lantern-jawed varlets would have approved themselves as slender
Damascus blades, nimble and flexible; whereas these Britons would have
been, perhaps, as sturdy broadswords. Yet every one remembers that
story of Saladin and Richard trying their respective blades; how
gallant Richard clove an anvil in twain, or something quite as
ponderous, and Saladin elegantly severed a cushion; so that the two
monarchs were even--each excelling in his way--though, unfortunately
for my simile, in a patriotic point of view, Richard whipped Saladin's
armies in the end.

There happened to be a lord on board of this ship--the younger son of
an earl, they told me. He was a fine-looking fellow. I chanced to stand
by when he put a question to an Irish captain of a gum; upon the
seaman's inadvertently saying sir to him, his lordship looked daggers
at the slight; and the sailor touching his hat a thousand times, said,
"Pardon, your honour; I meant to say _my lord_, sir!"

I was much pleased with an old white-headed musician, who stood at the
main hatchway, with his enormous bass drum full before him, and
thumping it sturdily to the tune of "God Save the King!" though small
mercy did he have on his drum-heads. Two little boys were clashing
cymbals, and another was blowing a fife, with his cheeks puffed out
like the plumpest of his country's plum-puddings.

When we returned from this trip, there again took place that
ceremonious reception of our captain on board the vessel he commanded,
which always had struck me as exceedingly diverting.

In the first place, while in port, one of the quarter-masters is always
stationed on the poop with a spy-glass, to look out for all boats
approaching, and report the same to the officer of the deck; also, who
it is that may be coming in them; so that preparations may be made
accordingly. As soon, then, as the gig touched the side, a mighty
shrill piping was heard, as if some boys were celebrating the Fourth of
July with penny whistles. This proceeded from a boatswain's mate, who,
standing at the gangway, was thus honouring the Captain's return after
his long and perilous absence.

The Captain then slowly mounted the ladder, and gravely marching
through a lane of "_side-boys_," so called--all in their best bibs and
tuckers, and who stood making sly faces behind his back--was received
by all the Lieutenants in a body, their hats in their hands, and making
a prodigious scraping and bowing, as if they had just graduated at a
French dancing-school. Meanwhile, preserving an erect, inflexible, and
ram-rod carriage, and slightly touching his chapeau, the Captain made
his ceremonious way to the cabin, disappearing behind the scenes, like
the pasteboard ghost in Hamlet.

But these ceremonies are nothing to those in homage of the Commodore's
arrival, even should he depart and arrive twenty times a day. Upon such
occasions, the whole marine guard, except the sentries on duty, are
marshalled on the quarter-deck, presenting arms as the Commodore passes
them; while their commanding officer gives the military salute with his
sword, as if making masonic signs. Meanwhile, the boatswain
himself--not a _boatswain's mate_--is keeping up a persevering
whistling with his silver pipe; for the Commodore is never greeted with
the rude whistle of a boatswain's subaltern; _that_ would be positively
insulting. All the Lieutenants and Midshipmen, besides the Captain
himself, are drawn up in a phalanx, and off hat together; and the
_side-boys_, whose number is now increased to ten or twelve, make an
imposing display at the gangway; while the whole brass band, elevated
upon the poop, strike up "See! the Conquering Hero Comes!" At least,
this was the tune that our Captain always hinted, by a gesture, to the
captain of the band, whenever the Commodore arrived from shore.

It conveyed a complimentary appreciation, on the Captain's part, of the
Commodore's heroism during the late war.

To return to the gig. As I did not relish the idea of being a sort of
body-servant to Captain Claret--since his gig-men were often called
upon to scrub his cabin floor, and perform other duties for him--I made
it my particular business to get rid of my appointment in his boat as
soon as possible, and the next day after receiving it, succeeded in
procuring a substitute, who was glad of the chance to fill the position
I so much undervalued.

And thus, with our counterlikes and dislikes, most of us
men-of-war's-men harmoniously dove-tail into each other, and, by our
very points of opposition, unite in a clever whole, like the parts of a
Chinese puzzle. But as, in a Chinese puzzle, many pieces are hard to
place, so there are some unfortunate fellows who can never slip into
their proper angles, and thus the whole puzzle becomes a puzzle indeed,
which is the precise condition of the greatest puzzle in the
world--this man-of-war world itself.




CHAPTER XL.

SOME OF THE CEREMONIES IN A MAN-OF-WAR UNNECESSARY AND INJURIOUS.


The ceremonials of a man-of-war, some of which have been described in
the preceding chapter, may merit a reflection or two.

The general usages of the American Navy are founded upon the usages
that prevailed in the navy of monarchical England more than a century
ago; nor have they been materially altered since. And while both
England and America have become greatly liberalised in the interval;
while shore pomp in high places has come to be regarded by the more
intelligent masses of men as belonging to the absurd, ridiculous, and
mock-heroic; while that most truly august of all the majesties of
earth, the President of the United States, may be seen entering his
residence with his umbrella under his arm, and no brass band or
military guard at his heels, and unostentatiously taking his seat by
the side of the meanest citizen in a public conveyance; while this is
the case, there still lingers in American men-of-war all the stilted
etiquette and childish parade of the old-fashioned Spanish court of
Madrid. Indeed, so far as the things that meet the eye are concerned,
an American Commodore is by far a greater man than the President of
twenty millions of freemen.

But we plain people ashore might very willingly be content to leave
these commodores in the unmolested possession of their gilded penny
whistles, rattles, and gewgaws, since they seem to take so much
pleasure in them, were it not that all this is attended by consequences
to their subordinates in the last degree to be deplored.

While hardly any one will question that a naval officer should be
surrounded by circumstances calculated to impart a requisite dignity to
his position, it is not the less certain that, by the excessive pomp he
at present maintains, there is naturally and unavoidably generated a
feeling of servility and debasement in the hearts of most of the seamen
who continually behold a fellow-mortal flourishing over their heads
like the archangel Michael with a thousand wings. And as, in degree,
this same pomp is observed toward their inferiors by all the grades of
commissioned officers, even down to a midshipman, the evil is
proportionately multiplied.

It would not at all diminish a proper respect for the officers, and
subordination to their authority among the seamen, were all this idle
parade--only ministering to the arrogance of the officers, without at
all benefiting the state--completely done away. But to do so, we voters
and lawgivers ourselves must be no respecters of persons.

That saying about _levelling upward, and not downward_, may seem very
fine to those who cannot see its self-involved absurdity. But the truth
is, that, to gain the true level, in some things, we _must_ cut
downward; for how can you make every sailor a commodore? or how raise
the valleys, without filling them up with the superfluous tops of the
hills?

Some discreet, but democratic, legislation in this matter is much to be
desired. And by bringing down naval officers, in these things at least,
without affecting their legitimate dignity and authority, we shall
correspondingly elevate the common sailor, without relaxing the
subordination, in which he should by all means be retained.




CHAPTER XLI.

A MAN-OF-WAR LIBRARY.


Nowhere does time pass more heavily than with most men-of-war's-men on
board their craft in harbour.

One of my principal antidotes against _ennui_ in Rio, was reading.
There was a public library on board, paid for by government, and
intrusted to the custody of one of the marine corporals, a little,
dried-up man, of a somewhat literary turn. He had once been a clerk in
a post-office ashore; and, having been long accustomed to hand over
letters when called for, he was now just the man to hand over books. He
kept them in a large cask on the berth-deck, and, when seeking a
particular volume, had to capsize it like a barrel of potatoes. This
made him very cross and irritable, as most all librarians are. Who had
the selection of these books, I do not know, but some of them must have
been selected by our Chaplain, who so pranced on Coleridge's "_High
German horse_."

Mason Good's Book of Nature--a very good book, to be sure, but not
precisely adapted to tarry tastes--was one of these volumes; and
Machiavel's Art of War--which was very dry fighting; and a folio of
Tillotson's Sermons--the best of reading for divines, indeed, but with
little relish for a main-top-man; and Locke's Essays--incomparable
essays, everybody knows, but miserable reading at sea; and Plutarch's
Lives--super-excellent biographies, which pit Greek against Roman in
beautiful style, but then, in a sailor's estimation, not to be
mentioned with the _Lives of the Admirals_; and Blair's Lectures,
University Edition--a fine treatise on rhetoric, but having nothing to
say about nautical phrases, such as "_splicing the main-brace_,"
"_passing a gammoning_," "_puddinging the dolphin_," and "_making a
Carrick-bend_;" besides numerous invaluable but unreadable tomes, that
might have been purchased cheap at the auction of some
college-professor's library.

But I found ample entertainment in a few choice old authors, whom I
stumbled upon in various parts of the ship, among the inferior
officers. One was "_Morgan's History of Algiers_," a famous old quarto,
abounding in picturesque narratives of corsairs, captives, dungeons,
and sea-fights; and making mention of a cruel old Dey, who, toward the
latter part of his life, was so filled with remorse for his cruelties
and crimes that he could not stay in bed after four o'clock in the
morning, but had to rise in great trepidation and walk off his bad
feelings till breakfast time. And another venerable octavo, containing
a certificate from Sir Christopher Wren to its authenticity, entitled
"_Knox's Captivity in Ceylon, 1681_"--abounding in stories about the
Devil, who was superstitiously supposed to tyrannise over that
unfortunate land: to mollify him, the priests offered up buttermilk,
red cocks, and sausages; and the Devil ran roaring about in the woods,
frightening travellers out of their wits; insomuch that the Islanders
bitterly lamented to Knox that their country was full of devils, and
consequently, there was no hope for their eventual well-being. Knox
swears that he himself heard the Devil roar, though he did not see his
horns; it was a terrible noise, he says, like the baying of a hungry
mastiff.

Then there was Walpole's Letters--very witty, pert, and polite--and
some odd volumes of plays, each of which was a precious casket of
jewels of good things, shaming the trash nowadays passed off for
dramas, containing "The Jew of Malta," "Old Fortunatus," "The City
Madam." "Volpone," "The Alchymist," and other glorious old dramas of
the age of Marlow and Jonson, and that literary Damon and Pythias, the
magnificent, mellow old Beaumont and Fletcher, who have sent the long
shadow of their reputation, side by side with Shakspeare's, far down
the endless vale of posterity. And may that shadow never be less! but
as for St. Shakspeare may his never be more, lest the commentators
arise, and settling upon his sacred text like unto locusts, devour it
clean up, leaving never a dot over an I.

I diversified this reading of mine, by borrowing Moore's "_Loves of the
Angels_" from Rose-water, who recommended it as "_de charmingest of
volumes;_" and a Negro Song-book, containing _Sittin' on a Rail_,
_Gumbo Squash_, and _Jim along Josey_, from Broadbit, a
sheet-anchor-man. The sad taste of this old tar, in admiring such
vulgar stuff, was much denounced by Rose-water, whose own predilections
were of a more elegant nature, as evinced by his exalted opinion of the
literary merits of the "_Loves of the Angels_."

I was by no means the only reader of books on board the Neversink.
Several other sailors were diligent readers, though their studies did
not lie in the way of belles-lettres. Their favourite authors were such
as you may find at the book-stalls around Fulton Market; they were
slightly physiological in their nature. My book experiences on board of
the frigate proved an example of a fact which every book-lover must
have experienced before me, namely, that though public libraries have
an imposing air, and doubtless contain invaluable volumes, yet,
somehow, the books that prove most agreeable, grateful, and
companionable, are those we pick up by chance here and there; those
which seem put into our hands by Providence; those which pretend to
little, but abound in much.




CHAPTER XLII.

KILLING TIME IN A MAN-OF-WAR IN HARBOUR.


Reading was by no means the only method adopted by my shipmates in
whiling away the long, tedious hours in harbour. In truth, many of them
could not have read, had they wanted to ever so much; in early youth
their primers had been sadly neglected. Still, they had other pursuits;
some were experts at the needle, and employed their time in making
elaborate shirts, stitching picturesque eagles, and anchors, and all
the stars of the federated states in the collars thereof; so that when
they at last completed and put on these shirts, they may be said to
have hoisted the American colors.

Others excelled in _tattooing_ or _pricking_, as it is called in a
man-of-war. Of these prickers, two had long been celebrated, in their
way, as consummate masters of the art. Each had a small box full of
tools and colouring matter; and they charged so high for their
services, that at the end of the cruise they were supposed to have
cleared upward of four hundred dollars. They would _prick_ you to order
a palm-tree, or an anchor, a crucifix, a lady, a lion, an eagle, or
anything else you might want.

The Roman Catholic sailors on board had at least the crucifix pricked
on their arms, and for this reason: If they chanced to die in a
Catholic land, they would be sure of a decent burial in consecrated
ground, as the priest would be sure to observe the symbol of Mother
Church on their persons. They would not fare as Protestant sailors
dying in Callao, who are shoved under the sands of St. Lorenzo, a
solitary, volcanic island in the harbour, overrun with rep-tiles, their
heretical bodies not being permitted to repose in the more genial loam
of Lima.

And many sailors not Catholics were anxious to have the crucifix
painted on them, owing to a curious superstition of theirs. They
affirm--some of them--that if you have that mark tattooed upon all four
limbs, you might fall overboard among seven hundred and seventy-five
thousand white sharks, all dinnerless, and not one of them would so
much as dare to smell at your little finger.

We had one fore-top-man on board, who, during the entire cruise, was
having an endless cable _pricked_ round and round his waist, so that,
when his frock was off, he looked like a capstan with a hawser coiled
round about it. This fore-top-man paid eighteen pence per link for the
cable, besides being on the smart the whole cruise, suffering the
effects of his repeated puncturings; so he paid very dear for his cable.

One other mode of passing time while in port was cleaning and polishing
your _bright-work_; for it must be known that, in men-of-war, every
sailor has some brass or steel of one kind or other to keep in high
order--like housemaids, whose business it is to keep well-polished the
knobs on the front door railing and the parlour-grates.

Excepting the ring-bolts, eye-bolts, and belaying-pins scattered about
the decks, this bright-work, as it is called, is principally about the
guns, embracing the "_monkey-tails_" of the carronades, the screws,
_prickers_, little irons, and other things.

The portion that fell to my own share I kept in superior order, quite
equal in polish to Rogers's best cutlery. I received the most
extravagant encomiums from the officers; one of whom offered to match
me against any brazier or brass-polisher in her British Majesty's Navy.
Indeed, I devoted myself to the work body and soul, and thought no
pains too painful, and no labour too laborious, to achieve the highest
attainable polish possible for us poor lost sons of Adam to reach.

Upon one occasion, even, when woollen rags were scarce, and no
burned-brick was to be had from the ship's Yeoman, I sacrificed the
corners of my woollen shirt, and used some dentrifice I had, as
substitutes for the rags and burned-brick. The dentrifice operated
delightfully, and made the threading of my carronade screw shine and
grin again, like a set of false teeth in an eager heiress-hunter's
mouth.

Still another mode of passing time, was arraying yourself in your best
"_togs_" and promenading up and down the gun-deck, admiring the shore
scenery from the port-holes, which, in an amphitheatrical bay like
Rio--belted about by the most varied and charming scenery of hill,
dale, moss, meadow, court, castle, tower, grove, vine, vineyard,
aqueduct, palace, square, island, fort--is very much like lounging
round a circular cosmorama, and ever and anon lazily peeping through
the glasses here and there. Oh! there is something worth living for,
even in our man-of-war world; and one glimpse of a bower of grapes,
though a cable's length off, is almost satisfaction for dining off a
shank-bone salted down.

This promenading was chiefly patronised by the marines, and
particularly by Colbrook, a remarkably handsome and very gentlemanly
corporal among them. He was a complete lady's man; with fine black
eyes, bright red cheeks, glossy jet whiskers, and a refined
organisation of the whole man. He used to array himself in his
regimentals, and saunter about like an officer of the Coldstream
Guards, strolling down to his club in St. James's. Every time he passed
me, he would heave a sentimental sigh, and hum to himself "_The girl I
left behind me_." This fine corporal afterward became a representative
in the Legislature of the State of New Jersey; for I saw his name
returned about a year after my return home.

But, after all, there was not much room, while in port, for
promenading, at least on the gun-deck, for the whole larboard side is
kept clear for the benefit of the officers, who appreciate the
advantages of having a clear stroll fore and aft; and they well know
that the sailors had much better be crowded together on the other side
than that the set of their own coat-tails should be impaired by
brushing against their tarry trowsers.

One other way of killing time while in port is playing checkers; that
is, when it is permitted; for it is not every navy captain who will
allow such a scandalous proceeding, But, as for Captain Claret, though
he _did_ like his glass of Madeira uncommonly well, and was an
undoubted descendant from the hero of the Battle of the Brandywine, and
though he sometimes showed a suspiciously flushed face when
superintending in person the flogging of a sailor for getting
intoxicated against his particular orders, yet I will say for Captain
Claret that, upon the whole, he was rather indulgent to his crew, so
long as they were perfectly docile. He allowed them to play checkers as
much as they pleased. More than once I have known him, when going
forward to the forecastle, pick his way carefully among scores of
canvas checker-cloths spread upon the deck, so as not to tread upon the
men--the checker-men and man-of-war's-men included; but, in a certain
sense, they were both one; for, as the sailors used their checker-men,
so, at quarters, their officers used these man-of-war's men.

But Captain Claret's leniency in permitting checkers on board his ship
might have arisen from the following little circumstance,
confidentially communicated to me. Soon after the ship had sailed from
home, checkers were prohibited; whereupon the sailors were exasperated
against the Captain, and one night, when he was walking round the
forecastle, bim! came an iron belaying-pin past his ears; and while he
was dodging that, bim! came another, from the other side; so that, it
being a very dark night, and nobody to be seen, and it being impossible
to find out the trespassers, he thought it best to get back into his
cabin as soon as possible. Some time after--just as if the
belaying-pins had nothing to do with it--it was indirectly rumoured
that the checker-boards might be brought out again, which--as a
philosophical shipmate observed--showed that Captain Claret was a man
of a ready understanding, and could understand a hint as well as any
other man, even when conveyed by several pounds of iron.

Some of the sailors were very precise about their checker-cloths, and
even went so far that they would not let you play with them unless you
first washed your hands, especially if so be you had just come from
tarring down the rigging.

Another way of beguiling the tedious hours, is to get a cosy seat
somewhere, and fall into as snug a little reverie as you can. Or if a
seat is not to be had--which is frequently the case--then get a
tolerably comfortable _stand-up_ against the bulwarks, and begin to
think about home and bread and butter--always inseparably connected to
a wanderer--which will very soon bring delicious tears into your eyes;
for every one knows what a luxury is grief, when you can get a private
closet to enjoy it in, and no Paul Prys intrude. Several of my shore
friends, indeed, when suddenly overwhelmed by some disaster, always
make a point of flying to the first oyster-cellar, and shutting
themselves up in a box with nothing but a plate of stewed oysters, some
crackers, the castor, and a decanter of old port.

Still another way of killing time in harbour, is to lean over the
bulwarks, and speculate upon where, under the sun, you are going to be
that day next year, which is a subject full of interest to every living
soul; so much so, that there is a particular day of a particular month
of the year, which, from my earliest recollections, I have always kept
the run of, so that I can even now tell just where I was on that
identical day of every year past since I was twelve years old. And,
when I am all alone, to run over this almanac in my mind is almost as
entertaining as to read your own diary, and far more interesting than
to peruse a table of logarithms on a rainy afternoon. I always keep the
anniversary of that day with lamb and peas, and a pint of sherry, for
it comes in Spring. But when it came round in the Neversink, I could
get neither lamb, peas, nor sherry.

But perhaps the best way to drive the hours before you four-in-hand, is
to select a soft plank on the gun-deck, and go to sleep. A fine
specific, which seldom fails, unless, to be sure, you have been
sleeping all the twenty-four hours beforehand.

Whenever employed in killing time in harbour, I have lifted myself up
on my elbow and looked around me, and seen so many of my shipmates all
employed at the same common business; all under lock and key; all
hopeless prisoners like myself; all under martial law; all dieting on
salt beef and biscuit; all in one uniform; all yawning, gaping, and
stretching in concert, it was then that I used to feel a certain love
and affection for them, grounded, doubtless, on a fellow-feeling.

And though, in a previous part of this narrative, I have mentioned that
I used to hold myself somewhat aloof from the mass of seamen on board
the Neversink; and though this was true, and my real acquaintances were
comparatively few, and my intimates still fewer, yet, to tell the
truth, it is quite impossible to live so long with five hundred of your
fellow-beings, even if not of the best families in the land, and with
morals that would not be spoiled by further cultivation; it is quite
impossible, I say, to live with five hundred of your fellow-beings, be
they who they may, without feeling a common sympathy with them at the
time, and ever after cherishing some sort of interest in their welfare.

The truth of this was curiously corroborated by a rather equivocal
acquaintance of mine, who, among the men, went by the name of
"_Shakings_." He belonged to the fore-hold, whence, of a dark night, he
would sometimes emerge to chat with the sailors on deck. I never liked
the man's looks; I protest it was a mere accident that gave me the
honour of his acquaintance, and generally I did my best to avoid him,
when he would come skulking, like a jail-bird, out of his den into the
liberal, open air of the sky. Nevertheless, the anecdote this _holder_
told me is well worth preserving, more especially the extraordinary
frankness evinced in his narrating such a thing to a comparative
stranger.

The substance of his story was as follows: Shakings, it seems, had once
been a convict in the New York State's Prison at Sing Sing, where he
had been for years confined for a crime, which he gave me his solemn
word of honour he was wholly innocent of. He told me that, after his
term had expired, and he went out into the world again, he never could
stumble upon any of his old Sing Sing associates without dropping into
a public house and talking over old times. And when fortune would go
hard with him, and he felt out of sorts, and incensed at matters and
things in general, he told me that, at such time, he almost wished he
was back again in Sing Sing, where he was relieved from all anxieties
about what he should eat and drink, and was supported, like the
President of the United States and Prince Albert, at the public charge.
He used to have such a snug little cell, he said, all to himself, and
never felt afraid of house-breakers, for the walls were uncommonly
thick, and his door was securely bolted for him, and a watchman was all
the time walking up and down in the passage, while he himself was fast
asleep and dreaming. To this, in substance, the _holder_ added, that he
narrated this anecdote because he thought it applicable to a
man-of-war, which he scandalously asserted to be a sort of State Prison
afloat.

Concerning the curious disposition to fraternise and be sociable, which
this Shakings mentioned as characteristic of the convicts liberated
from his old homestead at Sing Sing, it may well be asked, whether it
may not prove to be some feeling, somehow akin to the reminiscent
impulses which influenced them, that shall hereafter fraternally
reunite all us mortals, when we shall have exchanged this State's
Prison man-of-war world of ours for another and a better.

From the foregoing account of the great difficulty we had in killing
time while in port, it must not be inferred that on board of the
Neversink in Rio there was literally no work to be done, at long
intervals the _launch_ would come alongside with water-casks, to be
emptied into iron tanks in the hold. In this way nearly fifty thousand
gallons, as chronicled in the books of the master's mate, were decanted
into the ship's bowels--a ninety day's allowance. With this huge Lake
Ontario in us, the mighty Neversink might be said to resemble the
united continent of the Eastern Hemisphere--floating in a vast ocean
herself, and having a Mediterranean floating in her.




CHAPTER XLIII.

SMUGGLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


It is in a good degree owing to the idleness just described, that,
while lying in harbour, the man-of-war's-man is exposed to the most
temptations and gets into his saddest scrapes. For though his vessel be
anchored a mile from the shore, and her sides are patrolled by sentries
night and day, yet these things cannot entirely prevent the seductions
of the land from reaching him. The prime agent in working his
calamities in port is his old arch-enemy, the ever-devilish god of grog.

Immured as the man-of-war's-man is, serving out his weary three years
in a sort of sea-Newgate, from which he cannot escape, either by the
roof or burrowing underground, he too often flies to the bottle to seek
relief from the intolerable ennui of nothing to do, and nowhere to go.
His ordinary government allowance of spirits, one gill per diem, is not
enough to give a sufficient to his listless senses; he pronounces his
grog basely _watered_; he scouts at it as _thinner than muslin;_ he
craves a more vigorous _nip at the cable_, a more sturdy _swig at the
halyards;_ and if opium were to be had, many would steep themselves a
thousand fathoms down in the densest fumes of that oblivious drug. Tell
him that the delirium tremens and the mania-a-potu lie in ambush for
drunkards, he will say to you, "Let them bear down upon me, then,
before the wind; anything that smacks of life is better than to feel
Davy Jones's chest-lid on your nose." He is reckless as an avalanche;
and though his fall destroy himself and others, yet a ruinous commotion
is better than being frozen fast in unendurable solitudes. No wonder,
then, that he goes all lengths to procure the thing he craves; no
wonder that he pays the most exorbitant prices, breaks through all law,
and braves the ignominious lash itself, rather than be deprived of his
stimulus.

Now, concerning no one thing in a man-of-war, are the regulations more
severe than respecting the smuggling of grog, and being found
intoxicated. For either offence there is but one penalty, invariably
enforced; and that is the degradation of the gangway.


All conceivable precautions are taken by most frigate-executives to
guard against the secret admission of spirits into the vessel. In the
first place, no shore-boat whatever is allowed to approach a man-of-war
in a foreign harbour without permission from the officer of the deck.
Even the _bum-boats_, the small craft licensed by the officers to bring
off fruit for the sailors, to be bought out of their own money--these
are invariably inspected before permitted to hold intercourse with the
ship's company. And not only this, but every one of the numerous ship's
boats--kept almost continually plying to and from the shore--are
similarly inspected, sometimes each boat twenty times in the day.

This inspection is thus performed: The boat being descried by the
quarter-master from the poop, she is reported to the deck officer, who
thereupon summons the master-at-arms, the ship's chief of police. This
functionary now stations himself at the gangway, and as the boat's
crew, one by one, come up the side, he personally overhauls them,
making them take off their hats, and then, placing both hands upon
their heads, draws his palms slowly down to their feet, carefully
feeling all unusual protuberances. If nothing suspicious is felt, the
man is let pass; and so on, till the whole boat's crew, averaging about
sixteen men, are examined. The chief of police then descends into the
boat, and walks from stem to stern, eyeing it all over, and poking his
long rattan into every nook and cranny. This operation concluded, and
nothing found, he mounts the ladder, touches his hat to the
deck-officer, and reports the boat _clean_; whereupon she is hauled out
to the booms.

Thus it will be seen that not a man of the ship's company ever enters
the vessel from shore without it being rendered next to impossible,
apparently, that he should have succeeded in smuggling anything. Those
individuals who are permitted to board the ship without undergoing this
ordeal, are only persons whom it would be preposterous to search--such
as the Commodore himself, the Captain, Lieutenants, etc., and gentlemen
and ladies coming as visitors.

For anything to be clandestinely thrust through the lower port-holes at
night, is rendered very difficult, from the watchfulness of the
quarter-master in hailing all boats that approach, long before they
draw alongside, and the vigilance of the sentries, posted on platforms
overhanging the water, whose orders are to fire into a strange boat
which, after being warned to withdraw, should still persist in drawing
nigh. Moreover, thirty-two-pound shots are slung to ropes, and
suspended over the bows, to drop a hole into and sink any small craft,
which, spite of all precautions, by strategy should succeed in getting
under the bows with liquor by night. Indeed, the whole power of martial
law is enlisted in this matter; and every one of the numerous officers
of the ship, besides his general zeal in enforcing the regulations,
acids to that a personal feeling, since the sobriety of the men
abridges his own cares and anxieties.

How then, it will be asked, in the face of an argus-eyed police, and in
defiance even of bayonets and bullets, do men-of-war's-men contrive to
smuggle their spirits? Not to enlarge upon minor stratagems--every few
days detected, and rendered naught (such as rolling up, in a
handkerchief, a long, slender "skin" of grog, like a sausage, and in
that manner ascending to the deck out of a boat just from shore; or
openly bringing on board cocoa-nuts and melons, procured from a knavish
bum-boat filled with spirits, instead of milk or water)--we will only
mention here two or three other modes, coming under my own observation.

While in Rio, a fore-top-man, belonging to the second cutter, paid down
the money, and made an arrangement with a person encountered at the
Palace-landing ashore, to the following effect. Of a certain moonless
night, he was to bring off three gallons of spirits, _in skins_, and
moor them to the frigate's anchor-buoy--some distance from the
vessel--attaching something heavy, to sink them out of sight. In the
middle watch of the night, the fore-top-man slips out of his hammock,
and by creeping along in the shadows, eludes the vigilance of the
master-at-arms and his mates, gains a port-hole, and softly lowers
himself into the water, almost without creating a ripple--the sentries
marching to and fro on their overhanging platform above him. He is an
expert swimmer, and paddles along under the surface, every now and then
rising a little, and lying motionless on his back to breathe--little
but his nose exposed. The buoy gained, he cuts the skins adrift, ties
them round his body, and in the same adroit manner makes good his
return.

This feat is very seldom attempted, for it needs the utmost caution,
address, and dexterity; and no one but a super-expert burglar, and
faultless Leander of a swimmer, could achieve it.

From the greater privileges which they enjoy, the "_forward officers_,"
that is, the Gunner, Boatswain, etc., have much greater opportunities
for successful smuggling than the common seamen. Coming alongside one
night in a cutter, Yarn, our boatswain, in some inexplicable way,
contrived to slip several skins of brandy through the air-port of his
own state-room. The feat, however, must have been perceived by one of
the boat's crew, who immediately, on gaining the deck, sprung down the
ladders, stole into the boatswain's room, and made away with the prize,
not three minutes before the rightful owner entered to claim it.
Though, from certain circumstances, the thief was known to the
aggrieved party, yet the latter could say nothing, since he himself had
infringed the law. But the next day, in the capacity of captain of the
ship's executioners, Yarn had the satisfaction (it was so to him) of
standing over the robber at the gangway; for, being found intoxicated
with the very liquor the boatswain himself had smuggled, the man had
been condemned to a flogging.

This recalls another instance, still more illustrative of the knotted,
trebly intertwisted villainy, accumulating at a sort of compound
interest in a man-of-war. The cockswain of the Commodore's barge takes
his crew apart, one by one, and cautiously sounds them as to their
fidelity--not to the United States of America, but to himself. Three
individuals, whom he deems doubtful--that is, faithful to the United
States of America--he procures to be discharged from the barge, and men
of his own selection are substituted; for he is always an influential
character, this cockswain of the Commodore's barge. Previous to this,
however, he has seen to it well, that no Temperance men--that is,
sailors who do not draw their government ration of grog, but take the
money for it--he has seen to it, that none of these _balkers_ are
numbered among his crew. Having now proved his men, he divulges his
plan to the assembled body; a solemn oath of secrecy is obtained, and
he waits the first fit opportunity to carry into execution his
nefarious designs.

At last it comes. One afternoon the barge carries the Commodore across
the Bay to a fine water-side settlement of noblemen's seats, called
Praya Grande. The Commodore is visiting a Portuguese marquis, and the
pair linger long over their dinner in an arbour in the garden.
Meanwhile, the cockswain has liberty to roam about where he pleases. He
searches out a place where some choice _red-eye_ (brandy) is to be had,
purchases six large bottles, and conceals them among the trees. Under
the pretence of filling the boat-keg with water, which is always kept
in the barge to refresh the crew, he now carries it off into the grove,
knocks out the head, puts the bottles inside, reheads the keg, fills it
with water, carries it down to the boat, and audaciously restores it to
its conspicuous position in the middle, with its bung-hole up. When the
Commodore comes down to the beach, and they pull off for the ship, the
cockswain, in a loud voice, commands the nearest man to take that bung
out of the keg--that precious water will spoil. Arrived alongside the
frigate, the boat's crew are overhauled, as usual, at the gangway; and
nothing being found on them, are passed. The master-at-arms now
descending into the barge, and finding nothing suspicious, reports it
_clean_, having put his finger into the open bung of the keg and tasted
that the water was pure. The barge is ordered out to the booms, and
deep night is waited for, ere the cockswain essays to snatch the
bottles from the keg.

But, unfortunately for the success of this masterly smuggler, one of
his crew is a weak-pated fellow, who, having drank somewhat freely
ashore, goes about the gun-deck throwing out profound, tipsy hints
concerning some unutterable proceeding on the ship's anvil. A knowing
old sheet-anchor-man, an unprincipled fellow, putting this, that, and
the other together, ferrets out the mystery; and straightway resolves
to reap the goodly harvest which the cockswain has sowed. He seeks him
out, takes him to one side, and addresses him thus:

"Cockswain, you have been smuggling off some _red-eye_, which at this
moment is in your barge at the booms. Now, cockswain, I have stationed
two of my mess-mates at the port-holes, on that side of the ship; and
if they report to me that you, or any of your bargemen, offer to enter
that barge before morning, I will immediately report you as a smuggler
to the officer of the deck."

The cockswain is astounded; for, to be reported to the deck-officer as
a smuggler, would inevitably procure him a sound flogging, and be the
disgraceful _breaking_ of him as a petty officer, receiving four
dollars a month beyond his pay as an able seaman. He attempts to bribe
the other to secrecy, by promising half the profits of the enterprise;
but the sheet-anchor-man's integrity is like a rock; he is no
mercenary, to be bought up for a song. The cockswain, therefore, is
forced to swear that neither himself, nor any of his crew, shall enter
the barge before morning. This done, the sheet-anchor-man goes to his
confidants, and arranges his plans. In a word, he succeeds in
introducing the six brandy bottles into the ship; five of which he
sells at eight dollars a bottle; and then, with the sixth, between two
guns, he secretly regales himself and confederates; while the helpless
cockswain, stifling his rage, bitterly eyes them from afar.

Thus, though they say that there is honour among thieves, there is
little among man-of-war smugglers.




CHAPTER XLIV.

A KNAVE IN OFFICE IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


The last smuggling story now about to be related also occurred while we
lay in Rio. It is the more particularly presented, since it furnishes
the most curious evidence of the almost incredible corruption pervading
nearly all ranks in some men-of-war.

For some days, the number of intoxicated sailors collared and brought
up to the mast by the master-at-arms, to be reported to the
deck-officers--previous to a flogging at the gangway--had, in the last
degree, excited the surprise and vexation of the Captain and senior
officers. So strict were the Captain's regulations concerning the
suppression of grog-smuggling, and so particular had he been in
charging the matter upon all the Lieutenants, and every understrapper
official in the frigate, that he was wholly at a loss how so large a
quantity of spirits could have been spirited into the ship, in the face
of all these checks, guards, and precautions.

Still additional steps were adopted to detect the smugglers; and Bland,
the master-at-arms, together with his corporals, were publicly
harangued at the mast by the Captain in person, and charged to exert
their best powers in suppressing the traffic. Crowds were present at
the time, and saw the master-at-arms touch his cap in obsequious
homage, as he solemnly assured the Captain that he would still continue
to do his best; as, indeed, he said he had always done. He concluded
with a pious ejaculation expressive of his personal abhorrence of
smuggling and drunkenness, and his fixed resolution, so help him
Heaven, to spend his last wink in sitting up by night, to spy out all
deeds of darkness.

"I do not doubt you, master-at-arms," returned the Captain; "now go to
your duty." This master-at-arms was a favourite of the Captain's.

The next morning, before breakfast, when the market-boat came off (that
is, one of the ship's boats regularly deputed to bring off the daily
fresh provisions for the officers)--when this boat came off, the
master-at-arms, as usual, after carefully examining both her and her
crew, reported them to the deck-officer to be free from suspicion. The
provisions were then hoisted out, and among them came a good-sized
wooden box, addressed to "Mr. ---- Purser of the United States ship
Neversink." Of course, any private matter of this sort, destined for a
gentleman of the ward-room, was sacred from examination, and the
master-at-arms commanded one of his corporals to carry it down into the
Purser's state-room. But recent occurrences had sharpened the vigilance
of the deck-officer to an unwonted degree, and seeing the box going
down the hatchway, he demanded what that was, and whom it was for.

"All right, sir," said the master-at-arms, touching his cap; "stores
for the Purser, sir."

"Let it remain on deck," said the Lieutenant. "Mr. Montgomery!" calling
a midshipman, "ask the Purser whether there is any box coming off for
him this morning."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the middy, touching his cap.

Presently he returned, saying that the Purser was ashore.

"Very good, then; Mr. Montgomery, have that box put into the 'brig,'
with strict orders to the sentry not to suffer any one to touch it."

"Had I not better take it down into my mess, sir, till the Purser comes
off?" said the master-at-arms, deferentially.

"I have given my orders, sir!" said the Lieutenant, turning away.

When the Purser came on board, it turned out that he knew nothing at
all about the box. He had never so much as heard of it in his life. So
it was again brought up before the deck-officer, who immediately
summoned the master-at-arms.

"Break open that box!"

"Certainly, sir!" said the master-at-arms; and, wrenching off the
cover, twenty-five brown jugs like a litter of twenty-five brown pigs,
were found snugly nestled in a bed of straw.

"The smugglers are at work, sir," said the master-at-arms, looking up.

"Uncork and taste it," said the officer.

The master-at-arms did so; and, smacking his lips after a puzzled
fashion, was a little doubtful whether it was American whisky or
Holland gin; but he said he was not used to liquor.

"Brandy; I know it by the smell," said the officer; "return the box to
the brig."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the master-at-arms, redoubling his activity.

The affair was at once reported to the Captain, who, incensed at the
audacity of the thing, adopted every plan to detect the guilty parties.
Inquiries were made ashore; but by whom the box had been brought down
to the market-boat there was no finding out. Here the matter rested for
a time.

Some days after, one of the boys of the mizzen-top was flogged for
drunkenness, and, while suspended in agony at the gratings, was made to
reveal from whom he had procured his spirits. The man was called, and
turned out to be an old superannuated marine, one Scriggs, who did the
cooking for the marine-sergeants and masters-at-arms' mess. This marine
was one of the most villainous-looking fellows in the ship, with a
squinting, pick-lock, gray eye, and hang-dog gallows gait. How such a
most unmartial vagabond had insinuated himself into the honourable
marine corps was a perfect mystery. He had always been noted for his
personal uncleanliness, and among all hands, fore and aft, had the
reputation of being a notorious old miser, who denied himself the few
comforts, and many of the common necessaries of a man-of-war life.

Seeing no escape, Scriggs fell on his knees before the Captain, and
confessed the charge of the boy. Observing the fellow to be in an agony
of fear at the sight of the boat-swain's mates and their lashes, and
all the striking parade of public punishment, the Captain must have
thought this a good opportunity for completely pumping him of all his
secrets. This terrified marine was at length forced to reveal his
having been for some time an accomplice in a complicated system of
underhand villainy, the head of which was no less a personage than the
indefatigable chief of police, the master-at-arms himself. It appeared
that this official had his confidential agents ashore, who supplied him
with spirits, and in various boxes, packages, and bundles--addressed to
the Purser and others--brought them down to the frigate's boats at the
landing. Ordinarily, the appearance of these things for the Purser and
other ward-room gentlemen occasioned no surprise; for almost every day
some bundle or other is coming off for them, especially for the Purser;
and, as the master-at-arms was always present on these occasions, it
was an easy matter for him to hurry the smuggled liquor out of sight,
and, under pretence of carrying the box or bundle down to the Purser's
room, hide it away upon his own premises.

The miserly marine, Scriggs, with the pick-lock eye, was the man who
clandestinely sold the spirits to the sailors, thus completely keeping
the master-at-arms in the background. The liquor sold at the most
exorbitant prices; at one time reaching twelve dollars the bottle in
cash, and thirty dollars a bottle in orders upon the Purser, to be
honored upon the frigate's arrival home. It may seem incredible that
such prices should have been given by the sailors; but when some
man-of-war's-men crave liquor, and it is hard to procure, they would
almost barter ten years of their life-time for but one solitary "_tot_"
if they could.

The sailors who became intoxicated with the liquor thus smuggled on
board by the master-at-arms, were, in almost numberless instances,
officially seized by that functionary and scourged at the gangway. In a
previous place it has been shown how conspicuous a part the
master-at-arms enacts at this scene.

The ample profits of this iniquitous business were divided, between all
the parties concerned in it; Scriggs, the marine, coming in for one
third. His cook's mess-chest being brought on deck, four canvas bags of
silver were found in it, amounting to a sum something short of as many
hundred dollars.

The guilty parties were scourged, double-ironed, and for several weeks
were confined in the "brig" under a sentry; all but the master-at-arms,
who was merely cashiered and imprisoned for a time; with bracelets at
his wrists. Upon being liberated, he was turned adrift among the ship's
company; and by way of disgracing him still more, was thrust into the
_waist_, the most inglorious division of the ship.

Upon going to dinner one day, I found him soberly seated at my own
mess; and at first I could not but feel some very serious scruples
about dining with him. Nevertheless, he was a man to study and digest;
so, upon a little reflection; I was not displeased at his presence. It
amazed me, however, that he had wormed himself into the mess, since so
many of the other messes had declined the honour, until at last, I
ascertained that he had induced a mess-mate of ours, a distant relation
of his, to prevail upon the cook to admit him.

Now it would not have answered for hardly any other mess in the ship to
have received this man among them, for it would have torn a huge rent
in their reputation; but our mess, A. No. 1--the Forty-two-pounder
Club--was composed of so fine a set of fellows; so many captains of
tops, and quarter-masters--men of undeniable mark on board ship--of
long-established standing and consideration on the gun-deck; that, with
impunity, we could do so many equivocal things, utterly inadmissible
for messes of inferior pretension. Besides, though we all abhorred the
monster of Sin itself, yet, from our social superiority, highly
rarified education in our lofty top, and large and liberal sweep of the
aggregate of things, we were in a good degree free from those useless,
personal prejudices, and galling hatreds against conspicuous _sinners_,
not _Sin_--which so widely prevail among men of warped understandings
and unchristian and uncharitable hearts. No; the superstitions and
dogmas concerning Sin had not laid their withering maxims upon our
hearts. We perceived how that evil was but good disguised, and a knave
a saint in his way; how that in other planets, perhaps, what we deem
wrong, may there be deemed right; even as some substances, without
undergoing any mutations in themselves utterly change their colour,
according to the light thrown upon them. We perceived that the
anticipated millennium must have begun upon the morning the first words
were created; and that, taken all in all, our man-of-war world itself
was as eligible a round-sterned craft as any to be found in the Milky
Way. And we fancied that though some of us, of the gun-deck, were at
times condemned to sufferings and blights, and all manner of
tribulation and anguish, yet, no doubt, it was only our misapprehension
of these things that made us take them for woeful pains instead of the
most agreeable pleasures. I have dreamed of a sphere, says Pinzella,
where to break a man on the wheel is held the most exquisite of
delights you can confer upon him; where for one gentleman in any way to
vanquish another is accounted an everlasting dishonour; where to tumble
one into a pit after death, and then throw cold clods upon his upturned
face, is a species of contumely, only inflicted upon the most notorious
criminals.

But whatever we mess-mates thought, in whatever circumstances we found
ourselves, we never forgot that our frigate, had as it was, was
homeward-bound. Such, at least, were our reveries at times, though
sorely jarred, now and then, by events that took our philosophy aback.
For after all, philosophy--that is, the best wisdom that has ever in
any way been revealed to our man-of-war world--is but a slough and a
mire, with a few tufts of good footing here and there.

But there was one man in the mess who would have naught to do with our
philosophy--a churlish, ill-tempered, unphilosophical, superstitious
old bear of a quarter-gunner; a believer in Tophet, for which he was
accordingly preparing himself. Priming was his name; but methinks I
have spoken of him before.

Besides, this Bland, the master-at-arms, was no vulgar, dirty knave. In
him--to modify Burke's phrase--vice _seemed_, but only seemed, to lose
half its seeming evil by losing all its apparent grossness. He was a
neat and gentlemanly villain, and broke his biscuit with a dainty hand.
There was a fine polish about his whole person, and a pliant,
insinuating style in his conversation, that was, socially, quite
irresistible. Save my noble captain, Jack Chase, he proved himself the
most entertaining, I had almost said the most companionable man in the
mess. Nothing but his mouth, that was somewhat small, Moorish-arched,
and wickedly delicate, and his snaky, black eye, that at times shone
like a dark-lantern in a jeweller-shop at midnight, betokened the
accomplished scoundrel within. But in his conversation there was no
trace of evil; nothing equivocal; he studiously shunned an indelicacy,
never swore, and chiefly abounded in passing puns and witticisms,
varied with humorous contrasts between ship and shore life, and many
agreeable and racy anecdotes, very tastefully narrated. In short--in a
merely psychological point of view, at least--he was a charming
blackleg. Ashore, such a man might have been an irreproachable
mercantile swindler, circulating in polite society.

But he was still more than this. Indeed, I claim for this
master-at-arms a lofty and honourable niche in the Newgate Calendar of
history. His intrepidity, coolness, and wonderful self-possession in
calmly resigning himself to a fate that thrust him from an office in
which he had tyrannised over five hundred mortals, many of whom hated
and loathed him, passed all belief; his intrepidity, I say, in now
fearlessly gliding among them, like a disarmed swordfish among
ferocious white-sharks; this, surely, bespoke no ordinary man. While in
office, even, his life had often been secretly attempted by the seamen
whom he had brought to the gangway. Of dark nights they had dropped
shot down the hatchways, destined "to damage his pepper-box," as they
phrased it; they had made ropes with a hangman's noose at the end and
tried to _lasso_ him in dark corners. And now he was adrift among them,
under notorious circumstances of superlative villainy, at last dragged
to light; and yet he blandly smiled, politely offered his cigar-holder
to a perfect stranger, and laughed and chatted to right and left, as if
springy, buoyant, and elastic, with an angelic conscience, and sure of
kind friends wherever he went, both in this life and the life to come.

While he was lying ironed in the "brig," gangs of the men were
sometimes overheard whispering about the terrible reception they would
give him when he should be set at large. Nevertheless, when liberated,
they seemed confounded by his erect and cordial assurance, his
gentlemanly sociability and fearless companionableness. From being an
implacable policeman, vigilant, cruel, and remorseless in his office,
however polished in his phrases, he was now become a disinterested,
sauntering man of leisure, winking at all improprieties, and ready to
laugh and make merry with any one. Still, at first, the men gave him a
wide berth, and returned scowls for his smiles; but who can forever
resist the very Devil himself, when he comes in the guise of a
gentleman, free, fine, and frank? Though Goethe's pious Margaret hates
the Devil in his horns and harpooner's tail, yet she smiles and nods to
the engaging fiend in the persuasive,_winning_, oily, wholly harmless
Mephistopheles. But, however it was, I, for one, regarded this
master-at-arms with mixed feelings of detestation, pity, admiration,
and something op-posed to enmity. I could not but abominate him when I
thought of his conduct; but I pitied the continual gnawing which, under
all his deftly-donned disguises, I saw lying at the bottom of his soul.
I admired his heroism in sustaining himself so well under such
reverses. And when I thought how arbitrary the _Articles of War_ are in
defining a man-of-war villain; how much undetected guilt might be
sheltered by the aristocratic awning of our quarter-deck; how many
florid pursers, ornaments of the ward-room, had been legally protected
in defrauding _the people_, I could not but say to myself, Well, after
all, though this man is a most wicked one indeed, yet is he even more
luckless than depraved.

Besides, a studied observation of Bland convinced me that he was an
organic and irreclaimable scoundrel, who did wicked deeds as the cattle
browse the herbage, because wicked deeds seemed the legitimate
operation of his whole infernal organisation. Phrenologically, he was
without a soul. Is it to be wondered at, that the devils are
irreligious? What, then, thought I, who is to blame in this matter? For
one, I will not take the Day of Judgment upon me by authoritatively
pronouncing upon the essential criminality of any man-of-war's-man; and
Christianity has taught me that, at the last day, man-of-war's-men will
not be judged by the _Articles of War_, nor by the _United States
Statutes at Large_, but by immutable laws, ineffably beyond the
comprehension of the honourable Board of Commodores and Navy
Commissioners. But though I will stand by even a man-of-war thief, and
defend him from being seized up at the gangway, if I can--remembering
that my Saviour once hung between two thieves, promising one
life-eternal--yet I would not, after the plain conviction of a villain,
again let him entirely loose to prey upon honest seamen, fore and aft
all three decks. But this did Captain Claret; and though the thing may
not perhaps be credited, nevertheless, here it shall be recorded.

After the master-at-arms had been adrift among the ship's company for
several weeks, and we were within a few days' sail of home, he was
summoned to the mast, and publicly reinstated in his office as the
ship's chief of police. Perhaps Captain Claret had read the Memoirs of
Vidocq, and believed in the old saying, _set a rogue to catch a rogue_.
Or, perhaps, he was a man of very tender feelings, highly susceptible
to the soft emotions of gratitude, and could not bear to leave in
disgrace a person who, out of the generosity of his heart, had, about a
year previous, presented him with a rare snuff-box, fabricated from a
sperm-whale's tooth, with a curious silver hinge, and cunningly wrought
in the shape of a whale; also a splendid gold-mounted cane, of a costly
Brazilian wood, with a gold plate, bearing the Captain's name and rank
in the service, the place and time of his birth, and with a vacancy
underneath--no doubt providentially left for his heirs to record his
decease.

Certain it was that, some months previous to the master-at-arms'
disgrace, he had presented these articles to the Captain, with his best
love and compliments; and the Captain had received them, and seldom
went ashore without the cane, and never took snuff but out of that box.
With some Captains, a sense of propriety might have induced them to
return these presents, when the generous donor had proved himself
unworthy of having them retained; but it was not Captain Claret who
would inflict such a cutting wound upon any officer's sensibilities,
though long-established naval customs had habituated him to scourging
_the people_ upon an emergency.

Now had Captain Claret deemed himself constitutionally bound to decline
all presents from his subordinates, the sense of gratitude would not
have operated to the prejudice of justice. And, as some of the
subordinates of a man-of-war captain are apt to invoke his good wishes
and mollify his conscience by making him friendly gifts, it would
perhaps _have_ been an excellent thing for him to adopt the plan
pursued by the President of the United States, when he received a
present of lions and Arabian chargers from the Sultan of Muscat. Being
forbidden by his sovereign lords and masters, the imperial people, to
accept of any gifts from foreign powers, the President sent them to an
auctioneer, and the proceeds were deposited in the Treasury. In the
same manner, when Captain Claret received his snuff-box and cane, he
might have accepted them very kindly, and then sold them off to the
highest bidder, perhaps to the donor himself, who in that case would
never have tempted him again.

Upon his return home, Bland was paid off for his full term, not
deducting the period of his suspension. He again entered the service in
his old capacity.

As no further allusion will be made to this affair, it may as well be
stated now that, for the very brief period elapsing between his
restoration and being paid off in port by the Purser, the
master-at-arms conducted himself with infinite discretion, artfully
steering between any relaxation of discipline--which would have
awakened the displeasure of the officers--and any unwise
severity--which would have revived, in tenfold force, all the old
grudges of the seamen under his command.

Never did he show so much talent and tact as when vibrating in this his
most delicate predicament; and plenty of cause was there for the
exercise of his cunningest abilities; for, upon the discharge of our
man-of-war's-men at home, should he _then_ be held by them as an enemy,
as free and independent citizens they would waylay him in the public
streets, and take purple vengeance for all his iniquities, past,
present, and possible in the future. More than once a master-at-arms
ashore has been seized by night by an exasperated crew, and served as
Origen served himself, or as his enemies served Abelard.

But though, under extreme provocation, _the people_ of a man-of-war
have been guilty of the maddest vengeance, yet, at other times, they
are very placable and milky-hearted, even to those who may have
outrageously abused them; many things in point might be related, but I
forbear.

This account of the master-at-arms cannot better be concluded than by
denominating him, in the vivid language of the Captain of the Fore-top,
as "_the two ends and middle of the thrice-laid strand of a bloody
rascal_," which was intended for a terse, well-knit, and
all-comprehensive assertion, without omission or reservation. It was
also asserted that, had Tophet itself been raked with a fine-tooth
comb, such another ineffable villain could not by any possibility have
been caught.




CHAPTER XLV.

PUBLISHING POETRY IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


A day or two after our arrival in Rio, a rather amusing incident
occurred to a particular acquaintance of mine, young Lemsford, the
gun-deck bard.


The great guns of an armed ship have blocks of wood, called _tompions_,
painted black, inserted in their muzzles, to keep out the spray of the
sea. These tompions slip in and out very handily, like covers to butter
firkins.

By advice of a friend, Lemsford, alarmed for the fate of his box of
poetry, had latterly made use of a particular gun on the main-deck, in
the tube of which he thrust his manuscripts, by simply crawling partly
out of the porthole, removing the tompion, inserting his papers,
tightly rolled, and making all snug again.

Breakfast over, he and I were reclining in the main-top--where, by
permission of my noble master, Jack Chase, I had invited him--when, of
a sudden, we heard a cannonading. It was our own ship.

"Ah!" said a top-man, "returning the shore salute they gave us
yesterday."

"O Lord!" cried Lemsford, "my _Songs of the Sirens!_" and he ran down
the rigging to the batteries; but just as he touched the gun-deck, gun
No. 20--his literary strong-box--went off with a terrific report.

"Well, my after-guard Virgil," said Jack Chase to him, as he slowly
returned up the rigging, "did you get it? You need not answer; I see
you were too late. But never mind, my boy: no printer could do the
business for you better. That's the way to publish, White-Jacket,"
turning to me--"fire it right into 'em; every canto a twenty-four-pound
shot; _hull_ the blockheads, whether they will or no. And mind you,
Lemsford, when your shot does the most execution, your hear the least
from the foe. A killed man cannot even lisp."

"Glorious Jack!" cried Lemsford, running up and snatching him by the
hand, "say that again, Jack! look me in the eyes. By all the Homers,
Jack, you have made my soul mount like a balloon! Jack, I'm a poor
devil of a poet. Not two months before I shipped aboard here, I
published a volume of poems, very aggressive on the world, Jack. Heaven
knows what it cost me. I published it, Jack, and the cursed publisher
sued me for damages; my friends looked sheepish; one or two who liked
it were non-committal; and as for the addle-pated mob and rabble, they
thought they had found out a fool. Blast them, Jack, what they call the
public is a monster, like the idol we saw in Owhyhee, with the head of
a jackass, the body of a baboon, and the tail of a scorpion!"

"I don't like that," said Jack; "when I'm ashore, I myself am part of
the public."

"Your pardon, Jack; you are not, you are then a part of the people,
just as you are aboard the frigate here. The public is one thing, Jack,
and the people another."

"You are right," said Jack; "right as this leg. Virgil, you are a
trump; you are a jewel, my boy. The public and the people! Ay, ay, my
lads, let us hate the one and cleave to the other."




CHAPTER XLVI.

THE COMMODORE ON THE POOP, AND ONE OF "THE PEOPLE" UNDER THE HANDS OF
THE SURGEON.


A day or two after the publication of Lemsford's "Songs of the Sirens,"
a sad accident befell a mess-mate of mine, one of the captains of the
mizzen-top. He was a fine little Scot, who, from the premature loss of
the hair on the top of his head, always went by the name of _Baldy_.
This baldness was no doubt, in great part, attributable to the same
cause that early thins the locks of most man-of-war's-men--namely, the
hard, unyielding, and ponderous man-of-war and navy-regulation
tarpaulin hat, which, when new, is stiff enough to sit upon, and
indeed, in lieu of his thumb, sometimes serves the common sailor for a
bench.

Now, there is nothing upon which the Commodore of a squadron more
prides himself than upon the celerity with which his men can handle the
sails, and go through with all the evolutions pertaining thereto. This
is especially manifested in harbour, when other vessels of his squadron
are near, and perhaps the armed ships of rival nations.

Upon these occasions, surrounded by his post-captain sa-traps--each of
whom in his own floating island is king--the Commodore domineers over
all--emperor of the whole oaken archipelago; yea, magisterial and
magnificent as the Sultan of the Isles of Sooloo.

But, even as so potent an emperor and Caesar to boot as the great Don
of Germany, Charles the Fifth, was used to divert himself in his dotage
by watching the gyrations of the springs and cogs of a long row of
clocks, even so does an elderly Commodore while away his leisure in
harbour, by what is called "_exercising guns_," and also "_exercising
yards and sails;_" causing the various spars of all the ships under his
command to be "braced," "topped," and "cock billed" in concert, while
the Commodore himself sits, something like King Canute, on an arm-chest
on the poop of his flag-ship.

But far more regal than any descendant of Charlemagne, more haughty
than any Mogul of the East, and almost mysterious and voiceless in his
authority as the Great Spirit of the Five Nations, the Commodore deigns
not to verbalise his commands; they are imparted by signal.

And as for old Charles the Fifth, again, the gay-pranked, coloured
suits of cards were invented, to while away his dotage, even so,
doubtless, must these pretty little signals of blue and red spotted
_bunting_ have been devised to cheer the old age of all Commodores.

By the Commodore's side stands the signal-midshipman, with a sea-green
bag swung on his shoulder (as a sportsman bears his game-bag), the
signal-book in one hand, and the signal spy-glass in the other. As this
signal-book contains the Masonic signs and tokens of the navy, and
would there-fore be invaluable to an enemy, its binding is always
bordered with lead, so as to insure its sinking in case the ship should
be captured. Not the only book this, that might appropriately be bound
in lead, though there be many where the author, and not the bookbinder,
furnishes the metal.

As White-Jacket understands it, these signals consist of
variously-coloured flags, each standing for a certain number. Say there
are ten flags, representing the cardinal numbers--the red flag, No. 1;
the blue flag, No. 2; the green flag, No. 3, and so forth; then, by
mounting the blue flag over the red, that would stand for No. 21: if
the green flag were set underneath, it would then stand for 213. How
easy, then, by endless transpositions, to multiply the various numbers
that may be exhibited at the mizzen-peak, even by only three or four of
these flags.

To each number a particular meaning is applied. No. 100, for instance,
may mean, "_Beat to quarters_." No. 150, "_All hands to grog_." No.
2000, "_Strike top-gallant-yards_." No. 2110, "_See anything to
windward?_" No. 2800, "_No_."

And as every man-of-war is furnished with a signal-book, where all
these things are set down in order, therefore, though two American
frigates--almost perfect strangers to each other--came from the
opposite Poles, yet at a distance of more than a mile they could carry
on a very liberal conversation in the air.

When several men-of-war of one nation lie at anchor in one port,
forming a wide circle round their lord and master, the flag-ship, it is
a very interesting sight to see them all obeying the Commodore's
orders, who meanwhile never opens his lips.

Thus was it with us in Rio, and hereby hangs the story of my poor
messmate Bally.

One morning, in obedience to a signal from our flag-ship, the various
vessels belonging to the American squadron then in harbour
simultaneously loosened their sails to dry. In the evening, the signal
was set to furl them. Upon such occasions, great rivalry exists between
the First Lieutenants of the different ships; they vie with each other
who shall first have his sails stowed on the yards. And this rivalry is
shared between all the officers of each vessel, who are respectively
placed over the different top-men; so that the main-mast is all
eagerness to vanquish the fore-mast, and the mizzen-mast to vanquish
them both. Stimulated by the shouts of their officers, the sailors
throughout the squadron exert themselves to the utmost.

"Aloft, topmen! lay out! furl!" cried the First Lieutenant of the
Neversink.

At the word the men sprang into the rigging, and on all three masts
were soon climbing about the yards, in reckless haste, to execute their
orders.

Now, in furling top-sails or courses, the point of honour, and the
hardest work, is in the _bunt_, or middle of the yard; this post
belongs to the first captain of the top.

"What are you 'bout there, mizzen-top-men?" roared the First
Lieutenant, through his trumpet. "D----n you, you are clumsy as Russian
bears! don't you see the main--top-men are nearly off the yard? Bear a
hand, bear a hand, or I'll stop your grog all round! You, Baldy! are
you going to sleep there in the bunt?"

While this was being said, poor Baldy--his hat off, his face streaming
with perspiration--was frantically exerting himself, piling up the
ponderous folds of canvas in the middle of the yard; ever and anon
glancing at victorious Jack Chase, hard at work at the
main-top-sail-yard before him.

At last, the sail being well piled up, Baldy jumped with both feet into
the _bunt_, holding on with one hand to the chain "_tie_," and in that
manner was violently treading down the canvas, to pack it close.

"D----n you, Baldy, why don't you move, you crawling caterpillar;"
roared the First Lieutenant.

Baldy brought his whole weight to bear on the rebellious sail, and in
his frenzied heedlessness let go his hold on the _tie_.

"You, Baldy! are you afraid of falling?" cried the First Lieutenant.

At that moment, with all his force, Baldy jumped down upon the sail;
the _bunt gasket_ parted; and a dark form dropped through the air.
Lighting upon the _top-rim_, it rolled off; and the next instant, with
a horrid crash of all his bones, Baldy came, like a thunderbolt, upon
the deck.

Aboard of most large men-of-war there is a stout oaken platform, about
four feet square, on each side of the quarter-deck. You ascend to it by
three or four steps; on top, it is railed in at the sides, with
horizontal brass bars. It is called _the Horse Block;_ and there the
officer of the deck usually stands, in giving his orders at sea.

It was one of these horse blocks, now unoccupied, that broke poor
Baldy's fall. He fell lengthwise across the brass bars, bending them
into elbows, and crushing the whole oaken platform, steps and all,
right down to the deck in a thousand splinters.

He was picked up for dead, and carried below to the surgeon. His bones
seemed like those of a man broken on the wheel, and no one thought he
would survive the night. But with the surgeon's skillful treatment he
soon promised recovery. Surgeon Cuticle devoted all his science to this
case.

A curious frame-work of wood was made for the maimed man; and placed in
this, with all his limbs stretched out, Baldy lay flat on the floor of
the Sick-bay, for many weeks. Upon our arrival home, he was able to
hobble ashore on crutches; but from a hale, hearty man, with bronzed
cheeks, he was become a mere dislocated skeleton, white as foam; but
ere this, perhaps, his broken bones are healed and whole in the last
repose of the man-of-war's-man.

Not many days after Baldy's accident in furling sails--in this same
frenzied manner, under the stimulus of a shouting officer--a seaman
fell from the main-royal-yard of an English line-of-battle ship near
us, and buried his ankle-bones in the deck, leaving two indentations
there, as if scooped out by a carpenter's gouge.

The royal-yard forms a cross with the mast, and falling from that lofty
cross in a line-of-battle ship is almost like falling from the cross of
St. Paul's; almost like falling as Lucifer from the well-spring of
morning down to the Phlegethon of night.

In some cases, a man, hurled thus from a yard, has fallen upon his own
shipmates in the tops, and dragged them down with him to the same
destruction with himself.

Hardly ever will you hear of a man-of-war returning home after a
cruise, without the loss of some of her crew from aloft, whereas
similar accidents in the merchant service--considering the much greater
number of men employed in it--are comparatively few.

Why mince the matter? The death of most of these man-of-war's-men lies
at the door of the souls of those officers, who, while safely standing
on deck themselves, scruple not to sacrifice an immortal man or two, in
order to show off the excelling discipline of the ship. And thus do
_the people_ of the gun-deck suffer, that the Commodore on the poop may
be glorified.




CHAPTER XLVII.

AN AUCTION IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


Some allusion has been made to the weariness experienced by the
man-of-war's-men while lying at anchor; but there are scenes now and
then that serve to relieve it. Chief among these are the Purser's
auctions, taking place while in harbour. Some weeks, or perhaps months,
after a sailor dies in an armed vessel, his bag of clothes is in this
manner sold, and the proceeds transferred to the account of his heirs
or executors.

One of these auctions came off in Rio, shortly after the sad accident
of Baldy.

It was a dreamy, quiet afternoon, and the crew were listlessly lying
'around, when suddenly the Boatswain's whistle was heard, followed by
the announcement, "D'ye hear there, fore and aft? Purser's auction on
the spar-deck!"

At the sound, the sailors sprang to their feet and mustered round the
main-mast. Presently up came the Purser's steward, marshalling before
him three or four of his subordinates, carrying several clothes' bags,
which were deposited at the base of the mast.

Our Purser's steward was a rather gentlemanly man in his way. Like many
young Americans of his class, he had at various times assumed the most
opposite functions for a livelihood, turning from one to the other with
all the facility of a light-hearted, clever adventurer. He had been a
clerk in a steamer on the Mississippi River; an auctioneer in Ohio; a
stock actor at the Olympic Theatre in New York; and now he was Purser's
steward in the Navy. In the course of this deversified career his
natural wit and waggery had been highly spiced, and every way improved;
and he had acquired the last and most difficult art of the joker, the
art of lengthening his own face while widening those of his hearers,
preserving the utmost solemnity while setting them all in a roar. He
was quite a favourite with the sailors, which, in a good degree, was
owing to his humour; but likewise to his off-hand, irresistible,
romantic, theatrical manner of addressing them.

With a dignified air, he now mounted the pedestal of the main-top-sail
sheet-bitts, imposing silence by a theatrical wave of his hand;
meantime, his subordinates were rummaging the bags, and assorting their
contents before him.

"Now, my noble hearties," he began, "we will open this auction by
offering to your impartial competition a very superior pair of old
boots;" and so saying, he dangled aloft one clumsy cowhide cylinder,
almost as large as a fire bucket, as a specimen of the complete pair.

"What shall I have now, my noble tars, for this superior pair of
sea-boots?"

"Where's t'other boot?" cried a suspicious-eyed waister. "I remember
them 'ere boots. They were old Bob's the quarter-gunner's; there was
two on 'em, too. I want to see t'other boot."

"My sweet and pleasant fellow," said the auctioneer, with his blandest
accents, "the other boot is not just at hand, but I give you my word of
honour that it in all respects cor-responds to the one you here see--it
does, I assure you. And I solemnly guarantee, my noble sea-faring
fencibles," he added, turning round upon all, "that the other boot is
the exact counterpart of this. Now, then, say the word, my fine
fellows. What shall I have? Ten dollars, did you say?" politely bowing
toward some indefinite person in the background.

"No; ten cents," responded a voice.

"Ten cents! ten cents! gallant sailors, for this noble pair of boots,"
exclaimed the auctioneer, with affected horror; "I must close the
auction, my tars of Columbia; this will never do. But let's have
another bid; now, come," he added, coaxingly and soothingly. "What is
it? One dollar, one dollar then--one dollar; going at one dollar;
going, going--going. Just see how it vibrates"--swinging the boot to
and fro--"this superior pair of sea-boots vibrating at one dollar;
wouldn't pay for the nails in their heels; going, going--gone!" And
down went the boots.

"Ah, what a sacrifice! what a sacrifice!" he sighed, tearfully eyeing
the solitary fire-bucket, and then glancing round the company for
sympathy.

"A sacrifice, indeed!" exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood by; "Purser's
Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body of Julius Cesar."

"So I am, so I am," said the auctioneer, without moving a muscle. "And
look!" he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the boot, and exhibiting it on
high, "look, my noble tars, if you have tears, prepare to shed them
now. You all do know this boot. I remember the first time ever old Bob
put it on. 'Twas on a winter evening, off Cape Horn, between the
starboard carronades--that day his precious grog was stopped. Look! in
this place a mouse has nibbled through; see what a rent some envious
rat has made, through this another filed, and, as he plucked his cursed
rasp away, mark how the bootleg gaped. This was the unkindest cut of
all. But whose are the boots?" suddenly assuming a business-like air;
"yours? yours? yours?"

But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.

"Tars of Columbia," said the auctioneer, imperatively, "these boots
must be sold; and if I can't sell them one way, I must sell them
another. How much _a pound_, now, for this superior pair of old boots?
going by _the pound_ now, remember, my gallant sailors! what shall I
have? one cent, do I hear? going now at one cent a
pound--going--going--going--_gone!_"

"Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well, my sweet and
pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out to you when the auction
is over."

In like manner all the contents of the bags were disposed of, embracing
old frocks, trowsers, and jackets, the various sums for which they went
being charged to the bidders on the books of the Purser.

Having been present at this auction, though not a purchaser, and seeing
with what facility the most dismantled old garments went off, through
the magical cleverness of the accomplished auctioneer, the thought
occurred to me, that if ever I calmly and positively decided to dispose
of my famous white jacket, this would be the very way to do it. I
turned the matter over in my mind a long time.

The weather in Rio was genial and warm, and that I would ever again
need such a thing as a heavy quilted jacket--and such a jacket as the
white one, too--seemed almost impossible. Yet I remembered the American
coast, and that it would probably be Autumn when we should arrive
there. Yes, I thought of all that, to be sure; nevertheless, the
ungovernable whim seized me to sacrifice my jacket and recklessly abide
the consequences. Besides, was it not a horrible jacket? To how many
annoyances had it subjected me? How many scrapes had it dragged me
into? Nay, had it not once jeopardised my very existence? And I had a
dreadful presentiment that, if I persisted in retaining it, it would do
so again. Enough! I will sell it, I muttered; and so muttering, I
thrust my hands further down in my waistband, and walked the main-top
in the stern concentration of an inflexible purpose. Next day, hearing
that another auction was shortly to take place, I repaired to the
office of the Purser's steward, with whom I was upon rather friendly
terms. After vaguely and delicately hinting at the object of my visit,
I came roundly to the point, and asked him whether he could slip my
jacket into one of the bags of clothes next to be sold, and so dispose
of it by public auction. He kindly acquiesced and the thing was done.

In due time all hands were again summoned round the main-mast; the
Purser's steward mounted his post, and the ceremony began. Meantime, I
lingered out of sight, but still within hearing, on the gun-deck below,
gazing up, un-perceived, at the scene.

As it is now so long ago, I will here frankly make confession that I
had privately retained the services of a friend--Williams, the Yankee
pedagogue and peddler--whose business it would be to linger near the
scene of the auction, and, if the bids on the jacket loitered, to start
it roundly himself; and if the bidding then became brisk, he was
continually to strike in with the most pertinacious and infatuated
bids, and so exasperate competition into the maddest and most
extravagant overtures.

A variety of other articles having been put up, the white jacket was
slowly produced, and, held high aloft between the auctioneer's thumb
and fore-finger, was submitted to the inspection of the discriminating
public.

Here it behooves me once again to describe my jacket; for, as a
portrait taken at one period of life will not answer for a later stage;
much more this jacket of mine, undergoing so many changes, needs to be
painted again and again, in order truly to present its actual
appearance at any given period.

A premature old age had now settled upon it; all over it bore
melancholy sears of the masoned-up pockets that had once trenched it in
various directions. Some parts of it were slightly mildewed from
dampness; on one side several of the buttons were gone, and others were
broken or cracked; while, alas! my many mad endeavours to rub it black
on the decks had now imparted to the whole garment an exceedingly
untidy appearance. Such as it was, with all its faults, the auctioneer
displayed it.

"You, venerable sheet-anchor-men! and you, gallant fore-top-men! and
you, my fine waisters! what do you say now for this superior old
jacket? Buttons and sleeves, lining and skirts, it must this day be
sold without reservation. How much for it, my gallant tars of Columbia?
say the word, and how much?"

"My eyes!" exclaimed a fore-top-man, "don't that 'ere bunch of old
swabs belong to Jack Chase's pet? Aren't that _the white jacket?_"

"_The white jacket!_" cried fifty voices in response; "_the white
jacket!_" The cry ran fore and aft the ship like a slogan, completely
overwhelming the solitary voice of my private friend Williams, while
all hands gazed at it with straining eyes, wondering how it came among
the bags of deceased mariners.

"Ay, noble tars," said the auctioneer, "you may well stare at it; you
will not find another jacket like this on either side of Cape Horn, I
assure you. Why, just look at it! How much, now? _Give_ me a bid--but
don't be rash; be prudent, be prudent, men; remember your Purser's
accounts, and don't be betrayed into extravagant bids."

"Purser's Steward!" cried Grummet, one of the quarter-gunners, slowly
shifting his quid from one cheek to the other, like a ballast-stone, "I
won't bid on that 'ere bunch of old swabs, unless you put up ten pounds
of soap with it."

"Don't mind that old fellow," said the auctioneer. "How much for the
jacket, my noble tars?"

"Jacket;" cried a dandy _bone polisher_ of the gun-room. "The
sail-maker was the tailor, then. How many fathoms of canvas in it,
Purser's Steward?"

"How much for this _jacket_?" reiterated the auctioneer, emphatically.

"_Jacket_, do you call it!" cried a captain of the hold.

"Why not call it a white-washed man-of-war schooner? Look at the
port-holes, to let in the air of cold nights."

"A reg'lar herring-net," chimed in Grummet.

"Gives me the _fever nagur_ to look at it," echoed a mizzen-top-man.

"Silence!" cried the auctioneer. "Start it now--start it, boys;
anything you please, my fine fellows! it _must_ be sold. Come, what
ought I to have on it, now?"

"Why, Purser's Steward," cried a waister, "you ought to have new
sleeves, a new lining, and a new body on it, afore you try to shove it
off on a greenhorn."

"What are you, 'busin' that 'ere garment for?" cried an old
sheet-anchor-man. "Don't you see it's a 'uniform mustering
jacket'--three buttons on one side, and none on t'other?"

"Silence!" again cried the auctioneer. "How much, my sea-fencibles, for
this superior old jacket?"

"Well," said Grummet, "I'll take it for cleaning-rags at one cent."

"Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Colombians."

"Well, then," said Grummet, all at once bursting into genuine
indignation, "if you want us to say something, then heave that bunch of
old swabs overboard, _say I_, and show us something worth looking at."

"No one will give me a bid, then? Very good; here, shove it aside.
Let's have something else there."

While this scene was going forward, and my white jacket was thus being
abused, how my heart swelled within me! Thrice was I on the point of
rushing out of my hiding-place, and bearing it off from derision; but I
lingered, still flattering myself that all would be well, and the
jacket find a purchaser at last. But no, alas! there was no getting rid
of it, except by rolling a forty-two-pound shot in it, and committing
it to the deep. But though, in my desperation, I had once contemplated
something of that sort, yet I had now become unaccountably averse to
it, from certain involuntary superstitious considerations. If I sink my
jacket, thought I, it will be sure to spread itself into a bed at the
bottom of the sea, upon which I shall sooner or later recline, a dead
man. So, unable to conjure it into the possession of another, and
withheld from burying it out of sight for ever, my jacket stuck to me
like the fatal shirt on Nessus.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

PURSER, PURSER'S STEWARD, AND POSTMASTER IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


As the Purser's steward so conspicuously figured at the unsuccessful
auction of my jacket, it reminds me of how important a personage that
official is on board of all men-of-war. He is the right-hand man and
confidential deputy and clerk of the Purser, who intrusts to him all
his accounts with the crew, while, in most cases, he himself, snug and
comfortable in his state-room, glances over a file of newspapers
instead of overhauling his ledgers.

Of all the non-combatants of a man-of-war, the Purser, perhaps, stands
foremost in importance. Though he is but a member of the gun-room mess,
yet usage seems to assign him a conventional station somewhat above
that of his equals in navy rank--the Chaplain, Surgeon, and Professor.
Moreover, he is frequently to be seen in close conversation with the
Commodore, who, in the Neversink, was more than once known to be
slightly jocular with our Purser. Upon several occasions, also, he was
called into the Commodore's cabin, and remained closeted there for
several minutes together. Nor do I remember that there ever happened a
cabinet meeting of the ward-room barons, the Lieutenants, in the
Commodore's cabin, but the Purser made one of the party. Doubtless the
important fact of the Purser having under his charge all the financial
affairs of a man-of-war, imparts to him the great importance he enjoys.
Indeed, we find in every government--monarchies and republics
alike--that the personage at the head of the finances invariably
occupies a commanding position. Thus, in point of station, the
Secretary of the Treasury of the United States is deemed superior to
the other heads of departments. Also, in England, the real office held
by the great Premier himself is--as every one knows--that of First Lord
of the Treasury.

Now, under this high functionary of state, the official known as the
Purser's Steward was head clerk of the frigate's fiscal affairs. Upon
the berth-deck he had a regular counting-room, full of ledgers,
journals, and day-books. His desk was as much littered with papers as
any Pearl Street merchant's, and much time was devoted to his accounts.
For hours together you would see him, through the window of his
subterranean office, writing by the light of his perpetual lamp.

_Ex-officio_, the Purser's Steward of most ships is a sort of
postmaster, and his office the post-office. When the letter-bags for
the squadron--almost as large as those of the United States
mail--arrived on board the Neversink, it was the Purser's Steward that
sat at his little window on the berth-deck and handed you your letter
or paper--if any there were to your address. Some disappointed
applicants among the sailors would offer to buy the epistles of their
more fortunate shipmates, while yet the seal was unbroken--maintaining
that the sole and confidential reading of a fond, long, domestic letter
from any man's home, was far better than no letter at all.

In the vicinity of the office of the Purser's Steward are the principal
store-rooms of the Purser, where large quantities of goods of every
description are to be found. On board of those ships where goods are
permitted to be served out to the crew for the purpose of selling them
ashore, to raise money, more business is transacted at the office of a
Purser's Steward in one _Liberty-day_ morning than all the dry goods
shops in a considerable village would transact in a week.

Once a month, with undeviating regularity, this official has his hands
more than usually full. For, once a month, certain printed bills,
called Mess-bills, are circulated among the crew, and whatever you may
want from the Purser--be it tobacco, soap, duck, dungaree, needles,
thread, knives, belts, calico, ribbon, pipes, paper, pens, hats, ink,
shoes, socks, or whatever it may be--down it goes on the mess-bill,
which, being the next day returned to the office of the Steward, the
"slops," as they are called, are served out to the men and charged to
their accounts.

Lucky is it for man-of-war's-men that the outrageous impositions to
which, but a very few years ago, they were subjected from the abuses in
this department of the service, and the unscrupulous cupidity of many
of the pursers--lucky is it for them that _now_ these things are in a
great degree done away. The Pursers, instead of being at liberty to
make almost what they pleased from the sale of their wares, are now
paid by regular stipends laid down by law.

Under the exploded system, the profits of some of these officers were
almost incredible. In one cruise up the Mediterranean, the Purser of an
American line-of-battle ship was, on good authority, said to have
cleared the sum of $50,000. Upon that he quitted the service, and
retired into the country. Shortly after, his three daughters--not very
lovely--married extremely well.

The ideas that sailors entertain of Pursers is expressed in a rather
inelegant but expressive saying of theirs: "The Purser is a conjurer;
he can make a dead man chew tobacco"--insinuating that the accounts of
a dead man are sometimes subjected to post-mortem charges. Among
sailors, also, Pursers commonly go by the name of _nip-cheeses_.

No wonder that on board of the old frigate Java, upon her return from a
cruise extending over a period of more than four years, one thousand
dollars paid off eighty of her crew, though the aggregate wages of the
eighty for the voyage must have amounted to about sixty thousand
dollars. Even under the present system, the Purser of a line-of-battle
ship, for instance, is far better paid than any other officer, short of
Captain or Commodore. While the Lieutenant commonly receives but
eighteen hundred dollars, the Surgeon of the fleet but fifteen hundred,
the Chaplain twelve hundred, the Purser of a line-of-battle ship
receives thirty-five hundred dollars. In considering his salary,
however, his responsibilities are not to be over-looked; they are by no
means insignificant.

There are Pursers in the Navy whom the sailors exempt from the
insinuations above mentioned, nor, as a class, are they so obnoxious to
them now as formerly; for one, the florid old Purser of the
Neversink--never coming into disciplinary contact with the seamen, and
being withal a jovial and apparently good-hearted gentleman--was
something of a favourite with many of the crew.




CHAPTER XLIX.

RUMOURS OF A WAR, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE POPULATION OF THE
NEVERSINK.


While lying in the harbour of Callao, in Peru, certain rumours had come
to us touching a war with England, growing out of the long-vexed
Northeastern Boundary Question. In Rio these rumours were increased;
and the probability of hostilities induced our Commodore to authorize
proceedings that closely brought home to every man on board the
Neversink his liability at any time to be killed at his gun.

Among other things, a number of men were detailed to pass up the rusty
cannon-balls from the shot-lockers in the hold, and scrape them clean
for service. The Commodore was a very neat gentleman, and would not
fire a dirty shot into his foe.

It was an interesting occasion for a tranquil observer; nor was it
altogether neglected. Not to recite the precise remarks made by the
seamen while pitching the shot up the hatchway from hand to hand, like
schoolboys playing ball ashore, it will be enough to say that, from the
general drift of their discourse--jocular as it was--it was manifest
that, almost to a man, they abhorred the idea of going into action.

And why should they desire a war? Would their wages be raised? Not a
cent. The prize-money, though, ought to have been an inducement. But of
all the "rewards of virtue," prize-money is the most uncertain; and
this the man-of-war's-man knows. What, then, has he to expect from war?
What but harder work, and harder usage than in peace; a wooden leg or
arm; mortal wounds, and death? Enough, however, that by far the
majority of the common sailors of the Neversink were plainly concerned
at the prospect of war, and were plainly averse to it.

But with the officers of the quarter-deck it was just the reverse. None
of them, to be sure, in my hearing at least, verbally expressed their
gratification; but it was unavoidably betrayed by the increased
cheerfulness of their demeanour toward each other, their frequent
fraternal conferences, and their unwonted animation for several clays
in issuing their orders. The voice of Mad Jack--always a belfry to
hear--now resounded like that famous bell of England, Great Tom of
Oxford. As for Selvagee, he wore his sword with a jaunty air, and his
servant daily polished the blade.

But why this contrast between the forecastle and the quarter-deck,
between the man-of-war's-man and his officer? Because, though war would
equally jeopardize the lives of both, yet, while it held out to the
sailor no promise of promotion, and what is called _glory_, these
things fired the breast of his officers.

It is no pleasing task, nor a thankful one, to dive into the souls of
some men; but there are occasions when, to bring up the mud from the
bottom, reveals to us on what soundings we are, on what coast we adjoin.

How were these officers to gain glory? How but by a distinguished
slaughtering of their fellow-men. How were they to be promoted? How but
over the buried heads of killed comrades and mess-mates.

This hostile contrast between the feelings with which the common seamen
and the officers of the Neversink looked forward to this more than
possible war, is one of many instances that might be quoted to show the
antagonism of their interests, the incurable antagonism in which they
dwell. But can men, whose interests are diverse, ever hope to live
together in a harmony uncoerced? Can the brotherhood of the race of
mankind ever hope to prevail in a man-of-war, where one man's bane is
almost another's blessing? By abolishing the scourge, shall we do away
tyranny; _that_ tyranny which must ever prevail, where of two
essentially antagonistic classes in perpetual contact, one is
immeasurably the stronger? Surely it seems all but impossible. And as
the very object of a man-of-war, as its name implies, is to fight the
very battles so naturally averse to the seamen; so long as a man-of-war
exists, it must ever remain a picture of much that is tyrannical and
repelling in human nature.

Being an establishment much more extensive than the American Navy, the
English armed marine furnishes a yet more striking example of this
thing, especially as the existence of war produces so vast an
augmentation of her naval force compared with what it is in time of
peace. It is well known what joy the news of Bonaparte's sudden return
from Elba created among crowds of British naval officers, who had
previously been expecting to be sent ashore on half-pay. Thus, when all
the world wailed, these officers found occasion for thanksgiving. I
urge it not against them as men--their feelings belonged to their
profession. Had they not been naval officers, they had not been
rejoicers in the midst of despair.

When shall the time come, how much longer will God postpone it, when
the clouds, which at times gather over the horizons of nations, shall
not be hailed by any class of humanity, and invoked to burst as a bomb?
Standing navies, as well as standing armies, serve to keep alive the
spirit of war even in the meek heart of peace. In its very embers and
smoulderings, they nourish that fatal fire, and half-pay officers, as
the priests of Mars, yet guard the temple, though no god be there.




CHAPTER L.

THE BAY OF ALL BEAUTIES.


I have said that I must pass over Rio without a description; but just
now such a flood of scented reminiscences steals over me, that I must
needs yield and recant, as I inhale that musky air.

More than one hundred and fifty miles' circuit of living green hills
embosoms a translucent expanse, so gemmed in by sierras of grass, that
among the Indian tribes the place was known as "The Hidden Water." On
all sides, in the distance, rise high conical peaks, which at sunrise
and sunset burn like vast tapers; and down from the interior, through
vineyards and forests, flow radiating streams, all emptying into the
harbour.

Talk not of Bahia de Todos os Santos--the Bay of All Saints; for though
that be a glorious haven, yet Rio is the Bay of all Rivers--the Bay of
all Delights--the Bay of all Beauties. From circumjacent hill-sides,
untiring summer hangs perpetually in terraces of vivid verdure; and,
embossed with old mosses, convent and castle nestle in valley and glen.

All round, deep inlets run into the green mountain land, and, overhung
with wild Highlands, more resemble Loch Katrines than Lake Lemans. And
though Loch Katrine has been sung by the bonneted Scott, and Lake Leman
by the coroneted Byron; yet here, in Rio, both the loch and the lake
are but two wild flowers in a prospect that is almost unlimited. For,
behold! far away and away, stretches the broad blue of the water, to
yonder soft-swelling hills of light green, backed by the purple
pinnacles and pipes of the grand Organ Mountains; fitly so called, for
in thunder-time they roll cannonades down the bay, drowning the blended
bass of all the cathedrals in Rio. Shout amain, exalt your voices,
stamp your feet, jubilate, Organ Mountains! and roll your Te Deums
round the world!

What though, for more than five thousand five hundred years, this grand
harbour of Rio lay hid in the hills, unknown by the Catholic
Portuguese? Centuries ere Haydn performed before emperors and kings,
these Organ Mountains played his Oratorio of the Creation, before the
Creator himself. But nervous Haydn could not have endured that
cannonading choir, since this composer of thunderbolts himself died at
last through the crashing commotion of Napoleon's bombardment of Vienna.

But all mountains are Organ Mountains: the Alps and the Himalayas; the
Appalachian Chain, the Ural, the Andes, the Green Hills and the White.
All of them play anthems forever: The Messiah, and Samson, and Israel
in Egypt, and Saul, and Judas Maccabeus, and Solomon.

Archipelago Rio! ere Noah on old Ararat anchored his ark, there lay
anchored in you all these green, rocky isles I now see. But God did not
build on you, isles! those long lines of batteries; nor did our blessed
Saviour stand godfather at the christening of yon frowning fortress of
Santa Cruz, though named in honour of himself, the divine Prince of
Peace!

Amphitheatrical Rio! in your broad expanse might be held the
Resurrection and Judgment-day of the whole world's men-of-war,
represented by the flag-ships of fleets--the flag-ships of the
Phoenician armed galleys of Tyre and Sidon; of King Solomon's annual
squadrons that sailed to Ophir; whence in after times, perhaps, sailed
the Acapulco fleets of the Spaniards, with golden ingots for
ballasting; the flag-ships of all the Greek and Persian craft that
exchanged the war-hug at Salamis; of all the Roman and Egyptian galleys
that, eagle-like, with blood-dripping prows, beaked each other at
Actium; of all the Danish keels of the Vikings; of all the musquito
craft of Abba Thule, king of the Pelaws, when he went to vanquish
Artinsall; of all the Venetian, Genoese, and Papal fleets that came to
the shock at Lepanto; of both horns of the crescent of the Spanish
Armada; of the Portuguese squadron that, under the gallant Gama,
chastised the Moors, and discovered the Moluccas; of all the Dutch
navies red by Van Tromp, and sunk by Admiral Hawke; of the forty-seven
French and Spanish sail-of-the-line that, for three months, essayed to
batter down Gibraltar; of all Nelson's seventy-fours that
thunder-bolted off St. Vincent's, at the Nile, Copenhagen, and
Trafalgar; of all the frigate-merchantmen of the East India Company; of
Perry's war-brigs, sloops, and schooners that scattered the British
armament on Lake Erie; of all the Barbary corsairs captured by
Bainbridge; of the war-canoes of the Polynesian kings, Tammahammaha and
Pomare--ay! one and all, with Commodore Noah for their Lord High
Admiral--in this abounding Bay of Rio these flag-ships might all come
to anchor, and swing round in concert to the first of the flood.

Rio is a small Mediterranean; and what was fabled of the entrance to
that sea, in Rio is partly made true; for here, at the mouth, stands
one of Hercules' Pillars, the Sugar-Loaf Mountain, one thousand feet
high, inclining over a little, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. At its
base crouch, like mastiffs, the batteries of Jose and Theodosia; while
opposite, you are menaced by a rock-founded fort.

The channel between--the sole inlet to the bay--seems but a biscuit's
toss over; you see naught of the land-locked sea within till fairly in
the strait. But, then, what a sight is beheld! Diversified as the
harbour of Constantinople, but a thousand-fold grander. When the
Neversink swept in, word was passed, "Aloft, top-men! and furl
t'-gallant-sails and royals!"

At the sound I sprang into the rigging, and was soon at my perch. How I
hung over that main-royal-yard in a rapture High in air, poised over
that magnificent bay, a new world to my ravished eyes, I felt like the
foremost of a flight of angels, new-lighted upon earth, from some star
in the Milky Way.




CHAPTER LI.

ONE OF "THE PEOPLE" HAS AN AUDIENCE WITH THE COMMODORE AND THE CAPTAIN
ON THE QUARTER-DECK.


We had not lain in Rio long, when in the innermost recesses of the
mighty soul of my noble Captain of the Top--incomparable Jack
Chase--the deliberate opinion was formed, and rock-founded, that our
ship's company must have at least one day's "_liberty_" to go ashore
ere we weighed anchor for home.

Here it must be mentioned that, concerning anything of this kind, no
sailor in a man-of-war ever presumes to be an agitator, unless he is of
a rank superior to a mere able-seaman; and no one short of a petty
officer--that is, a captain of the top, a quarter-gunner, or
boatswain's mate--ever dreams of being a spokesman to the supreme
authority of the vessel in soliciting any kind of favor for himself and
shipmates.

After canvassing the matter thoroughly with several old quarter-masters
and other dignified sea-fencibles, Jack, hat in hand, made his
appearance, one fine evening, at the mast, and, waiting till Captain
Claret drew nigh, bowed, and addressed him in his own off-hand,
polished, and poetical style. In his intercourse with the quarter-deck,
he always presumed upon his being such a universal favourite.

"Sir, this Rio is a charming harbour, and we poor mariners--your trusty
sea-warriors, valiant Captain! who, with _you_ at their head, would
board the Rock of Gibraltar itself, and carry it by storm--we poor
fellows, valiant Captain! have gazed round upon this ravishing
landscape till we can gaze no more. Will Captain Claret vouchsafe one
day's liberty, and so assure himself of eternal felicity, since, in our
flowing cups, he will be ever after freshly remembered?"

As Jack thus rounded off with a snatch from Shakspeare, he saluted the
Captain with a gallant flourish of his tarpaulin, and then, bringing
the rim to his mouth, with his head bowed, and his body thrown into a
fine negligent attitude, stood a picture of eloquent but passive
appeal. He seemed to say, Magnanimous Captain Claret, we fine fellows,
and hearts of oak, throw ourselves upon your unparalleled goodness.

"And what do you want to go ashore for?" asked the Captain, evasively,
and trying to conceal his admiration of Jack by affecting some
haughtiness.

"Ah! sir," sighed Jack, "why do the thirsty camels of the desert desire
to lap the waters of the fountain and roll in the green grass of the
oasis? Are we not but just from the ocean Sahara? and is not this Rio a
verdant spot, noble Captain? Surely you will not keep us always
tethered at anchor, when a little more cable would admit of our
cropping the herbage! And it is a weary thing, Captain Claret, to be
imprisoned month after month on the gun-deck, without so much as
smelling a citron. Ah! Captain Claret, what sings sweet Waller:

     'But who can always on the billows lie?
      The watery wilderness yields no supply.'

compared with such a prisoner, noble Captain,

     'Happy, thrice happy, who, in battle slain,
      Press'd in Atrides' cause the Trojan pain!'

Pope's version, sir, not the original Greek."

And so saying, Jack once more brought his hat-rim to his mouth, and
slightly bending forward, stood mute.

At this juncture the Most Serene Commodore himself happened to emerge
from the after-gangway, his gilded buttons, epaulets, and the gold lace
on his chapeau glittering in the flooding sunset. Attracted by the
scene between Captain Claret and so well-known and admired a commoner
as Jack Chase he approached, and assuming for the moment an air of
pleasant condescension--never shown to his noble barons the officers of
the ward-room--he said, with a smile, "Well, Jack, you and your
shipmates are after some favour, I suppose--a day's liberty, is it not?"

Whether it was the horizontal setting sun, streaming along the deck,
that blinded Jack, or whether it was in sun-worshipping homage of the
mighty Commodore, there is no telling; but just at this juncture noble
Jack was standing reverentially holding his hat to his brow, like a man
with weak eyes.

"Valiant Commodore," said he, at last, "this audience is indeed an
honour undeserved. I almost sink beneath it. Yes, valiant Commodore,
your sagacious mind has truly divined our object. Liberty, sir; liberty
is, indeed, our humble prayer. I trust your honourable wound, received
in glorious battle, valiant Comodore, pains you less today than common."

"Ah! cunning Jack!" cried the Commodore, by no means blind to the bold
sortie of his flattery, but not at all displeased with it. In more
respects than one, our Commodore's wound was his weak side.

"I think we must give them liberty," he added, turning to Captain
Claret; who thereupon, waving Jack further off, fell into confidential
discourse with his superior.

"Well, Jack, we will see about it," at last cried the Commodore,
advancing. "I think we must let you go."

"To your duty, captain of the main-top!" said the Captain, rather
stiffly. He wished to neutralise somewhat the effect of the Commodore's
condescension. Besides, he had much rather the Commodore had been in
his cabin. His presence, for the time, affected his own supremacy in
his ship. But Jack was nowise cast down by the Captain's coldness; he
felt safe enough; so he proceeded to offer his acknowledgments.

"'Kind gentlemen,'" he sighed, "your pains are registered where every
day I turn the leaf to read'--Macbeth, valiant Commodore and
Captain!--what the Thane says to the noble lords, Ross and Angus."

And long and lingeringly bowing to the two noble officers, Jack backed
away from their presence, still shading his eyes with the broad rim of
his hat.

"Jack Chase for ever!" cried his shipmates, as he carried the grateful
news of liberty to them on the forecastle. "Who can talk to Commodores
like our matchless Jack!"




CHAPTER LII.

SOMETHING CONCERNING MIDSHIPMEN.


It was the next morning after matchless Jack's interview with the
Commodore and Captain, that a little incident occurred, soon forgotten
by the crew at large, but long remembered by the few seamen who were in
the habit of closely scrutinising every-day proceedings. Upon the face
of it, it was but a common event--at least in a man-of-war--the
flogging of a man at the gangway. But the under-current of
circumstances in the case were of a nature that magnified this
particular flogging into a matter of no small importance. The story
itself cannot here be related; it would not well bear recital: enough
that the person flogged was a middle-aged man of the Waist--a forlorn,
broken-down, miserable object, truly; one of those wretched landsmen
sometimes driven into the Navy by their unfitness for all things else,
even as others are driven into the workhouse. He was flogged at the
complaint of a midshipman; and hereby hangs the drift of the thing. For
though this waister was so ignoble a mortal, yet his being scourged on
this one occasion indirectly proceeded from the mere wanton spite and
unscrupulousness of the midshipman in question--a youth, who was apt to
indulge at times in undignified familiarities with some of the men,
who, sooner or later, almost always suffered from his capricious
preferences.

But the leading principle that was involved in this affair is far too
mischievous to be lightly dismissed.

In most cases, it would seem to be a cardinal principle with a Navy
Captain that his subordinates are disintegrated parts of himself,
detached from the main body on special service, and that the order of
the minutest midshipman must be as deferentially obeyed by the seamen
as if proceeding from the Commodore on the poop. This principle was
once emphasised in a remarkable manner by the valiant and handsome Sir
Peter Parker, upon whose death, on a national arson expedition on the
shores of Chesapeake Bay, in 1812 or 1813, Lord Byron wrote his
well-known stanzas. "By the god of war!" said Sir Peter to his sailors,
"I'll make you touch your hat to a midshipman's coat, if it's only hung
on a broomstick to dry!"

That the king, in the eye of the law, can do no wrong, is the
well-known fiction of despotic states; but it has remained for the
navies of Constitutional Monarchies and Republics to magnify this
fiction, by indirectly extending it to all the quarter-deck
subordinates of an armed ship's chief magistrate. And though judicially
unrecognised, and unacknowledged by the officers themselves, yet this
is the principle that pervades the fleet; this is the principle that is
every hour acted upon, and to sustain which, thousands of seamen have
been flogged at the gangway.

However childish, ignorant, stupid, or idiotic a midshipman, if he but
orders a sailor to perform even the most absurd action, that man is not
only bound to render instant and unanswering obedience, but he would
refuse at his peril. And if, having obeyed, he should then complain to
the Captain, and the Captain, in his own mind, should be thoroughly
convinced of the impropriety, perhaps of the illegality of the order,
yet, in nine cases out of ten, he would not publicly reprimand the
midshipman, nor by the slightest token admit before the complainant
that, in this particular thing, the midshipman had done otherwise than
perfectly right.

Upon a midshipman's complaining of a seaman to Lord Collingwood, when
Captain of a line-of-battle ship, he ordered the man for punishment;
and, in the interval, calling the midshipman aside, said to him, "In
all probability, now, the fault is yours--you know; therefore, when the
man is brought to the mast, you had better ask for his pardon."

Accordingly, upon the lad's public intercession, Collingwood, turning
to the culprit, said, "This young gentleman has pleaded so humanely for
you, that, in hope you feel a due gratitude to him for his benevolence,
I will, for this time, overlook your offence." This story is related by
the editor of the Admiral's "Correspondence," to show the Admiral's
kindheartedness.

Now Collingood was, in reality, one of the most just, humane, and
benevolent admirals that ever hoisted a flag. For a sea-officer,
Collingwood was a man in a million. But if a man like him, swayed by
old usages, could thus violate the commonest principle of justice--with
however good motives at bottom--what must be expected from other
Captains not so eminently gifted with noble traits as Collingwood?

And if the corps of American midshipmen is mostly replenished from the
nursery, the counter, and the lap of unrestrained indulgence at home:
and if most of them at least, by their impotency as officers, in all
important functions at sea, by their boyish and overweening conceit of
their gold lace, by their overbearing manner toward the seamen, and by
their peculiar aptitude to construe the merest trivialities of manner
into set affronts against their dignity; if by all this they sometimes
contract the ill-will of the seamen; and if, in a thousand ways, the
seamen cannot but betray it--how easy for any of these midshipmen, who
may happen to be unrestrained by moral principle, to resort to spiteful
practices in procuring vengeance upon the offenders, in many instances
to the extremity of the lash; since, as we have seen, the tacit
principle in the Navy seems to be that, in his ordinary intercourse
with the sailors, a midshipman can do nothing obnoxious to the public
censure of his superiors.

"You fellow, I'll get you _licked_ before long," is often heard from a
midshipman to a sailor who, in some way not open to the judicial action
of the Captain, has chanced to offend him.

At times you will see one of these lads, not five feet high, gazing up
with inflamed eye at some venerable six-footer of a forecastle man,
cursing and insulting him by every epithet deemed most scandalous and
unendurable among men. Yet that man's indignant tongue is
treble-knotted by the law, that suspends death itself over his head
should his passion discharge the slightest blow at the boy-worm that
spits at his feet.

But since what human nature is, and what it must for ever continue to
be, is well enough understood for most practical purposes, it needs no
special example to prove that, where the merest boys, indiscriminately
snatched from the human family, are given such authority over mature
men, the results must be proportionable in monstrousness to the custom
that authorises this worse than cruel absurdity.

Nor is it unworthy of remark that, while the noblest-minded and most
heroic sea-officers--men of the topmost stature, including Lord Nelson
himself--have regarded flogging in the Navy with the deepest concern,
and not without weighty scruples touching its general necessity, still,
one who has seen much of midshipmen can truly say that he has seen but
few midshipmen who were not enthusiastic advocates and admirers of
scourging. It would almost seem that they themselves, having so
recently escaped the posterior discipline of the nursery and the infant
school, are impatient to recover from those smarting reminiscences by
mincing the backs of full-grown American freemen.

It should not to be omitted here, that the midshipmen in the English
Navy are not permitted to be quite so imperious as in the American
ships. They are divided into three (I think) probationary classes of
"volunteers," instead of being at once advanced to a warrant. Nor will
you fail to remark, when you see an English cutter officered by one of
those volunteers, that the boy does not so strut and slap his dirk-hilt
with a Bobadil air, and anticipatingly feel of the place where his
warlike whiskers are going to be, and sputter out oaths so at the men,
as is too often the case with the little boys wearing best-bower
anchors on their lapels in the American Navy.

Yet it must be confessed that at times you see midshipmen who are noble
little fellows, and not at all disliked by the crew. Besides three
gallant youths, one black-eyed little lad in particular, in the
Neversink, was such a one. From his diminutiveness, he went by the name
of _Boat Plug_ among the seamen. Without being exactly familiar with
them, he had yet become a general favourite, by reason of his kindness
of manner, and never cursing them. It was amusing to hear some of the
older Tritons invoke blessings upon the youngster, when his kind tones
fell on their weather-beaten ears. "Ah, good luck to you, sir!"
touching their hats to the little man; "you have a soul to be saved,
sir!" There was a wonderful deal of meaning involved in the latter
sentence. _You have a soul to be saved_, is the phrase which a
man-of-war's-man peculiarly applies to a humane and kind-hearted
officer. It also implies that the majority of quarter-deck officers are
regarded by them in such a light that they deny to them the possession
of souls. Ah! but these plebeians sometimes have a sublime vengeance
upon patricians. Imagine an outcast old sailor seriously cherishing the
purely speculative conceit that some bully in epaulets, who orders him
to and fro like a slave, is of an organization immeasurably inferior to
himself; must at last perish with the brutes, while he goes to his
immortality in heaven.

But from what has been said in this chapter, it must not be inferred
that a midshipman leads a lord's life in a man-of-war. Far from it. He
lords it over those below him, while lorded over himself by his
superiors. It is as if with one hand a school-boy snapped his fingers
at a dog, and at the same time received upon the other the discipline
of the usher's ferule. And though, by the American Articles of War, a
Navy Captain cannot, of his own authority, legally punish a midshipman,
otherwise than by suspension from duty (the same as with respect to the
Ward-room officers), yet this is one of those sea-statutes which the
Captain, to a certain extent, observes or disregards at his pleasure.
Many instances might be related of the petty mortifications and
official insults inflicted by some Captains upon their midshipmen; far
more severe, in one sense, than the old-fashioned punishment of sending
them to the mast-head, though not so arbitrary as sending them before
the mast, to do duty with the common sailors--a custom, in former
times, pursued by Captains in the English Navy.

Captain Claret himself had no special fondness for midshipmen. A tall,
overgrown young midshipman, about sixteen years old, having fallen
under his displeasure, he interrupted the humble apologies he was
making, by saying, "Not a word, sir! I'll not hear a word! Mount the
netting, sir, and stand there till you are ordered to come down!"

The midshipman obeyed; and, in full sight of the entire ship's company,
Captain Claret promenaded to and fro below his lofty perch, reading him
a most aggravating lecture upon his alleged misconduct. To a lad of
sensibility, such treatment must have been almost as stinging as the
lash itself would have been.

It is to be remembered that, wherever these chapters treat of
midshipmen, the officers known as passed-midshipmen are not at all
referred to. In the American Navy, these officers form a class of young
men, who, having seen sufficient service at sea as midshipmen to pass
an examination before a Board of Commodores, are promoted to the rank
of passed-midshipmen, introductory to that of lieutenant. They are
supposed to be qualified to do duty as lieutenants, and in some cases
temporarily serve as such. The difference between a passed-midshipman
and a midshipman may be also inferred from their respective rates of
pay. The former, upon sea-service, receives $750 a year; the latter,
$400. There were no passed-midshipmen in the Neversink.




CHAPTER LIII.

SEAFARING PERSONS PECULIARLY SUBJECT TO BEING UNDER THE WEATHER.--THE
EFFECTS OF THIS UPON A MAN-OF-WAR CAPTAIN.


It has been said that some midshipmen, in certain cases, are guilty of
spiteful practices against the man-of-war's-man. But as these
midshipmen are presumed to have received the liberal and lofty breeding
of gentlemen, it would seem all but incredible that any of their corps
could descend to the paltriness of cherishing personal malice against
so conventionally degraded a being as a sailor. So, indeed, it would
seem. But when all the circumstances are considered, it will not appear
extraordinary that some of them should thus cast discredit upon the
warrants they wear. Title, and rank, and wealth, and education cannot
unmake human nature; the same in cabin-boy and commodore, its only
differences lie in the different modes of development.

At sea, a frigate houses and homes five hundred mortals in a space so
contracted that they can hardly so much as move but they touch. Cut off
from all those outward passing things which ashore employ the eyes,
tongues, and thoughts of landsmen, the inmates of a frigate are thrown
upon themselves and each other, and all their ponderings are
introspective. A morbidness of mind is often the consequence,
especially upon long voyages, accompanied by foul weather, calms, or
head-winds. Nor does this exempt from its evil influence any rank on
board. Indeed, high station only ministers to it the more, since the
higher the rank in a man-of-war, the less companionship.

It is an odious, unthankful, repugnant thing to dwell upon a subject
like this; nevertheless, be it said, that, through these jaundiced
influences, even the captain of a frigate is, in some cases, indirectly
induced to the infliction of corporal punishment upon a seaman. Never
sail under a navy captain whom you suspect of being dyspeptic, or
constitutionally prone to hypochondria.

The manifestation of these things is sometimes remarkable. In the
earlier part of the cruise, while making a long, tedious run from
Mazatlan to Callao on the Main, baffled by light head winds and
frequent intermitting calms, when all hands were heartily wearied by
the torrid, monotonous sea, a good-natured fore-top-man, by the name of
Candy--quite a character in his way--standing in the waist among a
crowd of seamen, touched me, and said, "D'ye see the old man there,
White-Jacket, walking the poop? Well, don't he look as if he wanted to
flog someone? Look at him once."

But to me, at least, no such indications were visible in the deportment
of the Captain, though his thrashing the arm-chest with the slack of
the spanker-out-haul looked a little suspicious. But any one might have
been doing that to pass away a calm.

"Depend on it," said the top-man, "he must somehow have thought I was
making sport of _him_ a while ago, when I was only taking off old
Priming, the gunner's mate. Just look at him once, White-Jacket, while
I make believe coil this here rope; if there arn't a dozen in that 'ere
Captain's top-lights, my name is _horse-marine_. If I could only touch
my tile to him now, and take my Bible oath on it, that I was only
taking off Priming, and not _him_, he wouldn't have such hard thoughts
of me. But that can't be done; he'd think I meant to insult him. Well,
it can't be helped; I suppose I must look out for a baker's dozen afore
long."

I had an incredulous laugh at this. But two days afterward, when we
were hoisting the main-top-mast stun'-sail, and the Lieutenant of the
Watch was reprimanding the crowd of seamen at the halyards for their
laziness--for the sail was but just crawling up to its place, owing to
the languor of the men, induced by the heat--the Captain, who had been
impatiently walking the deck, suddenly stopped short, and darting his
eyes among the seamen, suddenly fixed them, crying out, "You, Candy,
and be damned to you, you don't pull an ounce, you blackguard! Stand up
to that gun, sir; I'll teach you to be grinning over a rope that way,
without lending your pound of beef to it. Boatswain's mate, where's
your _colt?_ Give that man a dozen."

Removing his hat, the boatswain's mate looked into the crown aghast;
the coiled rope, usually worn there, was not to be found; but the next
instant it slid from the top of his head to the deck. Picking it up,
and straightening it out, he advanced toward the sailor.

"Sir," said Candy, touching and retouching his cap to the Captain, "I
was pulling, sir, as much as the rest, sir; I was, indeed, sir."

"Stand up to that gun," cried the Captain. "Boatswain's mate, do your
duty."

Three stripes were given, when the Captain raised his finger.
"You----,[3] do you dare stand up to be flogged with your hat on! Take
it off, sir, instantly."

----

[FOOTNOTE-3] The phrase here used I have never seen either written or
printed, and should not like to be the first person to introduce it to
the public.

----

Candy dropped it on deck.

"Now go on, boatswain's mate." And the sailor received his dozen.

With his hand to his back he came up to me, where I stood among the
by-standers, saying, "O Lord, O Lord! that boatswain's mate, too, had a
spite agin me; he always thought it was _me_ that set afloat that yarn
about his wife in Norfolk. O Lord! just run your hand under my shirt
will you, White-Jacket? There!! didn't he have a spite agin me, to
raise such bars as them? And my shirt all cut to pieces, too--arn't it,
White-Jacket? Damn me, but these coltings puts the tin in the Purser's
pocket. O Lord! my back feels as if there was a red-hot gridiron lashed
to it. But I told you so--a widow's curse on him, say I--he thought I
meant _him_, and not Priming."




CHAPTER LIV.

"THE PEOPLE" ARE GIVEN "LIBERTY."


Whenever, in intervals of mild benevolence, or yielding to mere politic
dictates, Kings and Commodores relax the yoke of servitude, they should
see to it well that the concession seem not too sudden or unqualified;
for, in the commoner's estimation, that might argue feebleness or fear.

Hence it was, perhaps, that, though noble Jack had carried the day
captive in his audience at the mast, yet more than thirty-six hours
elapsed ere anything official was heard of the "liberty" his shipmates
so earnestly coveted. Some of the people began to growl and grumble.

"It's turned out all gammon, Jack," said one.

"Blast the Commodore!" cried another, "he bamboozled you, Jack."

"Lay on your oars a while," answered Jack, "and we shall see; we've
struck for liberty, and liberty we'll have! I'm your tribune, boys; I'm
your Rienzi. The Commodore must keep his word."

Next day, about breakfast-time, a mighty whistling and piping was heard
at the main-hatchway, and presently the boatswain's voice was heard:
"D'ye hear there, fore and aft! all you starboard-quarter watch! get
ready to go ashore on liberty!"

In a paroxysm of delight, a young mizzen-top-man, standing by at the
time, whipped the tarpaulin from his head, and smashed it like a
pancake on the deck. "Liberty!" he shouted, leaping down into the
berth-deck after his bag.

At the appointed hour, the quarter-watch mustered round the capstan, at
which stood our old First Lord of the Treasury and Pay-Master-General,
the Purser, with several goodly buck-skin bags of dollars, piled up on
the capstan. He helped us all round to half a handful or so, and then
the boats were manned, and, like so many Esterhazys, we were pulled
ashore by our shipmates. All their lives lords may live in listless
state; but give the commoners a holiday, and they outlord the Commodore
himself.

The ship's company were divided into four sections or quarter-watches,
only one of which were on shore at a time, the rest remaining to
garrison the frigate--the term of liberty for each being twenty-four
hours.

With Jack Chase and a few other discreet and gentlemanly top-men, I
went ashore on the first day, with the first quarter-watch. Our own
little party had a charming time; we saw many fine sights; fell in--as
all sailors must--with dashing adventures. But, though not a few good
chapters might be written on this head, I must again forbear; for in
this book I have nothing to do with the shore further than to glance at
it, now and then, from the water; my man-of-war world alone must supply
me with the staple of my matter; I have taken an oath to keep afloat to
the last letter of my narrative.

Had they all been as punctual as Jack Chase's party, the whole
quarter-watch of liberty-men had been safe on board the frigate at the
expiration of the twenty-four hours. But this was not the case; and
during the entire day succeeding, the midshipmen and others were
engaged in ferreting them out of their hiding-places on shore, and
bringing them off in scattered detachments to the ship.

They came in all imaginable stages of intoxication; some with blackened
eyes and broken heads; some still more severely injured, having been
stabbed in frays with the Portuguese soldiers. Others, unharmed, were
immediately dropped on the gun-deck, between the guns, where they lay
snoring for the rest of the day. As a considerable degree of license is
invariably permitted to man-of-war's-men just "off liberty," and as
man-of-war's-men well know this to be the case, they occasionally avail
themselves of the privilege to talk very frankly to the officers when
they first cross the gangway, taking care, meanwhile, to reel about
very industriously, so that there shall be no doubt about their being
seriously intoxicated, and altogether _non compos_ for the time. And
though but few of them have cause to feign intoxication, yet some
individuals may be suspected of enacting a studied part upon these
occasions. Indeed--judging by certain symptoms--even when really
inebriated, some of the sailors must have previously determined upon
their conduct; just as some persons who, before taking the exhilarating
gas, secretly make up their minds to perform certain mad feats while
under its influence, which feats consequently come to pass precisely as
if the actors were not accountable for them.

For several days, while the other quarter-watches were given liberty,
the Neversink presented a sad scene. She was more like a madhouse than
a frigate; the gun-deck resounded with frantic fights, shouts, and
songs. All visitors from shore were kept at a cable's length.

These scenes, however, are nothing to those which have repeatedly been
enacted in American men-of-war upon other stations. But the custom of
introducing women on board, in harbour, is now pretty much
discontinued, both in the English and American Navy, unless a ship,
commanded by some dissolute Captain, happens to lie in some far away,
outlandish port, in the Pacific or Indian Ocean.

The British line-of-battle ship, Royal George, which in 1782 sunk at
her anchors at Spithead, carried down three hundred English women among
the one thousand souls that were drowned on that memorable morning.

When, at last, after all the mad tumult and contention of "Liberty,"
the reaction came, our frigate presented a very different scene. The
men looked jaded and wan, lethargic and lazy; and many an old mariner,
with hand upon abdomen, called upon the Flag-staff to witness that
there were more _hot coppers_ in the Neversink than those in the ship's
galley.

Such are the lamentable effects of suddenly and completely releasing
"_the people_" of a man-of-war from arbitrary discipline. It shows
that, to such, "liberty," at first, must be administered in small and
moderate quantities, increasing with the patient's capacity to make
good use of it.

Of course while we lay in Rio, our officers frequently went ashore for
pleasure, and, as a general thing, conducted themselves with propriety.
But it is a sad thing to say, that, as for Lieutenant Mad Jack, he
enjoyed himself so delightfully for three consecutive days in the town,
that, upon returning to the ship, he sent his card to the Surgeon, with
his compliments, begging him to drop into his state-room the first time
he happened to pass that way in the ward-room.

But one of our Surgeon's mates, a young medico of fine family but
slender fortune, must have created by far the strongest impression
among the hidalgoes of Rio. He had read Don Quixote, and, instead of
curing him of his Quixotism, as it ought to have done, it only made him
still more Quixotic. Indeed, there are some natures concerning whose
moral maladies the grand maxim of Mr. Similia Similibus Curantur
Hahneman does not hold true, since, with them, _like cures_ not _like_,
but only aggravates _like_. Though, on the other hand, so incurable are
the moral maladies of such persons, that the antagonist maxim,
_contraria contrariis curantar_, often proves equally false.

Of a warm tropical day, this Surgeon's mate must needs go ashore in his
blue cloth boat-cloak, wearing it, with a gallant Spanish toss, over
his cavalier shoulder. By noon, he perspired very freely; but then his
cloak attracted all eyes, and that was huge satisfaction. Nevertheless,
his being knock-kneed, and spavined of one leg, sorely impaired the
effect of this hidalgo cloak, which, by-the-way, was some-what rusty in
front, where his chin rubbed against it, and a good deal bedraggled all
over, from his having used it as a counterpane off Cape Horn.

As for the midshipmen, there is no knowing what their mammas would have
said to their conduct in Rio. Three of them drank a good deal too much;
and when they came on board, the Captain ordered them to be sewed up in
their hammocks, to cut short their obstreperous capers till sober.

This shows how unwise it is to allow children yet in their teens to
wander so far from home. It more especially illustrates the folly of
giving them long holidays in a foreign land, full of seductive
dissipation. Port for men, claret for boys, cried Dr. Johnson. Even so,
men only should drink the strong drink of travel; boys should still be
kept on milk and water at home. Middies! you may despise your mother's
leading-strings, but they are the _man-ropes_ my lads, by which many
youngsters have steadied the giddiness of youth, and saved themselves
from lamentable falls. And middies! know this, that as infants, being
too early put on their feet, grow up bandy-legged, and curtailed of
their fair proportions, even so, my dear middies, does it morally prove
with some of you, who prematurely are sent off to sea.

These admonitions are solely addressed to the more diminutive class of
midshipmen--those under five feet high, and under seven stone in weight.

Truly, the records of the steerages of men-of-war are full of most
melancholy examples of early dissipation, disease, disgrace, and death.
Answer, ye shades of fine boys, who in the soils of all climes, the
round world over, far away sleep from your homes.

Mothers of men! If your hearts have been cast down when your boys have
fallen in the way of temptations ashore, how much more bursting your
grief, did you know that those boys were far from your arms, cabined
and cribbed in by all manner of iniquities. But this some of you cannot
believe. It is, perhaps, well that it is so.

But hold them fast--all those who have not yet weighed their anchors
for the Navy-round and round, hitch over hitch, bind your
leading-strings on them, and clinching a ring-bolt into your
chimmey-jam, moor your boys fast to that best of harbours, the
hearth-stone.

But if youth be giddy, old age is staid; even as young saplings, in the
litheness of their limbs, toss to their roots in the fresh morning air;
but, stiff and unyielding with age, mossy trunks never bend. With pride
and pleasure be it said, that, as for our old Commodore, though he
might treat himself to as many "_liberty days_" as he pleased, yet
throughout our stay in Rio he conducted himself with the utmost
discretion.

But he was an old, old man; physically, a very small man; his spine was
as an unloaded musket-barrel--not only attenuated, but destitute of a
solitary cartridge, and his ribs were as the ribs of a weasel.

Besides, he was Commodore of the fleet, supreme lord of the Commons in
Blue. It beseemed him, therefore, to erect himself into an ensample of
virtue, and show the gun-deck what virtue was. But alas! when Virtue
sits high aloft on a frigate's poop, when Virtue is crowned in the
cabin a Commodore, when Virtue rules by compulsion, and domineers over
Vice as a slave, then Virtue, though her mandates be outwardly
observed, bears little interior sway. To be efficacious, Virtue must
come down from aloft, even as our blessed Redeemer came down to redeem
our whole man-of-war world; to that end, mixing with its sailors and
sinners as equals.




CHAPTER LV.

MIDSHIPMEN ENTERING THE NAVY EARLY.


The allusion in the preceding chapter to the early age at which some of
the midshipmen enter the Navy, suggests some thoughts relative to more
important considerations.

A very general modern impression seems to be, that, in order to learn
the profession of a sea-officer, a boy can hardly be sent to sea too
early. To a certain extent, this may be a mistake. Other professions,
involving a knowledge of technicalities and things restricted to one
particular field of action, are frequently mastered by men who begin
after the age of twenty-one, or even at a later period of life. It was
only about the middle of the seventeenth century that the British
military and naval services were kept distinct. Previous to that epoch
the king's officers commanded indifferently either by sea or by land.

Robert Blake, perhaps one of the most accomplished, and certainly one
of the most successful Admirals that ever hoisted a flag, was more than
half a century old (fifty-one years) before he entered the naval
service, or had aught to do, professionally, with a ship. He was of a
studious turn, and, after leaving Oxford, resided quietly on his
estate, a country gentleman, till his forty-second year, soon after
which he became connected with the Parliamentary army.

The historian Clarendon says of him, "He was the first man that made it
manifest that the science (seamanship) might be attained in less time
than was imagined." And doubtless it was to his shore sympathies that
the well-known humanity and kindness which Blake evinced in his
intercourse with the sailors is in a large degree to be imputed.

Midshipmen sent into the Navy at a very early age are exposed to the
passive reception of all the prejudices of the quarter-deck in favour
of ancient usages, however useless or pernicious; those prejudices grow
up with them, and solidify with their very bones. As they rise in rank,
they naturally carry them up, whence the inveterate repugnance of many
Commodores and Captains to the slightest innovations in the service,
however salutary they may appear to landsmen.

It is hardly to be doubted that, in matters connected with the general
welfare of the Navy, government has paid rather too much deference to
the opinions of the officers of the Navy, considering them as men
almost born to the service, and therefore far better qualified to judge
concerning any and all questions touching it than people on shore. But
in a nation under a liberal Constitution, it must ever be unwise to
make too distinct and peculiar the profession of either branch of its
military men. True, in a country like ours, nothing is at present to be
apprehended of their gaining political rule; but not a little is to be
apprehended concerning their perpetuating or creating abuses among
their subordinates, unless civilians have full cognisance of their
administrative affairs, and account themselves competent to the
complete overlooking and ordering them.

We do wrong when we in any way contribute to the prevailing
mystification that has been thrown about the internal affairs of the
national sea-service. Hitherto those affairs have been regarded even by
some high state functionaries as things beyond their
insight--altogether too technical and mysterious to be fully
comprehended by landsmen. And this it is that has perpetuated in the
Navy many evils that otherwise would have been abolished in the general
amelioration of other things. The army is sometimes remodelled, but the
Navy goes down from generation to generation almost untouched and
unquestioned, as if its code were infallible, and itself a piece of
perfection that no statesman could improve. When a Secretary of the
Navy ventures to innovate upon its established customs, you hear some
of the Navy officers say, "What does this landsman know about our
affairs? Did he ever head a watch? He does not know starboard from
larboard, girt-line from back-stay."

While we deferentially and cheerfully leave to Navy officers the sole
conduct of making and shortening sail, tacking ship, and performing
other nautical manoeuvres, as may seem to them best; let us beware of
abandoning to their discretion those general municipal regulations
touching the well-being of the great body of men before the mast; let
us beware of being too much influenced by their opinions in matters
where it is but natural to suppose that their long-established
prejudices are enlisted.




CHAPTER LVI.

A SHORE EMPEROR ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.


While we lay in Rio, we sometimes had company from shore; but an
unforeseen honour awaited us. One day, the young Emperor, Don Pedro
II., and suite--making a circuit of the harbour, and visiting all the
men-of-war in rotation--at last condescendingly visited the Neversink.

He came in a splendid barge, rowed by thirty African slaves, who, after
the Brazilian manner, in concert rose upright to their oars at every
stroke; then sank backward again to their seats with a simultaneous
groan.

He reclined under a canopy of yellow silk, looped with tassels of
green, the national colours. At the stern waved the Brazilian flag,
bearing a large diamond figure in the centre, emblematical, perhaps, of
the mines of precious stones in the interior; or, it may be, a
magnified portrait of the famous "Portuguese diamond" itself, which was
found in Brazil, in the district of Tejuco, on the banks of the Rio
Belmonte.

We gave them a grand salute, which almost made the ship's live-oak
_knees_ knock together with the tremendous concussions. We manned the
yards, and went through a long ceremonial of paying the Emperor homage.
Republicans are often more courteous to royalty than royalists
themselves. But doubtless this springs from a noble magnanimity.

At the gangway, the Emperor was received by our Commodore in person,
arrayed in his most resplendent coat and finest French epaulets. His
servant had devoted himself to polishing every button that morning with
rotten-stone and rags--your sea air is a sworn foe to metallic glosses;
whence it comes that the swords of sea-officers have, of late, so
rusted in their scabbards that they are with difficulty drawn.

It was a fine sight to see this Emperor and Commodore complimenting
each other. Both were _chapeaux-de-bras_, and both continually waved
them. By instinct, the Emperor knew that the venerable personage before
him was as much a monarch afloat as he himself was ashore. Did not our
Commodore carry the sword of state by his side? For though not borne
before him, it must have been a sword of state, since it looked far to
lustrous to have been his fighting sword. _That_ was naught but a
limber steel blade, with a plain, serviceable handle, like the handle
of a slaughter-house knife.

Who ever saw a star when the noon sun was in sight? But you seldom see
a king without satellites. In the suite of the youthful Emperor came a
princely train; so brilliant with gems, that they seemed just emerged
from the mines of the Rio Belmonte.

You have seen cones of crystallised salt? Just so flashed these
Portuguese Barons, Marquises, Viscounts, and Counts. Were it not for
their titles, and being seen in the train of their lord, you would have
sworn they were eldest sons of jewelers all, who had run away with
their fathers' cases on their backs.

Contrasted with these lamp-lustres of Barons of Brazil, how waned the
gold lace of our barons of the frigate, the officers of the gun-room!
and compared with the long, jewel-hilted rapiers of the Marquises, the
little dirks of our cadets of noble houses--the middies--looked like
gilded tenpenny nails in their girdles.

But there they stood! Commodore and Emperor, Lieutenants and Marquises,
middies and pages! The brazen band on the poop struck up; the marine
guard presented arms; and high aloft, looking down on this scene, all
_the people_ vigorously hurraed. A top-man next me on the
main-royal-yard removed his hat, and diligently manipulated his head in
honour of the event; but he was so far out of sight in the clouds, that
this ceremony went for nothing.

A great pity it was, that in addition to all these honours, that
admirer of Portuguese literature, Viscount Strangford, of Great
Britain--who, I believe, once went out Ambassador Extraordinary to the
Brazils--it was a pity that he was not present on this occasion, to
yield his tribute of "A Stanza to Braganza!" For our royal visitor was
an undoubted Braganza, allied to nearly all the great families of
Europe. His grandfather, John VI., had been King of Portugal; his own
sister, Maria, was now its queen. He was, indeed, a distinguished young
gentleman, entitled to high consideration, and that consideration was
most cheerfully accorded him.

He wore a green dress-coat, with one regal morning-star at the breast,
and white pantaloons. In his chapeau was a single, bright, golden-hued
feather of the Imperial Toucan fowl, a magnificent, omnivorous,
broad-billed bandit bird of prey, a native of Brazil. Its perch is on
the loftiest trees, whence it looks down upon all humbler fowls, and,
hawk-like, flies at their throats. The Toucan once formed part of the
savage regalia of the Indian caciques of the country, and upon the
establishment of the empire, was symbolically retained by the
Portuguese sovereigns.

His Imperial Majesty was yet in his youth; rather corpulent, if
anything, with a care-free, pleasant face, and a polite, indifferent,
and easy address. His manners, indeed, were entirely unexceptionable.

Now here, thought I, is a very fine lad, with very fine prospects
before him. He is supreme Emperor of all these Brazils; he has no
stormy night-watches to stand; he can lay abed of mornings just as long
as he pleases. Any gentleman in Rio would be proud of his personal
acquaintance, and the prettiest girl in all South America would deem
herself honoured with the least glance from the acutest angle of his
eye.

Yes: this young Emperor will have a fine time of this life, even so
long as he condescends to exist. Every one jumps to obey him; and see,
as I live, there is an old nobleman in his suit--the Marquis d'Acarty
they call him, old enough to be his grandfather--who, in the hot sun,
is standing bareheaded before him, while the Emperor carries his hat on
his head.

"I suppose that old gentleman, now," said a young New England tar
beside me, "would consider it a great honour to put on his Royal
Majesty's boots; and yet, White-Jacket, if yonder Emperor and I were to
strip and jump overboard for a bath, it would be hard telling which was
of the blood royal when we should once be in the water. Look you, Don
Pedro II.," he added, "how do you come to be Emperor? Tell me that. You
cannot pull as many pounds as I on the main-topsail-halyards; you are
not as tall as I: your nose is a pug, and mine is a cut-water; and how
do you come to be a '_brigand_,' with that thin pair of spars? A
_brigand_, indeed!"

"_Braganza_, you mean," said I, willing to correct the rhetoric of so
fierce a republican, and, by so doing, chastise his censoriousness.

"Braganza! _bragger_ it is," he replied; "and a bragger, indeed. See
that feather in his cap! See how he struts in that coat! He may well
wear a green one, top-mates--he's a green-looking swab at the best."

"Hush, Jonathan," said I; "there's the _First Duff_ looking up. Be
still! the Emperor will hear you;" and I put my hand on his mouth.

"Take your hand away, White-Jacket," he cried; "there's no law up aloft
here. I say, you Emperor--you greenhorn in the green coat, there--look
you, you can't raise a pair of whiskers yet; and see what a pair of
homeward-bounders I have on my jowls! _Don Pedro_, eh? What's that,
after all, but plain Peter--reckoned a shabby name in my country. Damn
me, White-Jacket, I wouldn't call my dog Peter!"

"Clap a stopper on your jaw-tackle, will you?" cried Ringbolt, the
sailor on the other side of him. "You'll be getting us all into darbies
for this."

"I won't trice up my red rag for nobody," retorted Jonathan. "So you
had better take a round turn with yours, Ringbolt, and let me alone, or
I'll fetch you such a swat over your figure-head, you'll think a Long
Wharf truck-horse kicked you with all four shoes on one hoof! You
Emperor--you counter-jumping son of a gun--cock your weather eye up
aloft here, and see your betters! I say, top-mates, he ain't any
Emperor at all--I'm the rightful Emperor. Yes, by the Commodore's
boots! they stole me out of my cradle here in the palace of Rio, and
put that green-horn in my place. Ay, you timber-head, you, I'm Don
Pedro II., and by good rights you ought to be a main-top-man here, with
your fist in a tar-bucket! Look you, I say, that crown of yours ought
to be on my head; or, if you don't believe _that_, just heave it into
the ring once, and see who's the best man."

"What's this hurra's nest here aloft?" cried Jack Chase, coming up the
t'-gallant rigging from the top-sail yard. "Can't you behave yourself,
royal-yard-men, when an Emperor's on board?"

"It's this here Jonathan," answered Ringbolt; "he's been blackguarding
the young nob in the green coat, there. He says Don Pedro stole his
hat."

"How?"

"Crown, he means, noble Jack," said a top-man.

"Jonathan don't call himself an Emperor, does he?" asked Jack.

"Yes," cried Jonathan; "that greenhorn, standing there by the
Commodore, is sailing under false colours; he's an impostor, I say; he
wears my crown."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Jack, now seeing into the joke, and willing to humour
it; "though I'm born a Briton, boys, yet, by the mast! these Don Pedros
are all Perkin Warbecks. But I say, Jonathan, my lad, don't pipe your
eye now about the loss of your crown; for, look you, we all wear
crowns, from our cradles to our graves, and though in _double-darbies_
in the _brig_, the Commodore himself can't unking us."

"A riddle, noble Jack."

"Not a bit; every man who has a sole to his foot has a crown to his
head. Here's mine;" and so saying, Jack, removing his tarpaulin,
exhibited a bald spot, just about the bigness of a crown-piece, on the
summit of his curly and classical head.




CHAPTER LVII.

THE EMPEROR REVIEWS THE PEOPLE AT QUARTERS.


I Beg their Royal Highnesses' pardons all round, but I had almost
forgotten to chronicle the fact, that with the Emperor came several
other royal Princes--kings for aught we knew--since it was just after
the celebration of the nuptials of a younger sister of the Brazilian
monarch to some European royalty. Indeed, the Emperor and his suite
formed a sort of bridal party, only the bride herself was absent.

The first reception over, the smoke of the cannonading salute having
cleared away, and the martial outburst of the brass band having also
rolled off to leeward, the people were called down from the yards, and
the drum beat to quarters.

To quarters we went; and there we stood up by our iron bull-dogs, while
our royal and noble visitors promenaded along the batteries, breaking
out into frequent exclamations at our warlike array, the extreme
neatness of our garments, and, above all, the extraordinary polish of
the _bright-work_ about the great guns, and the marvellous whiteness of
the decks.

"Que gosto!" cried a Marquis, with several dry goods samples of ribbon,
tallied with bright buttons, hanging from his breast.

"Que gloria!" cried a crooked, coffee-coloured Viscount, spreading both
palms.

"Que alegria!" cried a little Count, mincingly circumnavigating a
shot-box.

"Que contentamento he o meu!" cried the Emperor himself, complacently
folding his royal arms, and serenely gazing along our ranks.

_Pleasure, Glory_, and _Joy_--this was the burden of the three noble
courtiers. _And very pleasing indeed_--was the simple rendering of Don
Pedro's imperial remark.

"Ay, ay," growled a grim rammer-and-sponger behind me; "it's all
devilish fine for you nobs to look at; but what would you say if you
had to holy-stone the deck yourselves, and wear out your elbows in
polishing this cursed old iron, besides getting a dozen at the gangway,
if you dropped a grease-spot on deck in your mess? Ay, ay, devilish
fine for you, but devilish dull for us!"

In due time the drums beat the retreat, and the ship's company
scattered over the decks.

Some of the officers now assumed the part of cicerones, to show the
distinguished strangers the bowels of the frigate, concerning which
several of them showed a good deal of intelligent curiosity. A guard of
honour, detached from the marine corps, accompanied them, and they made
the circuit of the berth-deck, where, at a judicious distance, the
Emperor peeped down into the cable-tier, a very subterranean vault.

The Captain of the Main-Hold, who there presided, made a polite bow in
the twilight, and respectfully expressed a desire for His Royal Majesty
to step down and honour him with a call; but, with his handkerchief to
his Imperial nose, his Majesty declined. The party then commenced the
ascent to the spar-deck; which, from so great a depth in a frigate, is
something like getting up to the top of Bunker Hill Monument from the
basement.

While a crowd of people was gathered about the forward part of the
booms, a sudden cry was heard from below; a lieutenant came running
forward to learn the cause, when an old sheet-anchor-man, standing by,
after touching his hat hitched up his waistbands, and replied, "I don't
know, sir, but I'm thinking as how one o' them 'ere kings has been
tumblin' down the hatchway."

And something like this it turned out. In ascending one of the narrow
ladders leading from the berth-deck to the gun-deck, the Most Noble
Marquis of Silva, in the act of elevating the Imperial coat-tails, so
as to protect them from rubbing against the newly-painted combings of
the hatchway, this noble marquis's sword, being an uncommonly long one,
had caught between his legs, and tripped him head over heels down into
the fore-passage.

"Onde ides?" (where are you going?) said his royal master, tranquilly
peeping down toward the falling Marquis; "and what did you let go of my
coat-tails for?" he suddenly added, in a passion, glancing round at the
same time, to see if they had suffered from the unfaithfulness of his
train bearer.

"Oh, Lord!" sighed the Captain of the Fore-top, "who would be a Marquis
of Silva?"

Upon being assisted to the spar-deck, the unfortunate Marquis was found
to have escaped without serious harm; but, from the marked coolness of
his royal master, when the Marquis drew near to apologise for his
awkwardness, it was plain that he was condemned to languish for a time
under the royal displeasure.

Shortly after, the Imperial party withdrew, under another grand
national salute.




CHAPTER LVIII.

A QUARTER-DECK OFFICER BEFORE THE MAST.


As we were somewhat short-handed while we lay in Rio, we received a
small draft of men from a United States sloop of war, whose three
years' term of service would expire about the time of our arrival in
America.

Under guard of an armed Lieutenant and four midshipmen, they came on
board in the afternoon. They were immediately mustered in the starboard
gangway, that Mr. Bridewell, our First Lieutenant, might take down
their names, and assign them their stations.

They stood in a mute and solemn row; the officer advanced, with his
memorandum-book and pencil.

My casual friend, Shakings, the holder, happened to be by at the time.
Touching my arm, he said, "White-Jacket, this here reminds me of
Sing-Sing, when a draft of fellows in darbies, came on from the State
Prison at Auburn for a change of scene like, you know!"

After taking down four or five names, Mr. Bridewell accosted the next
man, a rather good-looking person, but, from his haggard cheek and
sunken eye, he seemed to have been in the sad habit, all his life, of
sitting up rather late at night; and though all sailors do certainly
keep late hours enough--standing watches at midnight--yet there is no
small difference between keeping late hours at sea and keeping late
hours ashore.

"What's your name?" asked the officer, of this rather rakish-looking
recruit.

"Mandeville, sir," said the man, courteously touching his cap. "You
must remember me, sir," he added, in a low, confidential tone,
strangely dashed with servility; "we sailed together once in the old
Macedonian, sir. I wore an epaulet then; we had the same state-room,
you know, sir. I'm your old chum, Mandeville, sir," and he again
touched his cap.

"I remember an _officer_ by that name," said the First Lieutenant,
emphatically, "and I know _you_, fellow. But I know you henceforth for
a common sailor. I can show no favouritism here. If you ever violate
the ship's rules, you shall be flogged like any other seaman. I place
you in the fore-top; go forward to your duty."

It seemed this Mandeville had entered the Navy when very young, and had
risen to be a lieutenant, as he said. But brandy had been his bane. One
night, when he had the deck of a line-of-battle ship, in the
Mediterranean, he was seized with a fit of mania-a-potu, and being out
of his senses for the time, went below and turned into his berth,
leaving the deck without a commanding officer. For this unpardonable
offence he was broken.

Having no fortune, and no other profession than the sea, upon his
disgrace he entered the merchant-service as a chief mate; but his love
of strong drink still pursuing him, he was again cashiered at sea, and
degraded before the mast by the Captain. After this, in a state of
intoxication, he re-entered the Navy at Pensacola as a common sailor.
But all these lessons, so biting-bitter to learn, could not cure him of
his sin. He had hardly been a week on board the Neversink, when he was
found intoxicated with smuggled spirits. They lashed him to the
gratings, and ignominiously scourged him under the eye of his old
friend and comrade, the First Lieutenant.

This took place while we lay in port, which reminds me of the
circumstance, that when punishment is about to be inflicted in harbour,
all strangers are ordered ashore; and the sentries at the side have it
in strict charge to waive off all boats drawing near.




CHAPTER LIX.

A MAN-OF-WAR BUTTON DIVIDES TWO BROTHERS.


The conduct of Mandeville, in claiming the acquaintance of the First
Lieutenant under such disreputable circumstances was strongly
contrasted by the behaviour of another person on board, placed for a
time in a somewhat similar situation.

Among the genteel youths of the after-guard was a lad of about sixteen,
a very handsome young fellow, with starry eyes, curly hair of a golden
colour, and a bright, sunshiny complexion: he must have been the son of
some goldsmith. He was one of the few sailors--not in the
main-top--whom I used to single out for occasional conversation. After
several friendly interviews he became quite frank, and communicated
certain portions of his history. There is some charm in the sea, which
induces most persons to be very communicative concerning themselves.

We had lain in Rio but a day, when I observed that this lad--whom I
shall here call Frank--wore an unwonted expression of sadness, mixed
with apprehension. I questioned him as to the cause, but he chose to
conceal it. Not three days after, he abruptly accosted me on the
gun-deck, where I happened to be taking a promenade.

"I can't keep it to myself any more," he said; "I must have a
confidant, or I shall go mad!"

"What is the matter?" said I, in alarm.

"Matter enough--look at this!" and he handed me a torn half sheet of an
old New York _Herald_, putting his finger upon a particular word in a
particular paragraph. It was the announcement of the sailing from the
Brooklyn Navy-yard of a United States store ship, with provisions for
the squadron in Rio. It was upon a particular name, in the list of
officers and midshipmen, that Frank's fingers was placed.

"That is my own brother," said he; "he must have got a reefer's warrant
since I left home. Now, White-Jacket, what's to be done? I have
calculated that the store ship may be expected here every day; my
brother will then see me--he an officer and I a miserable sailor that
any moment may be flogged at the gangway, before his very eyes.
Heavens! White-Jacket, what shall I do? Would you run? Do you think
there is any chance to desert? I won't see him, by Heaven, with this
sailor's frock on, and he with the anchor button!"

"Why, Frank," said I, "I do not really see sufficient cause for this
fit you are in. Your brother is an of officer--very good; and you are
nothing but a sailor--but that is no disgrace. If he comes on board
here, go up to him, and take him by the hand; believe me, he will be
glad enough to see you!"

Frank started from his desponding attitude, and fixing his eyes full
upon mine, with clasped hands exclaimed, "White-Jacket, I have been
from home nearly three years; in that time I have never heard one word
from my family, and, though God knows how I love them, yet I swear to
you, that though my brother can tell me whether my sisters are still
alive, yet, rather than accost him in this _lined-frock_, I would go
ten centuries without hearing one syllable from home?"

Amazed at his earnestness, and hardly able to account for it
altogether, I stood silent a moment; then said, "Why, Frank, this
midshipman is your own brother, you say; now, do you really think that
your own flesh and blood is going to give himself airs over you, simply
because he sports large brass buttons on his coat? Never believe it. If
he does, he can be no brother, and ought to be hanged--that's all!"

"Don't say that again," said Frank, resentfully; "my brother is a
noble-hearted fellow; I love him as I do myself. You don't understand
me, White-Jacket; don't you see, that when my brother arrives, he must
consort more or less with our chuckle-headed reefers on board here?
There's that namby-pamby Miss Nancy of a white-face, Stribbles, who,
the other day, when Mad Jack's back was turned, ordered me to hand him
the spy-glass, as if he were a Commodore. Do you suppose, now, I want
my brother to see me a lackey abroad here? By Heaven it is enough to
drive one distracted! What's to be done?" he cried, fiercely.

Much more passed between us, but all my philosophy was in vain, and at
last Frank departed, his head hanging down in despondency.

For several days after, whenever the quarter-master reported a sail
entering the harbour, Frank was foremost in the rigging to observe it.
At length, one afternoon, a vessel drawing near was reported to be the
long-expected store ship. I looked round for Frank on the spar-deck,
but he was nowhere to be seen. He must have been below, gazing out of a
port-hole. The vessel was hailed from our poop, and came to anchor
within a biscuit's toss of our batteries.

That evening I heard that Frank had ineffectually endeavoured to get
removed from his place as an oarsman in the First-Cutter--a boat which,
from its size, is generally employed with the launch in carrying
ship-stores. When I thought that, the very next day, perhaps, this boat
would be plying between the store ship and our frigate, I was at no
loss to account for Frank's attempts to get rid of his oar, and felt
heartily grieved at their failure.

Next morning the bugler called away the First-Cutter's crew, and Frank
entered the boat with his hat slouched over his eyes. Upon his return,
I was all eagerness to learn what had happened, and, as the
communication of his feelings was a grateful relief, he poured his
whole story into my ear.

It seemed that, with his comrades, he mounted the store ship's side,
and hurried forward to the forecastle. Then, turning anxiously toward
the quarter-deck, he spied two midshipmen leaning against the bulwarks,
conversing. One was the officer of his boat--was the other his brother?
No; he was too tall--too large. Thank Heaven! it was not him. And
perhaps his brother had not sailed from home, after all; there might
have been some mistake. But suddenly the strange midshipman laughed
aloud, and that laugh Frank had heard a thousand times before. It was a
free, hearty laugh--a brother's laugh; but it carried a pang to the
heart of poor Frank.

He was now ordered down to the main-deck to assist in removing the
stores. The boat being loaded, he was ordered into her, when, looking
toward the gangway, he perceived the two midshipmen lounging upon each
side of it, so that no one could pass them without brushing their
persons. But again pulling his hat over his eyes, Frank, darting
between them, gained his oar. "How my heart thumped," he said, "when I
actually, felt him so near me; but I wouldn't look at him--no! I'd have
died first!"

To Frank's great relief, the store ship at last moved further up the
bay, and it fortunately happened that he saw no more of his brother
while in Rio; and while there, he never in any way made himself known
to him.




CHAPTER LX.

A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN SHOT AT.


There was a seaman belonging to the fore-top--a mess-mate, though not a
top-mate of mine, and no favourite of the Captain's,--who, for certain
venial transgressions, had been prohibited from going ashore on liberty
when the ship's company went. Enraged at the deprivation--for he had
not touched earth in upward of a year--he, some nights after, lowered
himself overboard, with the view of gaining a canoe, attached by a robe
to a Dutch galiot some cables'-lengths distant. In this canoe he
proposed paddling himself ashore. Not being a very expert swimmer, the
commotion he made in the water attracted the ear of the sentry on that
side of the ship, who, turning about in his walk, perceived the faint
white spot where the fugitive was swimming in the frigate's shadow. He
hailed it; but no reply.

"Give the word, or I fire!"

Not a word was heard.

The next instant there was a red flash, and, before it had completely
ceased illuminating the night the white spot was changed into crimson.
Some of the officers, returning from a party at the Beach of the
Flamingoes, happened to be drawing near the ship in one of her cutters.
They saw the flash, and the bounding body it revealed. In a moment the
topman was dragged into the boat, a handkerchief was used for a
tourniquet, and the wounded fugitive was soon on board the frigate,
when, the surgeon being called, the necessary attentions were rendered.

Now, it appeared, that at the moment the sentry fired, the top-man--in
order to elude discovery, by manifesting the completest quietude--was
floating on the water, straight and horizontal, as if reposing on a
bed. As he was not far from the ship at the time, and the sentry was
considerably elevated above him--pacing his platform, on a level with
the upper part of the hammock-nettings--the ball struck with great
force, with a downward obliquity, entering the right thigh just above
the knee, and, penetrating some inches, glanced upward along the bone,
burying itself somewhere, so that it could not be felt by outward
manipulation. There was no dusky discoloration to mark its internal
track, as in the case when a partly-spent ball--obliquely
hitting--after entering the skin, courses on, just beneath the surface,
without penetrating further. Nor was there any mark on the opposite
part of the thigh to denote its place, as when a ball forces itself
straight through a limb, and lodges, perhaps, close to the skin on the
other side. Nothing was visible but a small, ragged puncture, bluish
about the edges, as if the rough point of a tenpenny nail had been
forced into the flesh, and withdrawn. It seemed almost impossible, that
through so small an aperture, a musket-bullet could have penetrated.

The extreme misery and general prostration of the man, caused by the
great effusion of blood--though, strange to say, at first he said he
felt no pain from the wound itself--induced the Surgeon, very
reluctantly, to forego an immediate search for the ball, to extract it,
as that would have involved the dilating of the wound by the knife; an
operation which, at that juncture, would have been almost certainly
attended with fatal results. A day or two, therefore, was permitted to
pass, while simple dressings were applied.

The Surgeon of the other American ships of war in harbour occasionally
visited the Neversink, to examine the patient, and incidentally to
listen to the expositions of our own Surgeon, their senior in rank. But
Cadwallader Cuticle, who, as yet, has been but incidentally alluded to,
now deserves a chapter by himself.




CHAPTER LXI.

THE SURGEON OF THE FLEET.

Cadwallader Cuticle, M. D., and Honorary Member of the most
distinguished Colleges of Surgeons both in Europe and America, was our
Surgeon of the Fleet. Nor was he at all blind to the dignity of his
position; to which, indeed, he was rendered peculiarly competent, if
the reputation he enjoyed was deserved. He had the name of being the
foremost Surgeon in the Navy, a gentleman of remarkable science, and a
veteran practitioner.

He was a small, withered man, nearly, perhaps quite, sixty years of
age. His chest was shallow, his shoulders bent, his pantaloons hung
round skeleton legs, and his face was singularly attenuated. In truth,
the corporeal vitality of this man seemed, in a good degree, to have
died out of him. He walked abroad, a curious patch-work of life and
death, with a wig, one glass eye, and a set of false teeth, while his
voice was husky and thick; but his mind seemed undebilitated as in
youth; it shone out of his remaining eye with basilisk brilliancy.

Like most old physicians and surgeons who have seen much service, and
have been promoted to high professional place for their scientific
attainments, this Cuticle was an enthusiast in his calling. In private,
he had once been heard to say, confidentially, that he would rather cut
off a man's arm than dismember the wing of the most delicate pheasant.
In particular, the department of Morbid Anatomy was his peculiar love;
and in his state-room below he had a most unsightly collection of
Parisian casts, in plaster and wax, representing all imaginable
malformations of the human members, both organic and induced by
disease. Chief among these was a cast, often to be met with in the
Anatomical Museums of Europe, and no doubt an unexaggerated copy of a
genuine original; it was the head of an elderly woman, with an aspect
singularly gentle and meek, but at the same time wonderfully expressive
of a gnawing sorrow, never to be relieved. You would almost have
thought it the face of some abbess, for some unspeakable crime
voluntarily sequestered from human society, and leading a life of
agonised penitence without hope; so marvellously sad and tearfully
pitiable was this head. But when you first beheld it, no such emotions
ever crossed your mind. All your eyes and all your horrified soul were
fast fascinated and frozen by the sight of a hideous, crumpled horn,
like that of a ram, downward growing out from the forehead, and partly
shadowing the face; but as you gazed, the freezing fascination of its
horribleness gradually waned, and then your whole heart burst with
sorrow, as you contemplated those aged features, ashy pale and wan. The
horn seemed the mark of a curse for some mysterious sin, conceived and
committed before the spirit had entered the flesh. Yet that sin seemed
something imposed, and not voluntarily sought; some sin growing out of
the heartless necessities of the predestination of things; some sin
under which the sinner sank in sinless woe.

But no pang of pain, not the slightest touch of concern, ever crossed
the bosom of Cuticle when he looked on this cast. It was immovably
fixed to a bracket, against the partition of his state-room, so that it
was the first object that greeted his eyes when he opened them from his
nightly sleep. Nor was it to hide the face, that upon retiring, he
always hung his Navy cap upon the upward curling extremity of the horn,
for that obscured it but little.

The Surgeon's cot-boy, the lad who made up his swinging bed and took
care of his room, often told us of the horror he sometimes felt when he
would find himself alone in ins master's retreat. At times he was
seized with the idea that Cuticle was a preternatural being; and once
entering his room in the middle watch of the night, he started at
finding it enveloped in a thick, bluish vapour, and stifling with the
odours of brimstone. Upon hearing a low groan from the smoke, with a
wild cry he darted from the place, and, rousing the occupants of the
neighbouring state-rooms, it was found that the vapour proceeded from
smouldering bunches of lucifer matches, which had become ignited
through the carelessness of the Surgeon. Cuticle, almost dead, was
dragged from the suffocating atmosphere, and it was several days ere he
completely recovered from its effects. This accident took place
immediately over the powder magazine; but as Cuticle, during his
sickness, paid dearly enough for transgressing the laws prohibiting
combustibles in the gun-room, the Captain contented himself with
privately remonstrating with him.

Well knowing the enthusiasm of the Surgeon for all specimens of morbid
anatomy, some of the ward-room officers used to play upon his
credulity, though, in every case, Cuticle was not long in discovering
their deceptions. Once, when they had some sago pudding for dinner, and
Cuticle chanced to be ashore, they made up a neat parcel of this
bluish-white, firm, jelly-like preparation, and placing it in a tin
box, carefully sealed with wax, they deposited it on the gun-room
table, with a note, purporting to come from an eminent physician in
Rio, connected with the Grand National Museum on the Praca d'
Acclamacao, begging leave to present the scientific Senhor
Cuticle--with the donor's compliments--an uncommonly fine specimen of a
cancer.

Descending to the ward-room, Cuticle spied the note, and no sooner read
it, than, clutching the case, he opened it, and exclaimed, "Beautiful!
splendid! I have never seen a finer specimen of this most interesting
disease."

"What have you there, Surgeon Cuticle?" said a Lieutenant, advancing.

"Why, sir, look at it; did you ever see anything more exquisite?"

"Very exquisite indeed; let me have a bit of it, will you, Cuticle?"

"Let you have a bit of it!" shrieked the Surgeon, starting back. "Let
you have one of my limbs! I wouldn't mar so large a specimen for a
hundred dollars; but what can you want of it? You are not making
collections!"

"I'm fond of the article," said the Lieutenant; "it's a fine cold
relish to bacon or ham. You know, I was in New Zealand last cruise,
Cuticle, and got into sad dissipation there among the cannibals; come,
let's have a bit, if it's only a mouthful."

"Why, you infernal Feejee!" shouted Cuticle, eyeing the other with a
confounded expression; "you don't really mean to eat a piece of this
cancer?"

"Hand it to me, and see whether I will not," was the reply.

"In God's name, take it!" cried the Surgeon, putting the case into his
hands, and then standing with his own uplifted.

"Steward!" cried the Lieutenant, "the castor--quick! I always use
plenty of pepper with this dish, Surgeon; it's oystery. Ah! this is
really delicious," he added, smacking his lips over a mouthful. "Try it
now, Surgeon, and you'll never keep such a fine dish as this, lying
uneaten on your hands, as a mere scientific curiosity."

Cuticle's whole countenance changed; and, slowly walking up to the
table, he put his nose close to the tin case, then touched its contents
with his finger and tasted it. Enough. Buttoning up his coat, in all
the tremblings of an old man's rage he burst from the ward-room, and,
calling for a boat, was not seen again for twenty-four hours.

But though, like all other mortals, Cuticle was subject at times to
these fits of passion--at least under outrageous provocation--nothing
could exceed his coolness when actually employed in his imminent
vocation. Surrounded by moans and shrieks, by features distorted with
anguish inflicted by himself, he yet maintained a countenance almost
supernaturally calm; and unless the intense interest of the operation
flushed his wan face with a momentary tinge of professional enthusiasm,
he toiled away, untouched by the keenest misery coming under a
fleet-surgeon's eye. Indeed, long habituation to the dissecting-room
and the amputation-table had made him seemingly impervious to the
ordinary emotions of humanity. Yet you could not say that Cuticle was
essentially a cruel-hearted man. His apparent heartlessness must have
been of a purely scientific origin. It is not to be imagined even that
Cuticle would have harmed a fly, unless he could procure a microscope
powerful enough to assist him in experimenting on the minute vitals of
the creature.

But notwithstanding his marvellous indifference to the sufferings of
his patients, and spite even of his enthusiasm in his vocation--not
cooled by frosting old age itself--Cuticle, on some occasions, would
effect a certain disrelish of his profession, and declaim against the
necessity that forced a man of his humanity to perform a surgical
operation. Especially was it apt to be thus with him, when the case was
one of more than ordinary interest. In discussing it previous to
setting about it, he would veil his eagerness under an aspect of great
circumspection, curiously marred, however, by continual sallies of
unsuppressible impatience. But the knife once in his hand, the
compassionless surgeon himself, undisguised, stood before you. Such was
Cadwallader Cuticle, our Surgeon of the Fleet.




CHAPTER LXII.

A CONSULTATION OF MAN-OF-WAR SURGEONS.


It seems customary for the Surgeon of the Fleet, when any important
operation in his department is on the anvil, and there is nothing to
absorb professional attention from it, to invite his brother surgeons,
if at hand at the time, to a ceremonious consultation upon it. And
this, in courtesy, his brother surgeons expect.

In pursuance of this custom, then, the surgeons of the neighbouring
American ships of war were requested to visit the Neversink in a body,
to advise concerning the case of the top-man, whose situation had now
become critical. They assembled on the half-deck, and were soon joined
by their respected senior, Cuticle. In a body they bowed as he
approached, and accosted him with deferential regard.

"Gentlemen," said Cuticle, unostentatiously seating himself on a
camp-stool, handed him by his cot-boy, "we have here an extremely
interesting case. You have all seen the patient, I believe. At first I
had hopes that I should have been able to cut down to the ball, and
remove it; but the state of the patient forbade. Since then, the
inflammation and sloughing of the part has been attended with a copious
suppuration, great loss of substance, extreme debility and emaciation.
From this, I am convinced that the ball has shattered and deadened the
bone, and now lies impacted in the medullary canal. In fact, there can
be no doubt that the wound is incurable, and that amputation is the
only resource. But, gentlemen, I find myself placed in a very delicate
predicament. I assure you I feel no professional anxiety to perform the
operation. I desire your advice, and if you will now again visit the
patient with me, we can then return here and decide what is best to be
done. Once more, let me say, that I feel no personal anxiety whatever
to use the knife."

The assembled surgeons listened to this address with the most serious
attention, and, in accordance with their superior's desire, now
descended to the sick-bay, where the patient was languishing. The
examination concluded, they returned to the half-deck, and the
consultation was renewed.

"Gentlemen," began Cuticle, again seating himself, "you have now just
inspected the limb; you have seen that there is no resource but
amputation; and now, gentlemen, what do you say? Surgeon Bandage, of
the Mohawk, will you express your opinion?"

"The wound is a very serious one," said Bandage--a corpulent man, with
a high German forehead--shaking his head solemnly.

"Can anything save him but amputation?" demanded Cuticle.

"His constitutional debility is extreme," observed Bandage, "but I have
seen more dangerous cases."

"Surgeon Wedge, of the Malay," said Cuticle, in a pet, "be pleased to
give _your_ opinion; and let it be definitive, I entreat:" this was
said with a severe glance toward Bandage.

"If I thought," began Wedge, a very spare, tall man, elevating himself
still higher on his toes, "that the ball had shattered and divided the
whole _femur_, including the _Greater_ and _Lesser Trochanter_ the
_Linear aspera_ the _Digital fossa_, and the _Intertrochanteric_, I
should certainly be in favour of amputation; but that, sir, permit me
to observe, is not my opinion."

"Surgeon Sawyer, of the Buccaneer," said Cuticle, drawing in his thin
lower lip with vexation, and turning to a round-faced, florid, frank,
sensible-looking man, whose uniform coat very handsomely fitted him,
and was adorned with an unusual quantity of gold lace; "Surgeon Sawyer,
of the Buccaneer, let us now hear _your_ opinion, if you please. Is not
amputation the only resource, sir?"

"Excuse me," said Sawyer, "I am decidedly opposed to it; for if
hitherto the patient has not been strong enough to undergo the
extraction of the ball, I do not see how he can be expected to endure a
far more severe operation. As there is no immediate danger of
mortification, and you say the ball cannot be reached without making
large incisions, I should support him, I think, for the present, with
tonics, and gentle antiphlogistics, locally applied. On no account
would I proceed to amputation until further symptoms are exhibited."

"Surgeon Patella, of the Algerine," said Cuticle, in an ill-suppressed
passion, abruptly turning round on the person addressed, "will _you_
have the kindness to say whether _you_ do not think that amputation is
the only resource?"

Now Patella was the youngest of the company, a modest man, filled with
a profound reverence for the science of Cuticle, and desirous of
gaining his good opinion, yet not wishing to commit himself altogether
by a decided reply, though, like Surgeon Sawyer, in his own mind he
might have been clearly against the operation.

"What you have remarked, Mr. Surgeon of the Fleet," said Patella,
respectfully hemming, "concerning the dangerous condition of the limb,
seems obvious enough; amputation would certainly be a cure to the
wound; but then, as, notwithstanding his present debility, the patient
seems to have a strong constitution, he might rally as it is, and by
your scientific treatment, Mr. Surgeon of the Fleet"--bowing--"be
entirely made whole, without risking an amputation. Still, it is a very
critical case, and amputation may be indispensable; and if it is to be
performed, there ought to be no delay whatever. That is my view of the
case, Mr. Surgeon of the Fleet."

"Surgeon Patella, then, gentlemen," said Cuticle, turning round
triumphantly, "is clearly of opinion that amputation should be
immediately performed. For my own part--individually, I mean, and
without respect to the patient--I am sorry to have it so decided. But
this settles the question, gentlemen--in my own mind, however, it was
settled before. At ten o'clock to-morrow morning the operation will be
performed. I shall be happy to see you all on the occasion, and also
your juniors" (alluding to the absent _Assistant Surgeons_).
"Good-morning, gentlemen; at ten o'clock, remember."

And Cuticle retreated to the Ward-room.




CHAPTER LXIII.

THE OPERATION.


Next morning, at the appointed hour, the surgeons arrived in a body.
They were accompanied by their juniors, young men ranging in age from
nineteen years to thirty. Like the senior surgeons, these young
gentlemen were arrayed in their blue navy uniforms, displaying a
profusion of bright buttons, and several broad bars of gold lace about
the wristbands. As in honour of the occasion, they had put on their
best coats; they looked exceedingly brilliant.

The whole party immediately descended to the half-deck, where
preparations had been made for the operation. A large garrison-ensign
was stretched across the ship by the main-mast, so as completely to
screen the space behind. This space included the whole extent aft to
the bulk-head of the Commodore's cabin, at the door of which the
marine-orderly paced, in plain sight, cutlass in hand.

Upon two gun-carriages, dragged amidships, the Death-board (used for
burials at sea) was horizontally placed, covered with an old
royal-stun'-sail. Upon this occasion, to do duty as an
amputation-table, it was widened by an additional plank. Two
match-tubs, near by, placed one upon another, at either end supported
another plank, distinct from the table, whereon was exhibited an array
of saws and knives of various and peculiar shapes and sizes; also, a
sort of steel, something like the dinner-table implement, together with
long needles, crooked at the end for taking up the arteries, and large
darning-needles, thread and bee's-wax, for sewing up a wound.

At the end nearest the larger table was a tin basin of water,
surrounded by small sponges, placed at mathematical intervals. From the
long horizontal pole of a great-gun rammer--fixed in its usual place
overhead--hung a number of towels, with "U.S." marked in the corners.

All these arrangements had been made by the "Surgeon's steward," a
person whose important functions in a man-of-war will, in a future
chapter, be entered upon at large. Upon the present occasion, he was
bustling about, adjusting and readjusting the knives, needles, and
carver, like an over-conscientious butler fidgeting over a dinner-table
just before the convivialists enter.

But by far the most striking object to be seen behind the ensign was a
human skeleton, whose every joint articulated with wires. By a rivet at
the apex of the skull, it hung dangling from a hammock-hook fixed in a
beam above. Why this object was here, will presently be seen; but why
it was placed immediately at the foot of the amputation-table, only
Surgeon Cuticle can tell.

While the final preparations were being made, Cuticle stood conversing
with the assembled Surgeons and Assistant Surgeons, his invited guests.

"Gentlemen," said he, taking up one of the glittering knives and
artistically drawing the steel across it; "Gentlemen, though these
scenes are very unpleasant, and in some moods, I may say, repulsive to
me--yet how much better for our patient to have the contusions and
lacerations of his present wound--with all its dangerous
symptoms--converted into a clean incision, free from these objections,
and occasioning so much less subsequent anxiety to himself and the
Surgeon. Yes," he added, tenderly feeling the edge of his knife,
"amputation is our only resource. Is it not so, Surgeon Patella?"
turning toward that gentleman, as if relying upon some sort of an
assent, however clogged with conditions.

"Certainly," said Patella, "amputation is your only resource, Mr.
Surgeon of the Fleet; that is, I mean, if you are fully persuaded of
its necessity."

The other surgeons said nothing, maintaining a somewhat reserved air,
as if conscious that they had no positive authority in the case,
whatever might be their own private opinions; but they seemed willing
to behold, and, if called upon, to assist at the operation, since it
could not now be averted.

The young men, their Assistants, looked very eager, and cast frequent
glances of awe upon so distinguished a practitioner as the venerable
Cuticle.

"They say he can drop a leg in one minute and ten seconds from the
moment the knife touches it," whispered one of them to another.

"We shall see," was the reply, and the speaker clapped his hand to his
fob, to see if his watch would be forthcoming when wanted.

"Are you all ready here?" demanded Cuticle, now advancing to his
steward; "have not those fellows got through yet?" pointing to three
men of the carpenter's gang, who were placing bits of wood under the
gun-carriages supporting the central table.

"They are just through, sir," respectfully answered the steward,
touching his hand to his forehead, as if there were a cap-front there.

"Bring up the patient, then," said Cuticle.

"Young gentlemen," he added, turning to the row of Assistant Surgeons,
"seeing you here reminds me of the classes of students once under my
instruction at the Philadelphia College of Physicians and Surgeons. Ah,
those were happy days!" he sighed, applying the extreme corner of his
handkerchief to his glass-eye. "Excuse an old man's emotions, young
gentlemen; but when I think of the numerous rare cases that then came
under my treatment, I cannot but give way to my feelings. The town, the
city, the metropolis, young gentlemen, is the place for you students;
at least in these dull times of peace, when the army and navy furnish
no inducements for a youth ambitious of rising in our honourable
profession. Take an old man's advice, and if the war now threatening
between the States and Mexico should break out, exchange your navy
commissions for commissions in the army. From having no military marine
herself, Mexico has always been backward in furnishing subjects for the
amputation-tables of foreign navies. The cause of science has
languished in her hands. The army, young gentlemen, is your best
school; depend upon it. You will hardly believe it, Surgeon Bandage,"
turning to that gentleman, "but this is my first important case of
surgery in a nearly three years' cruise. I have been almost wholly
confined in this ship to doctor's practice prescribing for fevers and
fluxes. True, the other day a man fell from the mizzen-top-sail-yard;
but that was merely an aggravated case of dislocations and bones
splintered and broken. No one, sir, could have made an amputation of
it, without severely contusing his conscience. And mine--I may say it,
gentlemen, without ostentation is--peculiarly susceptible."

And so saying, the knife and carver touchingly dropped to his sides,
and he stood for a moment fixed in a tender reverie but a commotion
being heard beyond the curtain, he started, and, briskly crossing and
recrossing the knife and carver, exclaimed, "Ali, here comes our
patient; surgeons, this side of the table, if you please; young
gentlemen, a little further off, I beg. Steward, take off my coat--so;
my neckerchief now; I must be perfectly unencumbered, Surgeon Patella,
or I can do nothing whatever."

These articles being removed, he snatched off his wig, placing it on
the gun-deck capstan; then took out his set of false teeth, and placed
it by the side of the wig; and, lastly, putting his forefinger to the
inner angle of his blind eye, spirited out the glass optic with
professional dexterity, and deposited that, also, next to the wig and
false teeth.

Thus divested of nearly all inorganic appurtenances, what was left of
the Surgeon slightly shook itself, to see whether anything more could
be spared to advantage.

"Carpenter's mates," he now cried, "will you never get through with
that job?"

"Almost through, sir--just through," they replied, staring round in
search of the strange, unearthly voice that addressed them; for the
absence of his teeth had not at all improved the conversational tones
of the Surgeon of the Fleet.

With natural curiosity, these men had purposely been lingering, to see
all they could; but now, having no further excuse, they snatched up
their hammers and chisels, and--like the stage-builders decamping from
a public meeting at the eleventh hour, after just completing the
rostrum in time for the first speaker--the Carpenter's gang withdrew.

The broad ensign now lifted, revealing a glimpse of the crowd of
man-of-war's-men outside, and the patient, borne in the arms of two of
his mess-mates, entered the place. He was much emaciated, weak as an
infant, and every limb visibly trembled, or rather jarred, like the
head of a man with the palsy. As if an organic and involuntary
apprehension of death had seized the wounded leg, its nervous motions
were so violent that one of the mess-mates was obliged to keep his hand
upon it.

The top-man was immediately stretched upon the table, the attendants
steadying his limbs, when, slowly opening his eyes, he glanced about at
the glittering knives and saws, the towels and sponges, the armed
sentry at the Commodore's cabin-door, the row of eager-eyed students,
the meagre death's-head of a Cuticle, now with his shirt sleeves rolled
up upon his withered arms, and knife in hand, and, finally, his eyes
settled in horror upon the skeleton, slowly vibrating and jingling
before him, with the slow, slight roll of the frigate in the water.

"I would advise perfect repose of your every limb, my man," said
Cuticle, addressing him; "the precision of an operation is often
impaired by the inconsiderate restlessness of the patient. But if you
consider, my good fellow," he added, in a patronising and almost
sympathetic tone, and slightly pressing his hand on the limb, "if you
consider how much better it is to live with three limbs than to die
with four, and especially if you but knew to what torments both sailors
and soldiers were subjected before the time of Celsus, owing to the
lamentable ignorance of surgery then prevailing, you would certainly
thank God from the bottom of your heart that _your_ operation has been
postponed to the period of this enlightened age, blessed with a Bell, a
Brodie, and a Lally. My man, before Celsus's time, such was the general
ignorance of our noble science, that, in order to prevent the excessive
effusion of blood, it was deemed indispensable to operate with a
red-hot knife"--making a professional movement toward the thigh--"and
pour scalding oil upon the parts"--elevating his elbow, as if with a
tea-pot in his hand--"still further to sear them, after amputation had
been performed."

"He is fainting!" said one of his mess-mates; "quick! some water!" The
steward immediately hurried to the top-man with the basin.

Cuticle took the top-man by the wrist, and feeling it a while,
observed, "Don't be alarmed, men," addressing the two mess-mates;
"he'll recover presently; this fainting very generally takes place."
And he stood for a moment, tranquilly eyeing the patient.

Now the Surgeon of the Fleet and the top-man presented a spectacle
which, to a reflecting mind, was better than a church-yard sermon on
the mortality of man.

Here was a sailor, who four days previous, had stood erect--a pillar of
life--with an arm like a royal-mast and a thigh like a windlass. But
the slightest conceivable finger-touch of a bit of crooked trigger had
eventuated in stretching him out, more helpless than an hour-old babe,
with a blasted thigh, utterly drained of its brawn. And who was it that
now stood over him like a superior being, and, as if clothed himself
with the attributes of immortality, indifferently discoursed of carving
up his broken flesh, and thus piecing out his abbreviated days. Who was
it, that in capacity of Surgeon, seemed enacting the part of a
Regenerator of life? The withered, shrunken, one-eyed, toothless,
hairless Cuticle; with a trunk half dead--a _memento mori_ to behold!

And while, in those soul-sinking and panic-striking premonitions of
speedy death which almost invariably accompany a severe gun-shot wound,
even with the most intrepid spirits; while thus drooping and dying,
this once robust top-man's eye was now waning in his head like a
Lapland moon being eclipsed in clouds--Cuticle, who for years had still
lived in his withered tabernacle of a body--Cuticle, no doubt sharing
in the common self-delusion of old age--Cuticle must have felt his hold
of life as secure as the grim hug of a grizzly bear. Verily, Life is
more awful than Death; and let no man, though his live heart beat in
him like a cannon--let him not hug his life to himself; for, in the
predestinated necessities of things, that bounding life of his is not a
whit more secure than the life of a man on his death-bed. To-day we
inhale the air with expanding lungs, and life runs through us like a
thousand Niles; but to-morrow we may collapse in death, and all our
veins be dry as the Brook Kedron in a drought.

"And now, young gentlemen," said Cuticle, turning to the Assistant
Surgeons, "while the patient is coming to, permit me to describe to you
the highly-interesting operation I am about to perform."

"Mr. Surgeon of the Fleet," said Surgeon Bandage, "if you are about to
lecture, permit me to present you with your teeth; they will make your
discourse more readily understood." And so saying, Bandage, with a bow,
placed the two semicircles of ivory into Cuticle's hands.

"Thank you, Surgeon Bandage," said Cuticle, and slipped the ivory into
its place.

"In the first place, now, young gentlemen, let me direct your attention
to the excellent preparation before you. I have had it unpacked from
its case, and set up here from my state-room, where it occupies the
spare berth; and all this for your express benefit, young gentlemen.
This skeleton I procured in person from the Hunterian department of the
Royal College of Surgeons in London. It is a masterpiece of art. But we
have no time to examine it now. Delicacy forbids that I should amplify
at a juncture like this"--casting an almost benignant glance toward the
patient, now beginning to open his eyes; "but let me point out to you
upon this thigh-bone"--disengaging it from the skeleton, with a gentle
twist--"the precise place where I propose to perform the operation.
_Here_, young gentlemen, _here_ is the place. You perceive it is very
near the point of articulation with the trunk."

"Yes," interposed Surgeon Wedge, rising on his toes, "yes, young
gentlemen, the point of articulation with the _acetabulum_ of the _os
innominatum_."

"Where's your Bell on Bones, Dick?" whispered one of the assistants to
the student next him. "Wedge has been spending the whole morning over
it, getting out the hard names."

"Surgeon Wedge," said Cuticle, looking round severely, "we will
dispense with your commentaries, if you please, at present. Now, young
gentlemen, you cannot but perceive, that the point of operation being
so near the trunk and the vitals, it becomes an unusually beautiful
one, demanding a steady hand and a true eye; and, after all, the
patient may die under my hands."

"Quick, Steward! water, water; he's fainting again!" cried the two
mess-mates.

"Don't be alarmed for your comrade; men," said Cuticle, turning round.
"I tell you it is not an uncommon thing for the patient to betray some
emotion upon these occasions--most usually manifested by swooning; it
is quite natural it should be so. But we must not delay the operation.
Steward, that knife--no, the next one--there, that's it. He is coming
to, I think"--feeling the top-man's wrist. "Are you all ready, sir?"

This last observation was addressed to one of the Never-sink's
assistant surgeons, a tall, lank, cadaverous young man, arrayed in a
sort of shroud of white canvas, pinned about his throat, and completely
enveloping his person. He was seated on a match-tub--the skeleton
swinging near his head--at the foot of the table, in readiness to grasp
the limb, as when a plank is being severed by a carpenter and his
apprentice.

"The sponges, Steward," said Cuticle, for the last time taking out his
teeth, and drawing up his shirt sleeves still further. Then, taking the
patient by the wrist, "Stand by, now, you mess-mates; keep hold of his
arms; pin him down. Steward, put your hand on the artery; I shall
commence as soon as his pulse begins to--_now, now!_" Letting fall the
wrist, feeling the thigh carefully, and bowing over it an instant, he
drew the fatal knife unerringly across the flesh. As it first touched
the part, the row of surgeons simultaneously dropped their eyes to the
watches in their hands while the patient lay, with eyes horribly
distended, in a kind of waking trance. Not a breath was heard; but as
the quivering flesh parted in a long, lingering gash, a spring of blood
welled up between the living walls of the wounds, and two thick
streams, in opposite directions, coursed down the thigh. The sponges
were instantly dipped in the purple pool; every face present was
pinched to a point with suspense; the limb writhed; the man shrieked;
his mess-mates pinioned him; while round and round the leg went the
unpitying cut.

"The saw!" said Cuticle.

Instantly it was in his hand.

Full of the operation, he was about to apply it, when, looking up, and
turning to the assistant surgeons, he said, "Would any of you young
gentlemen like to apply the saw? A splendid subject!"

Several volunteered; when, selecting one, Cuticle surrendered the
instrument to him, saying, "Don't be hurried, now; be steady."

While the rest of the assistants looked upon their comrade with glances
of envy, he went rather timidly to work; and Cuticle, who was earnestly
regarding him, suddenly snatched the saw from his hand. "Away, butcher!
you disgrace the profession. Look at _me!_"

For a few moments the thrilling, rasping sound was heard; and then the
top-man seemed parted in twain at the hip, as the leg slowly slid into
the arms of the pale, gaunt man in the shroud, who at once made away
with it, and tucked it out of sight under one of the guns.

"Surgeon Sawyer," now said Cuticle, courteously turning to the surgeon
of the Mohawk, "would you like to take up the arteries? They are quite
at your service, sir."

"Do, Sawyer; be prevailed upon," said Surgeon Bandage.

Sawyer complied; and while, with some modesty he was conducting the
operation, Cuticle, turning to the row of assistants said, "Young
gentlemen, we will now proceed with our Illustration. Hand me that
bone, Steward." And taking the thigh-bone in his still bloody hands,
and holding it conspicuously before his auditors, the Surgeon of the
Fleet began:

"Young gentlemen, you will perceive that precisely at this
spot--_here_--to which I previously directed your attention--at the
corresponding spot precisely--the operation has been performed. About
here, young gentlemen, here"--lifting his hand some inches from the
bone--"about _here_ the great artery was. But you noticed that I did
not use the tourniquet; I never do. The forefinger of my steward is far
better than a tourniquet, being so much more manageable, and leaving
the smaller veins uncompressed. But I have been told, young gentlemen,
that a certain Seignior Seignioroni, a surgeon of Seville, has recently
invented an admirable substitute for the clumsy, old-fashioned
tourniquet. As I understand it, it is something like a pair of
_calipers_, working with a small Archimedes screw--a very clever
invention, according to all accounts. For the padded points at the end
of the arches"--arching his forefinger and thumb--"can be so worked as
to approximate in such a way, as to--but you don't attend to me, young
gentlemen," he added, all at once starting.

Being more interested in the active proceedings of Surgeon Sawyer, who
was now threading a needle to sew up the overlapping of the stump, the
young gentlemen had not scrupled to turn away their attention
altogether from the lecturer.

A few moments more, and the top-man, in a swoon, was removed below into
the sick-bay. As the curtain settled again after the patient had
disappeared, Cuticle, still holding the thigh-bone of the skeleton in
his ensanguined hands, proceeded with his remarks upon it; and having
concluded them, added, "Now, young gentlemen, not the least interesting
consequence of this operation will be the finding of the ball, which,
in case of non-amputation, might have long eluded the most careful
search. That ball, young gentlemen, must have taken a most circuitous
route. Nor, in cases where the direction is oblique, is this at all
unusual. Indeed, the learned Henner gives us a most remarkable--I had
almost said an incredible--case of a soldier's neck, where the bullet,
entering at the part called Adam's Apple--"

"Yes," said Surgeon Wedge, elevating himself, "the _pomum Adami_."

"Entering the point called _Adam's Apple_," continued Cuticle, severely
emphasising the last two words, "ran completely round the neck, and,
emerging at the same hole it had entered, shot the next man in the
ranks. It was afterward extracted, says Renner, from the second man,
and pieces of the other's skin were found adhering to it. But examples
of foreign substances being received into the body with a ball, young
gentlemen, are frequently observed. Being attached to a United States
ship at the time, I happened to be near the spot of the battle of
Ayacucho, in Peru. The day after the action, I saw in the barracks of
the wounded a trooper, who, having been severely injured in the brain,
went crazy, and, with his own holster-pistol, committed suicide in the
hospital. The ball drove inward a portion of his woollen night-cap----"

"In the form of a _cul-de-sac_, doubtless," said the undaunted Wedge.

"For once, Surgeon Wedge, you use the only term that can be employed;
and let me avail myself of this opportunity to say to you, young
gentlemen, that a man of true science"--expanding his shallow chest a
little--"uses but few hard words, and those only when none other will
answer his purpose; whereas the smatterer in science"--slightly
glancing toward Wedge--"thinks, that by mouthing hard words, he proves
that he understands hard things. Let this sink deep in your minds,
young gentlemen; and, Surgeon Wedge "--with a stiff bow--"permit me to
submit the reflection to yourself. Well, young gentlemen, the bullet
was afterward extracted by pulling upon the external parts of the
_cul-de-sac_--a simple, but exceedingly beautiful operation. There is a
fine example, somewhat similar, related in Guthrie; but, of course, you
must have met with it, in so well-known a work as his Treatise upon
Gun-shot Wounds. When, upward of twenty years ago, I was with Lord
Cochrane, then Admiral of the fleets of this very country"--pointing
shoreward, out of a port-hole--"a sailor of the vessel to which I was
attached, during the blockade of Bahia, had his leg----" But by this
time the fidgets had completely taken possession of his auditors,
especially of the senior surgeons; and turning upon them abruptly, he
added, "But I will not detain you longer, gentlemen"--turning round
upon all the surgeons--"your dinners must be waiting you on board your
respective ships. But, Surgeon Sawyer, perhaps you may desire to wash
your hands before you go. There is the basin, sir; you will find a
clean towel on the rammer. For myself, I seldom use them"--taking out
his handkerchief. "I must leave you now, gentlemen"--bowing.
"To-morrow, at ten, the limb will be upon the table, and I shall be
happy to see you all upon the occasion. Who's there?" turning to the
curtain, which then rustled.

"Please, sir," said the Steward, entering, "the patient is dead."

"The body also, gentlemen, at ten precisely," said Cuticle, once more
turning round upon his guests. "I predicted that the operation might
prove fatal; he was very much run down. Good-morning;" and Cuticle
departed.

"He does not, surely, mean to touch the body?" exclaimed Surgeon
Sawyer, with much excitement.

"Oh, no!" said Patella, "that's only his way; he means, doubtless, that
it may be inspected previous to being taken ashore for burial."

The assemblage of gold-laced surgeons now ascended to the quarter-deck;
the second cutter was called away by the bugler, and, one by one, they
were dropped aboard of their respective ships.

The following evening the mess-mates of the top-man rowed his remains
ashore, and buried them in the ever-vernal Protestant cemetery, hard by
the Beach of the Flamingoes, in plain sight from the bay.




CHAPTER LXIV.

MAN-OF-WAR TROPHIES.


When the second cutter pulled about among the ships, dropping the
surgeons aboard the American men-of-war here and there--as a pilot-boat
distributes her pilots at the mouth of the harbour--she passed several
foreign frigates, two of which, an Englishman and a Frenchman, had
excited not a little remark on board the Neversink. These vessels often
loosed their sails and exercised yards simultaneously with ourselves,
as if desirous of comparing the respective efficiency of the crews.

When we were nearly ready for sea, the English frigate, weighing her
anchor, made all sail with the sea-breeze, and began showing off her
paces by gliding about among all the men-of-war in harbour, and
particularly by running down under the Neversink's stern. Every time
she drew near, we complimented her by lowering our ensign a little, and
invariably she courteously returned the salute. She was inviting us to
a sailing-match; and it was rumoured that, when we should leave the
bay, our Captain would have no objections to gratify her; for, be it
known, the Neversink was accounted the fleetest keeled craft sailing
under the American long-pennant. Perhaps this was the reason why the
stranger challenged us.

It may have been that a portion of our crew were the more anxious to
race with this frigate, from a little circumstance which a few of them
deemed rather galling. Not many cables'-length distant from our
Commodore's cabin lay the frigate President, with the red cross of St.
George flying from her peak. As its name imported, this fine craft was
an American born; but having been captured during the last war with
Britain, she now sailed the salt seas as a trophy.

Think of it, my gallant countrymen, one and all, down the sea-coast and
along the endless banks of the Ohio and Columbia--think of the twinges
we sea-patriots must have felt to behold the live-oak of the Floridas
and the pines of green Maine built into the oaken walls of Old England!
But, to some of the sailors, there was a counterbalancing thought, as
grateful as the other was galling, and that was, that somewhere,
sailing under the stars and stripes, was the frigate Macedonian, a
British-born craft which had once sported the battle-banner of Britain.

It has ever been the custom to spend almost any amount of money in
repairing a captured vessel, in order that she may long survive to
commemorate the heroism of the conqueror. Thus, in the English Navy,
there are many Monsieurs of seventy-fours won from the Gaul. But we
Americans can show but few similar trophies, though, no doubt, we would
much like to be able so to do.

But I never have beheld any of thee floating trophies without being
reminded of a scene once witnessed in a pioneer village on the western
bank of the Mississippi. Not far from this village, where the stumps of
aboriginal trees yet stand in the market-place, some years ago lived a
portion of the remnant tribes of the Sioux Indians, who frequently
visited the white settlements to purchase trinkets and cloths.

One florid crimson evening in July, when the red-hot sun was going down
in a blaze, and I was leaning against a corner in my huntsman's frock,
lo! there came stalking out of the crimson West a gigantic red-man,
erect as a pine, with his glittering tomahawk, big as a broad-ax,
folded in martial repose across his chest, Moodily wrapped in his
blanket, and striding like a king on the stage, he promenaded up and
down the rustic streets, exhibiting on the back of his blanket a crowd
of human hands, rudely delineated in red; one of them seemed recently
drawn.

"Who is this warrior?" asked I; "and why marches he here? and for what
are these bloody hands?"

"That warrior is the _Red-Hot Coal_," said a pioneer in moccasins, by
my side. "He marches here to show-off his last trophy; every one of
those hands attests a foe scalped by his tomahawk; and he has just
emerged from Ben Brown's, the painter, who has sketched the last red
hand that you see; for last night this _Red-Hot Coal_ outburned the
_Yellow Torch_, the chief of a band of the Foxes."

Poor savage thought I; and is this the cause of your lofty gait? Do you
straighten yourself to think that you have committed a murder, when a
chance-falling stone has often done the same? Is it a proud thing to
topple down six feet perpendicular of immortal manhood, though that
lofty living tower needed perhaps thirty good growing summers to bring
it to maturity? Poor savage! And you account it so glorious, do you, to
mutilate and destroy what God himself was more than a quarter of a
century in building?

And yet, fellow-Christians, what is the American frigate Macedonian, or
the English frigate President, but as two bloody red hands painted on
this poor savage's blanket?

Are there no Moravians in the Moon, that not a missionary has yet
visited this poor pagan planet of ours, to civilise civilisation and
christianise Christendom?




CHAPTER LXV.

A MAN-OF-WAR RACE.


We lay in Rio so long--for what reason the Commodore only knows--that a
saying went abroad among the impatient sailors that our frigate would
at last ground on the beef-bones daily thrown overboard by the cooks.

But at last good tidings came. "All hands up anchor, ahoy!" And bright
and early in the morning up came our old iron, as the sun rose in the
East.

The land-breezes at Rio--by which alone vessels may emerge from the
bay--is ever languid and faint. It comes from gardens of citrons and
cloves, spiced with all the spices of the Tropic of Capricorn. And,
like that old exquisite, Mohammed, who so much loved to snuff perfumes
and essences, and used to lounge out of the conservatories of Khadija,
his wife, to give battle to the robust sons of Koriesh; even so this
Rio land-breeze comes jaded with sweet-smelling savours, to wrestle
with the wild Tartar breezes of the sea.

Slowly we dropped and dropped down the bay, glided like a stately swan
through the outlet, and were gradually rolled by the smooth, sliding
billows broad out upon the deep. Straight in our wake came the tall
main-mast of the English fighting-frigate, terminating, like a steepled
cathedral, in the bannered cross of the religion of peace; and straight
after _her_ came the rainbow banner of France, sporting God's token
that no more would he make war on the earth.

Both Englishmen and Frenchmen were resolved upon a race; and we Yankees
swore by our top-sails and royals to sink their blazing banners that
night among the Southern constellations we should daily be
extinguishing behind us in our run to the North.

"Ay," said Mad Jack, "St. George's banner shall be as the _Southern
Cross_, out of sight, leagues down the horizon, while our gallant
stars, my brave boys, shall burn all alone in the North, like the Great
Bear at the Pole! Come on, Rainbow and Cross!"

But the wind was long languid and faint, not yet recovered from its
night's dissipation ashore, and noon advanced, with the Sugar-Loaf
pinnacle in sight.

Now it is not with ships as with horses; for though, if a horse walk
well and fast, it generally furnishes good token that he is not bad at
a gallop, yet the ship that in a light breeze is outstripped, may sweep
the stakes, so soon as a t'gallant breeze enables her to strike into a
canter. Thus fared it with us. First, the Englishman glided ahead, and
bluffly passed on; then the Frenchman politely bade us adieu, while the
old Neversink lingered behind, railing at the effeminate breeze. At one
time, all three frigates were irregularly abreast, forming a diagonal
line; and so near were all three, that the stately officers on the
poops stiffly saluted by touching their caps, though refraining from
any further civilities. At this juncture, it was a noble sight to
behold those fine frigates, with dripping breast-hooks, all rearing and
nodding in concert, and to look through their tall spars and wilderness
of rigging, that seemed like inextricably-entangled, gigantic cobwebs
against the sky.


Toward sundown the ocean pawed its white hoofs to the spur of its
helter-skelter rider, a strong blast from the Eastward, and, giving
three cheers from decks, yards, and tops, we crowded all sail on St.
George and St. Denis.

But it is harder to overtake than outstrip; night fell upon us, still
in the rear--still where the little boat was, which, at the eleventh
hour, according to a Rabbinical tradition, pushed after the ark of old
Noah.

It was a misty, cloudy night; and though at first our look-outs kept
the chase in dim sight, yet at last so thick became the atmosphere,
that no sign of a strange spar was to be seen. But the worst of it was
that, when last discerned, the Frenchman was broad on our weather-bow,
and the Englishman gallantly leading his van.

The breeze blew fresher and fresher; but, with even our main-royal set,
we dashed along through a cream-coloured ocean of illuminated foam.
White-Jacket was then in the top; and it was glorious to look down and
see our black hull butting the white sea with its broad bows like a ram.

"We must beat them with such a breeze, dear Jack," said I to our noble
Captain of the Top.

"But the same breeze blows for John Bull, remember," replied Jack, who,
being a Briton, perhaps favoured the Englishman more than the Neversink.

"But how we boom through the billows!" cried Jack, gazing over the
top-rail; then, flinging forth his arm, recited,

  "'Aslope, and gliding on the leeward side,
    The bounding vessel cuts the roaring tide.'

Camoens! White-Jacket, Camoens! Did you ever read him? The Lusiad, I
mean? It's the man-of-war epic of the world, my lad. Give me Gama for a
Commodore, say I--Noble Gama! And Mickle, White-Jacket, did you ever
read of him? William Julius Mickle? Camoens's Translator? A
disappointed man though, White-Jacket. Besides his version of the
Lusiad, he wrote many forgotten things. Did you ever see his ballad of
Cumnor Hall?--No?--Why, it gave Sir Walter Scott the hint of
Kenilworth. My father knew Mickle when he went to sea on board the old
Romney man-of-war. How many great men have been sailors, White-Jacket!
They say Homer himself was once a tar, even as his hero, Ulysses, was
both a sailor and a shipwright. I'll swear Shakspeare was once a
captain of the forecastle. Do you mind the first scene in _The
Tempest_, White-Jacket? And the world-finder, Christopher Columbus, was
a sailor! and so was Camoens, who went to sea with Gama, else we had
never had the Lusiad, White-Jacket. Yes, I've sailed over the very
track that Camoens sailed--round the East Cape into the Indian Ocean.
I've been in Don Jose's garden, too, in Macao, and bathed my feet in
the blessed dew of the walks where Camoens wandered before me. Yes,
White-Jacket, and I have seen and sat in the cave at the end of the
flowery, winding way, where Camoens, according to tradition, composed
certain parts of his Lusiad. Ay, Camoens was a sailor once! Then,
there's Falconer, whose 'Ship-wreck' will never founder, though he
himself, poor fellow, was lost at sea in the Aurora frigate. Old Noah
was the first sailor. And St. Paul, too, knew how to box the compass,
my lad! mind you that chapter in Acts? I couldn't spin the yarn better
myself. Were you ever in Malta? They called it Melita in the Apostle's
day. I have been in Paul's cave there, White-Jacket. They say a piece
of it is good for a charm against shipwreck; but I never tried it.
There's Shelley, he was quite a sailor. Shelley--poor lad! a Percy,
too--but they ought to have let him sleep in his sailor's grave--he was
drowned in the Mediterranean, you know, near Leghorn--and not burn his
body, as they did, as if he had been a bloody Turk. But many people
thought him so, White-Jacket, because he didn't go to mass, and because
he wrote Queen Mab. Trelawney was by at the burning; and he was an
ocean-rover, too! Ay, and Byron helped put a piece of a keel on the
fire; for it was made of bits of a wreck, they say; one wreck burning
another! And was not Byron a sailor? an amateur forecastle-man,
White-Jacket, so he was; else how bid the ocean heave and fall in that
grand, majestic way? I say, White-Jacket, d'ye mind me? there never was
a very great man yet who spent all his life inland. A snuff of the sea,
my boy, is inspiration; and having been once out of sight of land, has
been the making of many a true poet and the blasting of many
pretenders; for, d'ye see, there's no gammon about the ocean; it knocks
the false keel right off a pretender's bows; it tells him just what he
is, and makes him feel it, too. A sailor's life, I say, is the thing to
bring us mortals out. What does the blessed Bible say? Don't it say
that we main-top-men alone see the marvellous sights and wonders? Don't
deny the blessed Bible, now! don't do it! How it rocks up here, my
boy!" holding on to a shroud; "but it only proves what I've been
saying--the sea is the place to cradle genius! Heave and fall, old sea!"

"And _you_, also, noble Jack," said I, "what are you but a sailor?"

"You're merry, my boy," said Jack, looking up with a glance like that
of a sentimental archangel doomed to drag out his eternity in disgrace.
"But mind you, White-Jacket, there are many great men in the world
besides Commodores and Captains. I've that here,
White-Jacket"--touching his forehead--"which, under happier
skies--perhaps in you solitary star there, peeping down from those
clouds--might have made a Homer of me. But Fate is Fate, White-Jacket;
and we Homers who happen to be captains of tops must write our odes in
our hearts, and publish them in our heads. But look! the Captain's on
the poop."

It was now midnight; but all the officers were on deck.

"Jib-boom, there!" cried the Lieutenant of the Watch, going forward and
hailing the headmost look-out. "D'ye see anything of those fellows now?"

"See nothing, sir."

"See nothing, sir," said the Lieutenant, approaching the Captain, and
touching his cap.

"Call all hands!" roared the Captain. "This keel sha'n't be beat while
I stride it."

All hands were called, and the hammocks stowed in the nettings for the
rest of the night, so that no one could lie between blankets.

Now, in order to explain the means adopted by the Captain to insure us
the race, it needs to be said of the Neversink, that, for some years
after being launched, she was accounted one of the slowest vessels in
the American Navy. But it chanced upon a time, that, being on a cruise
in the Mediterranean, she happened to sail out of Port Mahon in what
was then supposed to be very bad trim for the sea. Her bows were
rooting in the water, and her stern kicking up its heels in the air.
But, wonderful to tell, it was soon discovered that in this comical
posture she sailed like a shooting-star; she outstripped every vessel
on the station. Thenceforward all her Captains, on all cruises,
_trimmed her by the head;_ and the Neversink gained the name of a
clipper.

To return. All hands being called, they were now made use of by Captain
Claret as make-weights, to trim the ship, scientifically, to her most
approved bearings. Some were sent forward on the spar-deck, with
twenty-four-pound shot in their hands, and were judiciously scattered
about here and there, with strict orders not to budge an inch from
their stations, for fear of marring the Captain's plans. Others were
distributed along the gun and berth-decks, with similar orders; and, to
crown all, several carronade guns were unshipped from their carriages,
and swung in their breechings from the beams of the main-deck, so as to
impart a sort of vibratory briskness and oscillating buoyancy to the
frigate.

And thus we five hundred make-weights stood out that whole night, some
of us exposed to a drenching rain, in order that the Neversink might
not be beaten. But the comfort and consolation of all make-weights is
as dust in the balance in the estimation of the rulers of our
man-of-war world.

The long, anxious night at last came to an end, and, with the first
peep of day, the look-out on the jib-boom was hailed; but nothing was
in sight. At last it was broad day; yet still not a bow was to be seen
in our rear, nor a stern in our van.

"Where are they?" cried the Captain.

"Out of sight, astern, to be sure, sir," said the officer of the deck.

"Out of sight, _ahead_, to be sure, sir," muttered Jack Chase, in the
top.

Precisely thus stood the question: whether we beat them, or whether
they beat us, no mortal can tell to this hour, since we never saw them
again; but for one, White-Jacket will lay his two hands on the bow
chasers of the Neversink, and take his ship's oath that we Yankees
carried the day.




CHAPTER LXVI.

FUN IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


After the race (our man-of-war Derby) we had many days fine weather,
during which we continued running before the Trades toward the north.
Exhilarated by the thought of being homeward-bound, many of the seamen
became joyous, and the discipline of the ship, if anything, became a
little relaxed. Many pastimes served to while away the _Dog-Watches_ in
particular. These _Dog-Watches_ (embracing two hours in the early part
of the evening) form the only authorised play-time for the crews of
most ships at sea.

Among other diversions at present licensed by authority in the
Neversink, were those of single-stick, sparring, hammer-and-anvil, and
head-bumping. All these were under the direct patronage of the Captain,
otherwise--seeing the consequences they sometimes led to--they would
undoubtedly have been strictly prohibited. It is a curious coincidence,
that when a navy captain does not happen to be an admirer of the
_Fistiana_ his crew seldom amuse themselves in that way.

_Single-stick_, as every one knows, is a delightful pastime, which
consists in two men standing a few feet apart, and rapping each other
over the head with long poles. There is a good deal of fun in it, so
long as you are not hit; but a hit--in the judgment of discreet
persons--spoils the sport completely. When this pastime is practiced by
connoisseurs ashore, they wear heavy, wired helmets, to break the force
of the blows. But the only helmets of our tars were those with which
nature had furnished them. They played with great gun-rammers.

_Sparring_ consists in playing single-stick with bone poles instead of
wooden ones. Two men stand apart, and pommel each other with their
fists (a hard bunch of knuckles permanently attached to the arms, and
made globular, or extended into a palm, at the pleasure of the
proprietor), till one of them, finding himself sufficiently thrashed,
cries _enough_.

_Hammer-and-anvil_ is thus practised by amateurs: Patient No. 1 gets on
all-fours, and stays so; while patient No. 2 is taken up by his arms
and legs, and his base is swung against the base of patient No. 1, till
patient No. 1, with the force of the final blow, is sent flying along
the deck.

_Head-bumping_, as patronised by Captain Claret, consists in two
negroes (whites will not answer) butting at each other like rams. This
pastime was an especial favourite with the Captain. In the dog-watches,
Rose-water and May-day were repeatedly summoned into the lee waist to
tilt at each other, for the benefit of the Captain's health.

May-day was a full-blooded "_bull-negro_," so the sailors called him,
with a skull like an iron tea-kettle, wherefore May-day much fancied
the sport. But Rose-water, he was a slender and rather handsome
mulatto, and abhorred the pastime. Nevertheless, the Captain must be
obeyed; so at the word poor Rose-water was fain to put himself in a
posture of defence, else May-day would incontinently have bumped him
out of a port-hole into the sea. I used to pity poor Rose-water from
the bottom of my heart. But my pity was almost aroused into indignation
at a sad sequel to one of these gladiatorial scenes.

It seems that, lifted up by the unaffected, though verbally unexpressed
applause of the Captain, May-day had begun to despise Rose-water as a
poltroon--a fellow all brains and no skull; whereas he himself was a
great warrior, all skull and no brains.

Accordingly, after they had been bumping one evening to the Captain's
content, May-day confidentially told Rose-water that he considered him
a "_nigger_," which, among some blacks, is held a great term of
reproach. Fired at the insult, Rose-water gave May-day to understand
that he utterly erred; for his mother, a black slave, had been one of
the mistresses of a Virginia planter belonging to one of the oldest
families in that state. Another insulting remark followed this innocent
disclosure; retort followed retort; in a word, at last they came
together in mortal combat.

The master-at-arms caught them in the act, and brought them up to the
mast. The Captain advanced.

"Please, sir," said poor Rose-water, "it all came of dat 'ar bumping;
May-day, here, aggrawated me 'bout it."

"Master-at-arms," said the Captain, "did you see them fighting?"

"Ay, sir," said the master-at-arms, touching his cap.

"Rig the gratings," said the Captain. "I'll teach you two men that,
though I now and then permit you to _play_, I will have no _fighting_.
Do your duty, boatswain's mate!" And the negroes were flogged.

Justice commands that the fact of the Captain's not showing any
leniency to May-day--a decided favourite of his, at least while in the
ring--should not be passed over. He flogged both culprits in the most
impartial manner.

As in the matter of the scene at the gangway, shortly after the Cape
Horn theatricals, when my attention had been directed to the fact that
the officers had _shipped their quarter-deck faces_--upon that
occasion, I say, it was seen with what facility a sea-officer assumes
his wonted severity of demeanour after a casual relaxation of it. This
was especially the case with Captain Claret upon the present occasion.
For any landsman to have beheld him in the lee waist, of a pleasant
dog-watch, with a genial, good-humoured countenance, observing the
gladiators in the ring, and now and then indulging in a playful
remark--that landsman would have deemed Captain Claret the indulgent
father of his crew, perhaps permitting the excess of his
kind-heartedness to encroach upon the appropriate dignity of his
station. He would have deemed Captain Claret a fine illustration of
those two well-known poetical comparisons between a sea-captain and a
father, and between a sea-captain and the master of apprentices,
instituted by those eminent maritime jurists, the noble Lords Tenterden
and Stowell.

But surely, if there is anything hateful, it is this _shipping of the
quarter-deck face_ after wearing a merry and good-natured one. How can
they have the heart? Methinks, if but once I smiled upon a man--never
mind how much beneath me--I could not bring myself to condemn him to
the shocking misery of the lash. Oh officers! all round the world, if
this quarter-deck face you wear at all, then never unship it for
another, to be merely sported for a moment. Of all insults, the
temporary condescension of a master to a slave is the most outrageous
and galling. That potentate who most condescends, mark him well; for
that potentate, if occasion come, will prove your uttermost tyrant.




CHAPTER LXVII.

WHITE-JACKET ARRAIGNED AT THE MAST.


When with five hundred others I made one of the compelled spectators at
the scourging of poor Rose-water, I little thought what Fate had
ordained for myself the next day.

Poor mulatto! thought I, one of an oppressed race, they degrade you
like a hound. Thank God! I am a white. Yet I had seen whites also
scourged; for, black or white, all my shipmates were liable to that.
Still, there is something in us, somehow, that in the most degraded
condition, we snatch at a chance to deceive ourselves into a fancied
superiority to others, whom we suppose lower in the scale than
ourselves.

Poor Rose-water! thought I; poor mulatto! Heaven send you a release
from your humiliation!

To make plain the thing about to be related, it needs to repeat what
has somewhere been previously mentioned, that in _tacking ship_ every
seaman in a man-of-war has a particular station assigned him. What that
station is, should be made known to him by the First Lieutenant; and
when the word is passed to _tack_ or _wear_, it is every seaman's duty
to be found at his post. But among the various _numbers and stations_
given to me by the senior Lieutenant, when I first came on board the
frigate, he had altogether omitted informing me of my particular place
at those times, and, up to the precise period now written of, I had
hardly known that I should have had any special place then at all. For
the rest of the men, they seemed to me to catch hold of the first rope
that offered, as in a merchant-man upon similar occasions. Indeed, I
subsequently discovered, that such was the state of discipline--in this
one particular, at least--that very few of the seamen could tell where
their proper stations were, at _tacking or wearing_.

"All hands tack ship, ahoy!" such was the announcement made by the
boatswain's mates at the hatchways the morning after the hard fate of
Rose-water. It was just eight bells--noon, and springing from my white
jacket, which I had spread between the guns for a bed on the main-deck,
I ran up the ladders, and, as usual, seized hold of the main-brace,
which fifty hands were streaming along forward. When _main-top-sail
haul!_ was given through the trumpet, I pulled at this brace with such
heartiness and good-will, that I almost flattered myself that my
instrumentality in getting the frigate round on the other tack,
deserved a public vote of thanks, and a silver tankard from Congress.

But something happened to be in the way aloft when the yards swung
round; a little confusion ensued; and, with anger on his brow, Captain
Claret came forward to see what occasioned it. No one to let go the
weather-lift of the main-yard! The rope was cast off, however, by a
hand, and the yards unobstructed, came round.

When the last rope was coiled, away, the Captain desired to know of the
First Lieutenant who it might be that was stationed at the weather
(then the starboard) main-lift. With a vexed expression of countenance
the First Lieutenant sent a midshipman for the Station Bill, when, upon
glancing it over, my own name was found put down at the post in
question.

At the time I was on the gun-deck below, and did not know of these
proceedings; but a moment after, I heard the boatswain's mates bawling
my name at all the hatch-ways, and along all three decks. It was the
first time I had ever heard it so sent through the furthest recesses of
the ship, and well knowing what this generally betokened to other
seamen, my heart jumped to my throat, and I hurriedly asked Flute, the
boatswain's-mate at the fore-hatchway, what was wanted of me.

"Captain wants ye at the mast," he replied. "Going to flog ye, I guess."

"What for?"

"My eyes! you've been chalking your face, hain't ye?"

"What am I wanted for?" I repeated.

But at that instant my name was again thundered forth by the other
boatswain's mate, and Flute hurried me away, hinting that I would soon
find out what the Captain desired of me.

I swallowed down my heart in me as I touched the spar-deck, for a
single instant balanced myself on my best centre, and then, wholly
ignorant of what was going to be alleged against me, advanced to the
dread tribunal of the frigate.

As I passed through the gangway, I saw the quarter-master rigging the
gratings; the boatswain with his green bag of scourges; the
master-at-arms ready to help off some one's shirt.

Again I made a desperate swallow of my whole soul in me, and found
myself standing before Captain Claret. His flushed face obviously
showed him in ill-humour. Among the group of officers by his side was
the First Lieutenant, who, as I came aft, eyed me in such a manner,
that I plainly perceived him to be extremely vexed at me for having
been the innocent means of reflecting upon the manner in which he kept
up the discipline of the ship.

"Why were you not at your station, sir?" asked the Captain.

"What station do you mean, sir?" said I.

It is generally the custom with man-of-war's-men to stand obsequiously
touching their hat at every sentence they address to the Captain. But
as this was not obligatory upon me by the Articles of War, I did not do
so upon the present occasion, and previously, I had never had the
dangerous honour of a personal interview with Captain Claret.

He quickly noticed my omission of the homage usually rendered him, and
instinct told me, that to a certain extent, it set his heart against me.

"What station, sir, do you mean?" said I.

"You pretend ignorance," he replied; "it will not help you, sir."

Glancing at the Captain, the First Lieutenant now produced the Station
Bill, and read my name in connection with that of the starboard
main-lift.

"Captain Claret," said I, "it is the first time I ever heard of my
being assigned to that post."

"How is this, Mr. Bridewell?" he said, turning to the First Lieutenant,
with a fault-finding expression.

"It is impossible, sir," said that officer, striving to hide his
vexation, "but this man must have known his station."

"I have never known it before this moment, Captain Claret," said I.

"Do you contradict my officer?" he returned. "I shall flog you."

I had now been on board the frigate upward of a year, and remained
unscourged; the ship was homeward-bound, and in a few weeks, at most, I
would be a free man. And now, after making a hermit of myself in some
things, in order to avoid the possibility of the scourge, here it was
hanging over me for a thing utterly unforeseen, for a crime of which I
was as utterly innocent. But all that was as naught. I saw that my case
was hopeless; my solemn disclaimer was thrown in my teeth, and the
boatswain's mate stood curling his fingers through the _cat_.

There are times when wild thoughts enter a man's heart, when he seems
almost irresponsible for his act and his deed. The Captain stood on the
weather-side of the deck. Sideways, on an unobstructed line with him,
was the opening of the lee-gangway, where the side-ladders are
suspended in port. Nothing but a slight bit of sinnate-stuff served to
rail in this opening, which was cut right down to the level of the
Captain's feet, showing the far sea beyond. I stood a little to
windward of him, and, though he was a large, powerful man, it was
certain that a sudden rush against him, along the slanting deck, would
infallibly pitch him headforemost into the ocean, though he who so
rushed must needs go over with him. My blood seemed clotting in my
veins; I felt icy cold at the tips of my fingers, and a dimness was
before my eyes. But through that dimness the boatswain's mate, scourge
in hand, loomed like a giant, and Captain Claret, and the blue sea seen
through the opening at the gangway, showed with an awful vividness. I
cannot analyse my heart, though it then stood still within me. But the
thing that swayed me to my purpose was not altogether the thought that
Captain Claret was about to degrade me, and that I had taken an oath
with my soul that he should not. No, I felt my man's manhood so
bottomless within me, that no word, no blow, no scourge of Captain
Claret could cut me deep enough for that. I but swung to an instinct in
me--the instinct diffused through all animated nature, the same that
prompts even a worm to turn under the heel. Locking souls-with him, I
meant to drag Captain Claret from this earthly tribunal of his to that
of Jehovah and let Him decide between us. No other way could I escape
the scourge.

Nature has not implanted any power in man that was not meant to be
exercised at times, though too often our powers have been abused. The
privilege, inborn and inalienable, that every man has of dying himself,
and inflicting death upon another, was not given to us without a
purpose. These are the last resources of an insulted and unendurable
existence.

"To the gratings, sir!" said Captain Claret; "do you hear?"

My eye was measuring the distance between him and the sea.

"Captain Claret," said a voice advancing from the crowd. I turned to
see who this might be, that audaciously interposed at a juncture like
this. It was the same remarkably handsome and gentlemanly corporal of
marines, Colbrook, who has been previously alluded to, in the chapter
describing killing time in a man-of-war.

"I know that man," said Colbrook, touching his cap, and speaking in a
mild, firm, but extremely deferential manner; "and I know that he would
not be found absent from his station, if he knew where it was."

This speech was almost unprecedented. Seldom or never before had a
marine dared to speak to the Captain of a frigate in behalf of a seaman
at the mast. But there was something so unostentatiously commanding in
the calm manner of the man, that the Captain, though astounded, did not
in any way reprimand him. The very unusualness of his interference
seemed Colbrook's protection.

Taking heart, perhaps, from Colbrook's example, Jack Chase interposed,
and in a manly but carefully respectful manner, in substance repeated
the corporal's remark, adding that he had never found me wanting in the
top.

The Captain looked from Chase to Colbrook, and from Colbrook to
Chase--one the foremost man among the seamen, the other the foremost
man among the soldiers--then all round upon the packed and silent crew,
and, as if a slave to Fate, though supreme Captain of a frigate, he
turned to the First Lieutenant, made some indifferent remark, and
saying to me _you may go_, sauntered aft into his cabin; while I, who,
in the desperation of my soul, had but just escaped being a murderer
and a suicide, almost burst into tears of thanks-giving where I stood.




CHAPTER LXVIII.

A MAN-OF-WAR FOUNTAIN, AND OTHER THINGS.


Let us forget the scourge and the gangway a while, and jot down in our
memories a few little things pertaining to our man-of-war world. I let
nothing slip, however small; and feel myself actuated by the same
motive which has prompted many worthy old chroniclers, to set down the
merest trifles concerning things that are destined to pass away
entirely from the earth, and which, if not preserved in the nick of
time, must infallibly perish from the memories of man. Who knows that
this humble narrative may not hereafter prove the history of an
obsolete barbarism? Who knows that, when men-of-war shall be no more,
"White-Jacket" may not be quoted to show to the people in the
Millennium what a man-of-war was? God hasten the time! Lo! ye years,
escort it hither, and bless our eyes ere we die.

There is no part of a frigate where you will see more going and coming
of strangers, and overhear more greetings and gossipings of
acquaintances, than in the immediate vicinity of the scuttle-butt, just
forward of the main-hatchway, on the gun-deck.

The scuttle-butt is a goodly, round, painted cask, standing on end, and
with its upper head removed, showing a narrow, circular shelf within,
where rest a number of tin cups for the accommodation of drinkers.
Central, within the scuttle-butt itself, stands an iron pump, which,
connecting with the immense water-tanks in the hold, furnishes an
unfailing supply of the much-admired Pale Ale, first brewed in the
brooks of the garden of Eden, and stamped with the _brand_ of our old
father Adam, who never knew what wine was. We are indebted to the old
vintner Noah for that. The scuttle-butt is the only fountain in the
ship; and here alone can you drink, unless at your meals.  Night and
day an armed sentry paces before it, bayonet in hand, to see that no
water is taken away, except according to law. I wonder that they
station no sentries at the port-holes, to see that no air is breathed,
except according to Navy regulations.

As five hundred men come to drink at this scuttle-butt; as it is often
surrounded by officers' servants drawing water for their masters to
wash; by the cooks of the range, who hither come to fill their
coffee-pots; and by the cooks of the ship's messes to procure water for
their _duffs_; the scuttle-butt may be denominated the town-pump of the
ship. And would that my fine countryman, Hawthorne of Salem, had but
served on board a man-of-war in his time, that he might give us the
reading of a "_rill_" from the scuttle-butt.

    *     *     *     *     *

As in all extensive establishments--abbeys, arsenals, colleges,
treasuries, metropolitan post-offices, and monasteries--there are many
snug little niches, wherein are ensconced certain superannuated old
pensioner officials; and, more especially, as in most ecclesiastical
establishments, a few choice prebendary stalls are to be found,
furnished with well-filled mangers and racks; so, in a man-of-war,
there are a variety of similar snuggeries for the benefit of decrepit
or rheumatic old tars. Chief among these is the office of _mast-man_.

There is a stout rail on deck, at the base of each mast, where a number
of _braces, lifts_, and _buntlines_ are belayed to the pins. It is the
sole duty of the mast-man to see that these ropes are always kept
clear, to preserve his premises in a state of the greatest attainable
neatness, and every Sunday morning to dispose his ropes in neat
_Flemish coils_.

The _main-mast-man_ of the Neversink was a very aged seaman, who well
deserved his comfortable berth. He had seen more than half a century of
the most active service, and, through all, had proved himself a good
and faithful man. He furnished one of the very rare examples of a
sailor in a green old age; for, with most sailors, old age comes in
youth, and Hardship and Vice carry them on an early bier to the grave.

As in the evening of life, and at the close of the day, old Abraham sat
at the door of his tent, biding his time to die, so sits our old
mast-man on the _coat of the mast_, glancing round him with patriarchal
benignity. And that mild expression of his sets off very strangely a
face that has been burned almost black by the torrid suns that shone
fifty years ago--a face that is seamed with three sabre cuts. You would
almost think this old mast-man had been blown out of Vesuvius, to look
alone at his scarred, blackened forehead, chin, and cheeks. But gaze
down into his eye, and though all the snows of Time have drifted higher
and higher upon his brow, yet deep down in that eye you behold an
infantile, sinless look, the same that answered the glance of this old
man's mother when first she cried for the babe to be laid by her side.
That look is the fadeless, ever infantile immortality within.

    *     *     *     *     *

The Lord Nelsons of the sea, though but Barons in the state, yet
oftentimes prove more potent than their royal masters; and at such
scenes as Trafalgar--dethroning this Emperor and reinstating
that--enact on the ocean the proud part of mighty Richard Neville, the
king-making Earl of the land. And as Richard Neville entrenched himself
in his moated old man-of-war castle of Warwick, which, underground, was
traversed with vaults, hewn out of the solid rock, and intricate as the
wards of the old keys of Calais surrendered to Edward III.; even so do
these King-Commodores house themselves in their water-rimmed,
cannon-sentried frigates, oaken dug, deck under deck, as cell under
cell. And as the old Middle-Age warders of Warwick, every night at
curfew, patrolled the battlements, and dove down into the vaults to see
that all lights were extinguished, even so do the master-at-arms and
ship's corporals of a frigate perambulate all the decks of a
man-of-war, blowing out all tapers but those burning in the legalized
battle-lanterns. Yea, in these things, so potent is the authority of
these sea-wardens, that, though almost the lowest subalterns in the
ship, yet should they find the Senior Lieutenant himself sitting up
late in his state-room, reading Bowditch's Navigator, or D'Anton "_On
Gunpowder and Fire-arms_," they would infallibly blow the light out
under his very nose; nor durst that Grand-Vizier resent the indignity.

But, unwittingly, I have ennobled, by grand historical comparisons,
this prying, pettifogging, Irish-informer of a master-at-arms.

You have seen some slim, slip-shod housekeeper, at midnight ferreting
over a rambling old house in the country, startling at fancied witches
and ghosts, yet intent on seeing every door bolted, every smouldering
ember in the fireplaces smothered, every loitering domestic abed, and
every light made dark. This is the master-at-arms taking his
night-rounds in a frigate.

    *     *     *     *     *

It may be thought that but little is seen of the Commodore in these
chapters, and that, since he so seldom appears on the stage, he cannot
be so august a personage, after all. But the mightiest potentates keep
the most behind the veil. You might tarry in Constantinople a month,
and never catch a glimpse of the Sultan. The grand Lama of Thibet,
according to some accounts, is never beheld by the people. But if any
one doubts the majesty of a Commodore, let him know that, according to
XLII. of the Articles of War, he is invested with a prerogative which,
according to monarchical jurists, is inseparable from the throne--the
plenary pardoning power. He may pardon all offences committed in the
squadron under his command.

But this prerogative is only his while at sea, or on a foreign station.
A circumstance peculiarly significant of the great difference between
the stately absolutism of a Commodore enthroned on his poop in a
foreign harbour, and an unlaced Commodore negligently reclining in an
easy-chair in the bosom of his family at home.




CHAPTER LXIX.

PRAYERS AT THE GUNS.


The training-days, or general quarters, now and then taking place in
our frigate, have already been described, also the Sunday devotions on
the half-deck; but nothing has yet been said concerning the daily
morning and evening quarters, when the men silently stand at their
guns, and the chaplain simply offers up a prayer.

Let us now enlarge upon this matter. We have plenty of time; the
occasion invites; for behold! the homeward-bound Neversink bowls along
over a jubilant sea.

Shortly after breakfast the drum beats to quarters; and among five
hundred men, scattered over all three decks, and engaged in all manner
of ways, that sudden rolling march is magical as the monitory sound to
which every good Mussulman at sunset drops to the ground whatsoever his
hands might have found to do, and, throughout all Turkey, the people in
concert kneel toward their holy Mecca.

The sailors run to and fro-some up the deck-ladders, some down--to gain
their respective stations in the shortest possible time. In three
minutes all is composed. One by one, the various officers stationed
over the separate divisions of the ship then approach the First
Lieutenant on the quarter-deck, and report their respective men at
their quarters. It is curious to watch their countenances at this time.
A profound silence prevails; and, emerging through the hatchway, from
one of the lower decks, a slender young officer appears, hugging his
sword to his thigh, and advances through the long lanes of sailors at
their guns, his serious eye all the time fixed upon the First
Lieutenant's--his polar star. Sometimes he essays a stately and
graduated step, an erect and martial bearing, and seems full of the
vast national importance of what he is about to communicate.

But when at last he gains his destination, you are amazed to perceive
that all he has to say is imparted by a Freemason touch of his cap, and
a bow. He then turns and makes off to his division, perhaps passing
several brother Lieutenants, all bound on the same errand he himself
has just achieved. For about five minutes these officers are coming and
going, bringing in thrilling intelligence from all quarters of the
frigate; most stoically received, however, by the First Lieutenant.
With his legs apart, so as to give a broad foundation for the
superstructure of his dignity, this gentleman stands stiff as a
pike-staff on the quarter-deck. One hand holds his sabre--an
appurtenance altogether unnecessary at the time; and which he
accordingly tucks, point backward, under his arm, like an umbrella on a
sun-shiny day. The other hand is continually bobbing up and down to the
leather front of his cap, in response to the reports and salute of his
subordinates, to whom he never deigns to vouchsafe a syllable, merely
going through the motions of accepting their news, without bestowing
thanks for their pains.

This continual touching of caps between officers on board a man-of-war
is the reason why you invariably notice that the glazed fronts of their
caps look jaded, lack-lustre, and worn; sometimes slightly
oleaginous--though, in other respects, the cap may appear glossy and
fresh. But as for the First Lieutenant, he ought to have extra pay
allowed to him, on account of his extraordinary outlays in cap fronts;
for he it is to whom, all day long, reports of various kinds are
incessantly being made by the junior Lieutenants; and no report is made
by them, however trivial, but caps are touched on the occasion. It is
obvious that these individual salutes must be greatly multiplied and
aggregated upon the senior Lieutenant, who must return them all.
Indeed, when a subordinate officer is first promoted to that rank, he
generally complains of the same exhaustion about the shoulder and elbow
that La Fayette mourned over, when, in visiting America, he did little
else but shake the sturdy hands of patriotic farmers from sunrise to
sunset.

The various officers of divisions having presented their respects, and
made good their return to their stations, the First Lieutenant turns
round, and, marching aft, endeavours to catch the eye of the Captain,
in order to touch his own cap to that personage, and thereby, without
adding a word of explanation, communicate the fact of all hands being
at their gun's. He is a sort of retort, or receiver-general, to
concentrate the whole sum of the information imparted to him, and
discharge it upon his superior at one touch of his cap front.

But sometimes the Captain feels out of sorts, or in ill-humour, or is
pleased to be somewhat capricious, or has a fancy to show a touch of
his omnipotent supremacy; or, peradventure, it has so happened that the
First Lieutenant has, in some way, piqued or offended him, and he is
not unwilling to show a slight specimen of his dominion over him, even
before the eyes of all hands; at all events, only by some one of these
suppositions can the singular circumstance be accounted for, that
frequently Captain Claret would pertinaciously promenade up and down
the poop, purposely averting his eye from the First Lieutenant, who
would stand below in the most awkward suspense, waiting the first wink
from his superior's eye.

"Now I have him!" he must have said to himself, as the Captain would
turn toward him in his walk; "now's my time!" and up would go his hand
to his cap; but, alas! the Captain was off again; and the men at the
guns would cast sly winks at each other as the embarrassed Lieutenant
would bite his lips with suppressed vexation.

Upon some occasions this scene would be repeated several times, till at
last Captain Claret, thinking, that in the eyes of all hands, his
dignity must by this time be pretty well bolstered, would stalk towards
his subordinate, looking him full in the eyes; whereupon up goes his
hand to the cap front, and the Captain, nodding his acceptance of the
report, descends from his perch to the quarter-deck.

By this time the stately Commodore slowly emerges from his cabin, and
soon stands leaning alone against the brass rails of the
after-hatchway. In passing him, the Captain makes a profound
salutation, which his superior returns, in token that the Captain is at
perfect liberty to proceed with the ceremonies of the hour.

Marching on, Captain Claret at last halts near the main-mast, at the
head of a group of the ward-room officers, and by the side of the
Chaplain. At a sign from his finger, the brass band strikes up the
Portuguese hymn. This over, from Commodore to hammock-boy, all hands
uncover, and the Chaplain reads a prayer. Upon its conclusion, the drum
beats the retreat, and the ship's company disappear from the guns. At
sea or in harbour, this ceremony is repeated every morning and evening.

By those stationed on the quarter-deck the Chaplain is distinctly
heard; but the quarter-deck gun division embraces but a tenth part of
the ship's company, many of whom are below, on the main-deck, where not
one syllable of the prayer can be heard. This seemed a great
misfortune; for I well knew myself how blessed and soothing it was to
mingle twice every day in these peaceful devotions, and, with the
Commodore, and Captain, and smallest boy, unite in acknowledging
Almighty God. There was also a touch of the temporary equality of the
Church about it, exceedingly grateful to a man-of-war's-man like me.

My carronade-gun happened to be directly opposite the brass railing
against which the Commodore invariably leaned at prayers. Brought so
close together, twice every day, for more than a year, we could not but
become intimately acquainted with each other's faces. To this fortunate
circumstance it is to be ascribed, that some time after reaching home,
we were able to recognise each other when we chanced to meet in
Washington, at a ball given by the Russian Minister, the Baron de
Bodisco. And though, while on board the frigate, the Commodore never in
any manner personally addressed me--nor did I him--yet, at the
Minister's social entertainment, we _there_ became exceedingly chatty;
nor did I fail to observe, among that crowd of foreign dignitaries and
magnates from all parts of America, that my worthy friend did not
appear so exalted as when leaning, in solitary state, against the brass
railing of the Neversink's quarter-deck. Like many other gentlemen, he
appeared to the best advantage, and was treated with the most deference
in the bosom of his home, the frigate.

Our morning and evening quarters were agreeably diversified for some
weeks by a little circumstance, which to some of us at least, always
seemed very pleasing.

At Callao, half of the Commodore's cabin had been hospitably yielded to
the family of a certain aristocratic-looking magnate, who was going
ambassador from Peru to the Court of the Brazils, at Rio. This
dignified diplomatist sported a long, twirling mustache, that almost
enveloped his mouth. The sailors said he looked like a rat with his
teeth through a bunch of oakum, or a St. Jago monkey peeping through a
prickly-pear bush.

He was accompanied by a very beautiful wife, and a still more beautiful
little daughter, about six years old. Between this dark-eyed little
gipsy and our chaplain there soon sprung up a cordial love and good
feeling, so much so, that they were seldom apart. And whenever the drum
beat to quarters, and the sailors were hurrying to their stations, this
little signorita would outrun them all to gain her own quarters at the
capstan, where she would stand by the chaplain's side, grasping his
hand, and looking up archly in his face.

It was a sweet relief from the domineering sternness of our martial
discipline--a sternness not relaxed even at our devotions before the
altar of the common God of commodore and cabin-boy--to see that lovely
little girl standing among the thirty-two pounders, and now and then
casting a wondering, commiserating glance at the array of grim seamen
around her.




CHAPTER LXX.

MONTHLY MUSTER ROUND THE CAPSTAN.

Besides general quarters, and the regular morning and evening quarters
for prayers on board the Neversink, on the first Sunday of every month
we had a grand "_muster round the capstan_," when we passed in solemn
review before the Captain and officers, who closely scanned our frocks
and trowsers, to see whether they were according to the Navy cut. In
some ships, every man is required to bring his bag and hammock along
for inspection.

This ceremony acquires its chief solemnity, and, to a novice, is
rendered even terrible, by the reading of the Articles of War by the
Captain's clerk before the assembled ship's company, who in testimony
of their enforced reverence for the code, stand bareheaded till the
last sentence is pronounced.

To a mere amateur reader the quiet perusal of these Articles of War
would be attended with some nervous emotions. Imagine, then, what _my_
feelings must have been, when, with my hat deferentially in my hand, I
stood before my lord and master, Captain Claret, and heard these
Articles read as the law and gospel, the infallible, unappealable
dispensation and code, whereby I lived, and moved, and had my being on
board of the United States ship Neversink.

Of some twenty offences--made penal--that a seaman may commit, and
which are specified in this code, thirteen are punishable by death.

"_Shall suffer death!_" This was the burden of nearly every Article
read by the Captain's clerk; for he seemed to have been instructed to
omit the longer Articles, and only present those which were brief and
to the point.

"_Shall suffer death!_" The repeated announcement falls on your ear
like the intermitting discharge of artillery. After it has been
repeated again and again, you listen to the reader as he deliberately
begins a new paragraph; you hear him reciting the involved, but
comprehensive and clear arrangement of the sentence, detailing all
possible particulars of the offence described, and you breathlessly
await, whether _that_ clause also is going to be concluded by the
discharge of the terrible minute-gun. When, lo! it again booms on your
ear--_shall suffer death!_ No reservations, no contingencies; not the
remotest promise of pardon or reprieve; not a glimpse of commutation of
the sentence; all hope and consolation is shut out--_shall suffer
death!_ that is the simple fact for you to digest; and it is a tougher
morsel, believe White-Jacket when he says it, than a forty-two-pound
cannon-ball.

But there is a glimmering of an alternative to the sailor who infringes
these Articles. Some of them thus terminates: "_Shall suffer death, or
such punishment as a court-martial shall adjudge_." But hints this at a
penalty still more serious? Perhaps it means "_death, or worse
punishment_."

Your honours of the Spanish Inquisition, Loyola and Torquemada!
produce, reverend gentlemen, your most secret code, and match these
Articles of War, if you can. Jack Ketch, _you_ also are experienced in
these things! Thou most benevolent of mortals, who standest by us, and
hangest round our necks, when all the rest of this world are against
us--tell us, hangman, what punishment is this, horribly hinted at as
being worse than death? Is it, upon an empty stomach, to read the
Articles of War every morning, for the term of one's natural life? Or
is it to be imprisoned in a cell, with its walls papered from floor to
ceiling with printed copies, in italics, of these Articles of War?

But it needs not to dilate upon the pure, bubbling milk of human
kindness, and Christian charity, and forgiveness of injuries which
pervade this charming document, so thoroughly imbued, as a Christian
code, with the benignant spirit of the Sermon on the Mount. But as it
is very nearly alike in the foremost states of Christendom, and as it
is nationally set forth by those states, it indirectly becomes an index
to the true condition of the present civilization of the world.

As, month after month, I would stand bareheaded among my shipmates, and
hear this document read, I have thought to myself, Well, well,
White-Jacket, you are in a sad box, indeed. But prick your ears, there
goes another minute-gun. It admonishes you to take all bad usage in
good part, and never to join in any public meeting that may be held on
the gun-deck for a redress of grievances. Listen:

Art. XIII. "If any person in the navy shall make, or attempt to make,
any mutinous assembly, he shall, on conviction thereof by a court
martial, suffer death."

Bless me, White-Jacket, are you a great gun yourself, that you so
recoil, to the extremity of your breechings, at that discharge?

But give ear again. Here goes another minute-gun. It indirectly
admonishes you to receive the grossest insult, and stand still under it:

Art. XIV. "No private in the navy shall disobey the lawful orders of
his superior officer, or strike him, or draw, or offer to draw, or
raise any weapon against him, while in the execution of the duties of
his office, on pain of death."

Do not hang back there by the bulwarks, White-Jacket; come up to the
mark once more; for here goes still another minute-gun, which
admonishes you never to be caught napping:

Part of Art. XX. "If any person in the navy shall sleep upon his watch,
he shall suffer death."

Murderous! But then, in time of peace, they do not enforce these
blood-thirsty laws? Do they not, indeed? What happened to those three
sailors on board an American armed vessel a few years ago, quite within
your memory, White-Jacket; yea, while you yourself were yet serving on
board this very frigate, the Neversink? What happened to those three
Americans, White-Jacket--those three sailors, even as you, who once
were alive, but now are dead? "_Shall suffer death!_" those were the
three words that hung those three sailors.

Have a care, then, have a care, lest you come to a sad end, even the
end of a rope; lest, with a black-and-blue throat, you turn a dumb
diver after pearl-shells; put to bed for ever, and tucked in, in your
own hammock, at the bottom of the sea. And there you will lie,
White-Jacket, while hostile navies are playing cannon-ball billiards
over your grave.

By the main-mast! then, in a time of profound peace, I am subject to
the cut-throat martial law. And when my own brother, who happens to be
dwelling ashore, and does not serve his country as I am now doing--when
_he_ is at liberty to call personally upon the President of the United
States, and express his disapprobation of the whole national
administration, here am I, liable at any time to be run up at the
yard-arm, with a necklace, made by no jeweler, round my neck!

A hard case, truly, White-Jacket; but it cannot be helped. Yes; you
live under this same martial law. Does not everything around you din
the fact in your ears? Twice every day do you not jump to your quarters
at the sound of a drum? Every morning, in port, are you not roused from
your hammock by the _reveille_, and sent to it again at nightfall by
the _tattoo?_ Every Sunday are you not commanded in the mere matter of
the very dress you shall wear through that blessed day? Can your
shipmates so much as drink their "tot of grog?" nay, can they even
drink but a cup of water at the scuttle-butt, without an armed sentry
standing over them? Does not every officer wear a sword instead of a
cane? You live and move among twenty-four-pounders. White-Jacket; the
very cannon-balls are deemed an ornament around you, serving to
embellish the hatchways; and should you come to die at sea,
White-Jacket, still two cannon-balls would bear you company when you
would be committed to the deep. Yea, by all methods, and devices, and
inventions, you are momentarily admonished of the fact that you live
under the Articles of War. And by virtue of them it is, White-Jacket,
that, without a hearing and without a trial, you may, at a wink from
the Captain, be condemned to the scourge.

Speak you true? Then let me fly!

Nay, White-Jacket, the landless horizon hoops you in.

Some tempest, then, surge all the sea against us! hidden reefs and
rocks, arise and dash the ships to chips! I was not born a serf, and
will not live a slave! Quick! cork-screw whirlpools, suck us down!
world's end whelm us!

Nay, White-Jacket, though this frigate laid her broken bones upon the
Antarctic shores of Palmer's Land; though not two planks adhered;
though all her guns were spiked by sword-fish blades, and at her
yawning hatchways mouth-yawning sharks swam in and out; yet, should you
escape the wreck and scramble to the beach, this Martial Law would meet
you still, and snatch you by the throat. Hark!

Art. XLII. Part of Sec. 3.-"In all cases where the crews of the ships
or vessels of the United States shall be separated from their vessels
by the latter being wrecked, lost, or destroyed, all the command,
power, and authority given to the officers of such ships or vessels
shall remain, and be in full force, as effectually as if such ship or
vessel were not so wrecked, lost or destroyed."

Hear you that, White-Jacket! I tell you there is no escape. Afloat or
wrecked the Martial Law relaxes not its gripe. And though, by that
self-same warrant, for some offence therein set down, you were indeed
to "suffer death," even then the Martial Law might hunt you straight
through the other world, and out again at its other end, following you
through all eternity, like an endless thread on the inevitable track of
its own point, passing unnumbered needles through.




CHAPTER LXXI.

THE GENEALOGY OF THE ARTICLES OF WAR.


As the Articles of War form the ark and constitution of the penal laws
of the American Navy, in all sobriety and earnestness it may be well to
glance at their origin. Whence came they? And how is it that one arm of
the national defences of a Republic comes to be ruled by a Turkish
code, whose every section almost, like each of the tubes of a revolving
pistol, fires nothing short of death into the heart of an offender? How
comes it that, by virtue of a law solemnly ratified by a Congress of
freemen, the representatives of freemen, thousands of Americans are
subjected to the most despotic usages, and, from the dockyards of a
republic, absolute monarchies are launched, with the "glorious stars
and stripes" for an ensign? By what unparalleled anomaly, by what
monstrous grafting of tyranny upon freedom did these Articles of War
ever come to be so much as heard of in the American Navy?

Whence came they? They cannot be the indigenous growth of those
political institutions, which are based upon that arch-democrat Thomas
Jefferson's Declaration of Independence? No; they are an importation
from abroad, even from Britain, whose laws we Americans hurled off as
tyrannical, and yet retained the most tyrannical of all.

But we stop not here; for these Articles of War had their congenial
origin in a period of the history of Britain when the Puritan Republic
had yielded to a monarchy restored; when a hangman Judge Jeffreys
sentenced a world's champion like Algernon Sidney to the block; when
one of a race by some deemed accursed of God--even a Stuart, was on the
throne; and a Stuart, also, was at the head of the Navy, as Lord High
Admiral. One, the son of a King beheaded for encroachments upon the
rights of his people, and the other, his own brother, afterward a king,
James II., who was hurled from the throne for his tyranny. This is the
origin of the Articles of War; and it carries with it an unmistakable
clew to their despotism.[4]

----

[FOOTNOTE-4] The first Naval Articles of War in the English language
were passed in the thirteenth year of the reign of Charles the Second,
under the title of "_An act for establishing Articles and Orders for
the regulating and better Government of his Majesty's Navies,
Ships-of-War, and Forces by Sea_." This act was repealed, and, so far
as concerned the officers, a modification of it substituted, in the
twenty-second year of the reign of George the Second, shortly after the
Peace of Aix la Chapelle, just one century ago. This last act, it is
believed, comprises, in substance, the Articles of War at this day in
force in the British Navy. It is not a little curious, nor without
meaning, that neither of these acts explicitly empowers an officer to
inflict the lash. It would almost seem as if, in this case, the British
lawgivers were willing to leave such a stigma out of an organic
statute, and bestow the power of the lash in some less solemn, and
perhaps less public manner. Indeed, the only broad enactments directly
sanctioning naval scourging at sea are to be found in the United States
Statute Book and in the "Sea Laws" of the absolute monarch, Louis le
Grand, of France.[4.1]

Taking for their basis the above-mentioned British Naval Code, and
ingrafting upon it the positive scourging laws, which Britain was loth
to recognise as organic statutes, our American lawgivers, in the year
1800, framed the Articles of War now governing the American Navy. They
may be found in the second volume of the "United States Statutes at
Large," under chapter xxxiii.--"An act for the _better_ government of
the Navy of the United States."

[4.1] For reference to the latter (L'Ord. de la Marine), _vide_
Curtis's "Treatise on the Rights and Duties of Merchant-Seamen,
according to the General Maritime Law," Part ii., c. i.

----


Nor is it a dumb thing that the men who, in democratic Cromwell's time,
first proved to the nations the toughness of the British oak and the
hardihood of the British sailor--that in Cromwell's time, whose fleets
struck terror into the cruisers of France, Spain, Portugal, and
Holland, and the corsairs of Algiers and the Levant; in Cromwell's
time, when Robert Blake swept the Narrow Seas of all the keels of a
Dutch Admiral who insultingly carried a broom at his fore-mast; it is
not a dumb thing that, at a period deemed so glorious to the British
Navy, these Articles of War were unknown.

Nevertheless, it is granted that some laws or other must have governed
Blake's sailors at that period; but they must have been far less severe
than those laid down in the written code which superseded them, since,
according to the father-in-law of James II., the Historian of the
Rebellion, the English Navy, prior to the enforcement of the new code,
was full of officers and sailors who, of all men, were the most
republican. Moreover, the same author informs us that the first work
undertaken by his respected son-in-law, then Duke of York, upon
entering on the duties of Lord High Admiral, was to have a grand
re-christening of the men-of-war, which still carried on their sterns
names too democratic to suit his high-tory ears.

But if these Articles of War were unknown in Blake's time, and also
during the most brilliant period of Admiral Benbow's career, what
inference must follow? That such tyrannical ordinances are not
indispensable--even during war--to the highest possible efficiency of a
military marine.




CHAPTER LXXII.

"HEREIN ARE THE GOOD ORDINANCES OF THE SEA, WHICH WISE MEN, WHO VOYAGED
ROUND THE WORLD, GAVE TO OUR ANCESTORS, AND WHICH CONSTITUTE THE BOOKS
OF THE SCIENCE OF GOOD CUSTOMS."

     --_The Consulate of the Sea_.


The present usages of the American Navy are such that, though there is
no government enactment to that effect, yet, in many respect, its
Commanders seem virtually invested with the power to observe or
violate, as seems to them fit, several of the Articles of War.

According to Article XV., "_No person in the Navy shall quarrel with
any other person in the Navy, nor use provoking or reproachful words,
gestures, or menaces, on pain of such punishment as a court-martial
shall adjudge_."

"_Provoking or reproachful words!_" Officers of the Navy, answer me!
Have you not, many of you, a thousand times violated this law, and
addressed to men, whose tongues were tied by this very Article,
language which no landsman would ever hearken to without flying at the
throat of his insulter? I know that worse words than _you_ ever used
are to be heard addressed by a merchant-captain to his crew; but the
merchant-captain does not live under this XVth Article of War.

Not to make an example of him, nor to gratify any personal feeling, but
to furnish one certain illustration of what is here asserted, I
honestly declare that Captain Claret, of the Neversink, repeatedly
violated this law in his own proper person.

According to Article III., no officer, or other person in the Navy,
shall be guilty of "oppression, fraud, profane swearing, drunkenness,
or any other scandalous conduct."

Again let me ask you, officers of the Navy, whether many of you have
not repeatedly, and in more than one particular, violated this law? And
here, again, as a certain illustration, I must once more cite Captain
Claret as an offender, especially in the matter of profane swearing. I
must also cite four of the lieutenants, some eight of the midshipmen,
and nearly all the seamen.

Additional Articles might be quoted that are habitually violated by the
officers, while nearly all those _exclusively_ referring to the sailors
are unscrupulously enforced. Yet those Articles, by which the sailor is
scourged at the gangway, are not one whit more laws than those _other_
Articles, binding upon the officers, that have become obsolete from
immemorial disuse; while still other Articles, to which the sailors
alone are obnoxious, are observed or violated at the caprice of the
Captain. Now, if it be not so much the severity as the certainty of
punishment that deters from transgression, how fatal to all proper
reverence for the enactments of Congress must be this disregard of its
statutes.

Still more. This violation of the law, on the part of the officers, in
many cases involves oppression to the sailor. But throughout the whole
naval code, which so hems in the mariner by law upon law, and which
invests the Captain with so much judicial and administrative authority
over him--in most cases entirely discretionary--not one solitary clause
is to be found which in any way provides means for a seaman deeming
himself aggrieved to obtain redress. Indeed, both the written and
unwritten laws of the American Navy are as destitute of individual
guarantees to the mass of seamen as the Statute Book of the despotic
Empire of Russia.

Who put this great gulf between the American Captain and the American
sailor? Or is the Captain a creature of like passions with ourselves?
Or is he an infallible archangel, incapable of the shadow of error? Or
has a sailor no mark of humanity, no attribute of manhood, that, bound
hand and foot, he is cast into an American frigate shorn of all rights
and defences, while the notorious lawlessness of the Commander has
passed into a proverb, familiar to man-of-war's-men, _the law was not
made for the Captain!_ Indeed, he may almost be said to put off the
citizen when he touches his quarter-deck; and, almost exempt from the
law of the land himself, he comes down upon others with a judicial
severity unknown on the national soil. With the Articles of War in one
hand, and the cat-o'-nine-tails in the other, he stands an undignified
parody upon Mohammed enforcing Moslemism with the sword and the Koran.

The concluding sections of the Articles of War treat of the naval
courts-martial before which officers are tried for serious offences as
well as the seamen. The oath administered to members of these
courts--which sometimes sit upon matters of life and death--explicitly
enjoins that the members shall not "at any time divulge the vote or
opinion of any particular member of the court, unless required so to do
before a court of justice in due course of law."

Here, then, is a Council of Ten and a Star Chamber indeed! Remember,
also, that though the sailor is sometimes tried for his life before a
tribunal like this, in no case do his fellow-sailors, his peers, form
part of the court. Yet that a man should be tried by his peers is the
fundamental principle of all civilised jurisprudence. And not only
tried by his peers, but his peers must be unanimous to render a
verdict; whereas, in a court-martial, the concurrence of a majority of
conventional and social superiors is all that is requisite.

In the English Navy, it is said, they had a law which authorised the
sailor to appeal, if he chose, from the decision of the Captain--even
in a comparatively trivial case--to the higher tribunal of a
court-martial. It was an English seaman who related this to me. When I
said that such a law must be a fatal clog to the exercise of the penal
power in the Captain, he, in substance, told me the following story.

A top-man guilty of drunkenness being sent to the gratings, and the
scourge about to be inflicted, he turned round and demanded a
court-martial. The Captain smiled, and ordered him to be taken down and
put into the "brig," There he was kept in irons some weeks, when,
despairing of being liberated, he offered to compromise at two dozen
lashes. "Sick of your bargain, then, are you?" said the Captain. "No,
no! a court-martial you demanded, and a court-martial you shall have!"
Being at last tried before the bar of quarter-deck officers, he was
condemned to two hundred lashes. What for? for his having been drunk?
No! for his having had the insolence to appeal from an authority, in
maintaining which the men who tried and condemned him had so strong a
sympathetic interest.

Whether this story be wholly true or not, or whether the particular law
involved prevails, or ever did prevail, in the English Navy, the thing,
nevertheless, illustrates the ideas that man-of-war's-men themselves
have touching the tribunals in question.

What can be expected from a court whose deeds are done in the darkness
of the recluse courts of the Spanish Inquisition? when that darkness is
solemnised by an oath on the Bible? when an oligarchy of epaulets sits
upon the bench, and a plebeian top-man, without a jury, stands
judicially naked at the bar?

In view of these things, and especially in view of the fact that, in
several cases, the degree of punishment inflicted upon a
man-of-war's-man is absolutely left to the discretion of the court,
what shame should American legislators take to themselves, that with
perfect truth we may apply to the entire body of the American
man-of-war's-men that infallible principle of Sir Edward Coke: "It is
one of the genuine marks of servitude to have the law either concealed
or precarious." But still better may we subscribe to the saying of Sir
Matthew Hale in his History of the Common Law, that "the Martial Law,
being based upon no settled principles, is, in truth and reality, no
law, but something indulged rather than allowed as a law."

I know it may be said that the whole nature of this naval code is
purposely adapted to the war exigencies of the Navy. But waiving the
grave question that might be raised concerning the moral, not judicial,
lawfulness of this arbitrary code, even in time of war; be it asked,
why it is in force during a time of peace? The United States has now
existed as a nation upward of seventy years, and in all that time the
alleged necessity for the operation of the naval code--in cases deemed
capital--has only existed during a period of two or three years at most.

Some may urge that the severest operations of the code are tacitly made
null in time of peace. But though with respect to several of the
Articles this holds true, yet at any time any and all of them may be
legally enforced. Nor have there been wanting recent instances,
illustrating the spirit of this code, even in cases where the letter of
the code was not altogether observed. The well-known case of a United
States brig furnishes a memorable example, which at any moment may be
repeated. Three men, in a time of peace, were then hung at the
yard-arm, merely because, in the Captain's judgment, it became
necessary to hang them. To this day the question of their complete
guilt is socially discussed.

How shall we characterise such a deed? Says Black-stone, "If any one
that hath commission of martial authority doth, in time of peace, hang,
or otherwise execute any man by colour of martial law, this is murder;
for it is against Magna Charta."* [* Commentaries, b. i., c. xiii.]

Magna Charta! We moderns, who may be landsmen, may justly boast of
civil immunities not possessed by our forefathers; but our remoter
forefathers who happened to be mariners may straighten themselves even
in their ashes to think that their lawgivers were wiser and more humane
in their generation than our lawgivers in ours. Compare the sea-laws of
our Navy with the Roman and Rhodian ocean ordinances; compare them with
the "Consulate of the Sea;" compare them with the Laws of the Hanse
Towns; compare them with the ancient Wisbury laws. In the last we find
that they were ocean democrats in those days. "If he strikes, he ought
to receive blow for blow." Thus speak out the Wisbury laws concerning a
Gothland sea-captain.

In final reference to all that has been said in previous chapters
touching the severity and unusualness of the laws of the American Navy,
and the large authority vested in its commanding officers, be it here
observed, that White-Jacket is not unaware of the fact, that the
responsibility of an officer commanding at sea--whether in the merchant
service or the national marine--is unparalleled by that of any other
relation in which man may stand to man. Nor is he unmindful that both
wisdom and humanity dictate that, from the peculiarity of his position,
a sea-officer in command should be clothed with a degree of authority
and discretion inadmissible in any master ashore. But, at the same
time, these principles--recognised by all writers on maritime law--have
undoubtedly furnished warrant for clothing modern sea-commanders and
naval courts-martial with powers which exceed the due limits of reason
and necessity. Nor is this the only instance where right and salutary
principles, in themselves almost self-evident and infallible, have been
advanced in justification of things, which in themselves are just as
self-evidently wrong and pernicious.

Be it here, once and for all, understood, that no sentimental and
theoretic love for the common sailor; no romantic belief in that
peculiar noble-heartedness and exaggerated generosity of disposition
fictitiously imputed to him in novels; and no prevailing desire to gain
the reputation of being his friend, have actuated me in anything I have
said, in any part of this work, touching the gross oppression under
which I know that the sailors suffers. Indifferent as to who may be the
parties concerned, I but desire to see wrong things righted, and equal
justice administered to all.

Nor, as has been elsewhere hinted, is the general ignorance or
depravity of any race of men to be alleged as an apology for tyranny
over them. On the contrary, it cannot admit of a reasonable doubt, in
any unbiased mind conversant with the interior life of a man-of-war,
that most of the sailor iniquities practised therein are indirectly to
be ascribed to the morally debasing effects of the unjust, despotic,
and degrading laws under which the man-of-war's-man lives.




CHAPTER LXXIII.

NIGHT AND DAY GAMBLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


Mention has been made that the game of draughts, or checkers, was
permitted to be played on board the Neversink. At the present time,
while there was little or no shipwork to be done, and all hands, in
high spirits, were sailing homeward over the warm smooth sea of the
tropics; so numerous became the players, scattered about the decks,
that our First Lieutenant used ironically to say that it was a pity
they were not tesselated with squares of white and black marble, for
the express benefit and convenience of the players. Had this gentleman
had his way, our checker-boards would very soon have been pitched out
of the ports. But the Captain--usually lenient in some
things--permitted them, and so Mr. Bridewell was fain to hold his peace.

But, although this one game was allowable in the frigate, all kinds of
gambling were strictly interdicted, under the penalty of the gangway;
nor were cards or dice tolerated in any way whatever. This regulation
was indispensable, for, of all human beings, man-of-war's-men are
perhaps the most inclined to gambling. The reason must be obvious to
any one who reflects upon their condition on shipboard. And
gambling--the most mischievous of vices anywhere--in a man-of-war
operates still more perniciously than on shore. But quite as often as
the law against smuggling spirits is transgressed by the unscrupulous
sailors, the statutes against cards and dice are evaded.

Sable night, which, since the beginning of the world, has winked and
looked on at so many deeds of iniquity--night is the time usually
selected for their operations by man-of-war gamblers. The place pitched
upon is generally the berth-deck, where the hammocks are swung, and
which is lighted so stintedly as not to disturb the sleeping seamen
with any obtruding glare. In so spacious an area the two lanterns
swinging from the stanchions diffuse a subdued illumination, like a
night-taper in the apartment of some invalid. Owing to their position,
also, these lanterns are far from shedding an impartial light, however
dim, but fling long angular rays here and there, like burglar's
dark-lanterns in the fifty-acre vaults of the West India Docks on the
Thames.

It may well be imagined, therefore, how well adapted is this mysterious
and subterranean Hall of Eblis to the clandestine proceedings of
gamblers, especially as the hammocks not only hang thickly, but many of
them swing very low, within two feet of the floor, thus forming
innumerable little canvas glens, grottoes, nooks, corners, and
crannies, where a good deal of wickedness may be practiced by the wary
with considerable impunity.

Now the master-at-arms, assisted by his mates, the ship's corporals,
reigns supreme in these bowels of the ship. Throughout the night these
policemen relieve each other at standing guard over the premises; and,
except when the watches are called, they sit in the midst of a profound
silence, only invaded by trumpeters' snores, or the ramblings of some
old sheet-anchor-man in his sleep.

The two ship's corporals went among the sailors by the names of Leggs
and Pounce; Pounce had been a policeman, it was said, in Liverpool;
Leggs, a turnkey attached to "The Tombs" in New York. Hence their
education eminently fitted them for their stations; and Bland, the
master-at-arms, ravished with their dexterity in prying out offenders,
used to call them his two right hands.

When man-of-war's-men desire to gamble, they appoint the hour, and
select some certain corner, in some certain shadow, behind some certain
hammock. They then contribute a small sum toward a joint fund, to be
invested in a bribe for some argus-eyed shipmate, who shall play the
part of a spy upon the master-at-arms and corporals while the gaming is
in progress. In nine cases out of ten these arrangements are so cunning
and comprehensive, that the gamblers, eluding all vigilance, conclude
their game unmolested. But now and then, seduced into unwariness, or
perhaps, from parsimony, being unwilling to employ the services of a
spy, they are suddenly lighted upon by the constables, remorselessly
collared, and dragged into the brig there to await a dozen lashes in
the morning.

Several times at midnight I have been startled out of a sound sleep by
a sudden, violent rush under my hammock, caused by the abrupt breaking
up of some nest of gamblers, who have scattered in all directions,
brushing under the tiers of swinging pallets, and setting them all in a
rocking commotion.

It is, however, while laying in port that gambling most thrives in a
man-of-war. Then the men frequently practice their dark deeds in the
light of the day, and the additional guards which, at such times, they
deem indispensable, are not unworthy of note. More especially, their
extra precautions in engaging the services of several spies,
necessitate a considerable expenditure, so that, in port, the diversion
of gambling rises to the dignity of a nabob luxury.

During the day the master-at-arms and his corporals are continually
prowling about on all three decks, eager to spy out iniquities. At one
time, for example, you see Leggs switching his magisterial rattan, and
lurking round the fore-mast on the spar-deck; the next moment, perhaps,
he is three decks down, out of sight, prowling among the cable-tiers.
Just so with his master, and Pounce his coadjutor; they are here,
there, and everywhere, seemingly gifted with ubiquity.

In order successfully to carry on their proceedings by day, the
gamblers must see to it that each of these constables is relentlessly
dogged wherever he goes; so that, in case of his approach toward the
spot where themselves are engaged, they may be warned of the fact in
time to make good their escape. Accordingly, light and active scouts
are selected to follow the constable about. From their youthful
alertness and activity, the boys of the mizzen-top are generally chosen
for this purpose.

But this is not all. Onboard of most men-of-war there is a set of sly,
knavish foxes among the crew, destitute of every principle of honour,
and on a par with Irish informers. In man-of-war parlance, they come
under the denomination of _fancy-men_ and _white-mice_, They are called
_fancy-men_ because, from their zeal in craftily reporting offenders,
they are presumed to be regarded with high favour by some of the
officers. Though it is seldom that these informers can be certainly
individualised, so secret and subtle are they in laying their
information, yet certain of the crew, and especially certain of the
marines, are invariably suspected to be  _fancy-men_ and _white-mice_,
and are accordingly more or less hated by their comrades.

Now, in addition to having an eye on the master-at-arms and his aids,
the day-gamblers must see to it, that every person suspected of being a
_white-mouse_ or _fancy-man_, is like-wise dogged wherever he goes.
Additional scouts are retained constantly to snuff at their trail. But
the mysteries of man-of-war vice are wonderful; and it is now to be
recorded, that, from long habit and observation, and familiarity with
the _guardo moves_ and _manoeuvres_ of a frigate, the master-at-arms
and his aids can almost invariably tell when any gambling is going on
by day; though, in the crowded vessel, abounding in decks, tops, dark
places, and outlandish corners of all sorts, they may not be able to
pounce upon the identical spot where the gamblers are hidden.

During the period that Bland was suspended from his office as
master-at-arms, a person who, among the sailors, went by the name of
Sneak, having been long suspected to have been a _white-mouse_, was put
in Bland's place. He proved a hangdog, sidelong catch-thief, but gifted
with a marvellous perseverance in ferreting out culprits; following in
their track like an inevitable Cuba blood-hound, with his noiseless
nose. When disconcerted, however, you sometimes heard his bay.

"The muffled dice are somewhere around," Sneak would say to his aids;
"there are them three chaps, there, been dogging me about for the last
half-hour. I say, Pounce, has any one been scouting around _you_ this
morning?"

"Four on 'em," says Pounce. "I know'd it; I know'd the muffled dice was
rattlin'!"

"Leggs!" says the master-at-arms to his other aid, "Leggs, how is it
with _you_--any spies?"

"Ten on' em," says Leggs. "There's one on 'em now--that fellow
stitching a hat."

"Halloo, you, sir!" cried the master-at-arms, "top your boom and sail
large, now. If I see you about me again, I'll have you up to the mast."

"What am I a-doin' now?" says the hat-stitcher, with a face as long as
a rope-walk. "Can't a feller be workin' here, without being 'spected of
Tom Coxe's traverse, up one ladder and down t'other?"

"Oh, I know the moves, sir; I have been on board a _guardo_. Top your
boom, I say, and be off, or I'll have you hauled up and riveted in a
clinch--both fore-tacks over the main-yard, and no bloody knife to cut
the seizing. Sheer! or I'll pitch into you like a shin of beef into a
beggar's wallet."

It is often observable, that, in vessels of all kinds, the men who talk
the most sailor lingo are the least sailor-like in reality. You may
sometimes hear even marines jerk out more salt phrases than the Captain
of the Forecastle himself. On the other hand, when not actively engaged
in his vocation, you would take the best specimen of a seaman for a
landsman. When you see a fellow yawning about the docks like a
homeward-bound Indiaman, a long Commodore's pennant of black ribbon
flying from his mast-head, and fetching up at a grog-shop with a slew
of his hull, as if an Admiral were coming alongside a three-decker in
his barge; you may put that man down for what man-of-war's-men call a
_damn-my-eyes-tar_, that is, a humbug. And many damn-my-eyes hum-bugs
there are in this man-of-war world of ours.




CHAPTER LXXIV.

THE MAIN-TOP AT NIGHT.


The whole of our run from Rio to the Line was one delightful yachting,
so far as fine weather and the ship's sailing were concerned. It was
especially pleasant when our quarter-watch lounged in the main-top,
diverting ourselves in many agreeable ways. Removed from the immediate
presence of the officers, we there harmlessly enjoyed ourselves, more
than in any other part of the ship. By day, many of us were very
industrious, making hats or mending our clothes. But by night we became
more romantically inclined.

Often Jack Chase, an enthusiastic admirer of sea-scenery, would direct
our attention to the moonlight on the waves, by fine snatches from his
catalogue of poets. I shall never forget the lyric air with which, one
morning, at dawn of day, when all the East was flushed with red and
gold, he stood leaning against the top-mast shrouds, and stretching his
bold hand over the sea, exclaimed, "Here comes Aurora: top-mates, see!"
And, in a liquid, long-lingering tone, he recited the lines,

     "With gentle hand, as seeming oft to pause,
      The purple curtains of the morn she draws."

"Commodore Camoens, White-Jacket.--But bear a hand there; we must rig
out that stun'-sail boom--the wind is shifting."

From our lofty perch, of a moonlight night, the frigate itself was a
glorious sight. She was going large before the wind, her stun'-sails
set on both sides, so that the canvas on the main-mast and fore-mast
presented the appearance of majestic, tapering pyramids, more than a
hundred feet broad at the base, and terminating in the clouds with the
light copestone of the royals. That immense area of snow-white canvas
sliding along the sea was indeed a magnificent spectacle. The three
shrouded masts looked like the apparitions of three gigantic Turkish
Emirs striding over the ocean.

Nor, at times, was the sound of music wanting, to augment the poetry of
the scene. The whole band would be assembled on the poop, regaling the
officers, and incidentally ourselves, with their fine old airs. To
these, some of us would occasionally dance in the _top_, which was
almost as large as an ordinary sized parlour. When the instrumental
melody of the band was not to be had, our nightingales mustered their
voices, and gave us a song.

Upon these occasions Jack Chase was often called out, and regaled us,
in his own free and noble style, with the "_Spanish Ladies_"--a
favourite thing with British man-of-war's-men--and many other salt-sea
ballads and ditties, including,

     "Sir Patrick Spens was the best sailor
      That ever sailed the sea."

also,

     "And three times around spun our gallant ship;
        Three times around spun she;
      Three times around spun our gallant ship,
        And she went to the bottom of the sea--
         The sea, the sea, the sea,
      And she went to the bottom of the sea!"

These songs would be varied by sundry _yarns_ and _twisters_ of the
top-men. And it was at these times that I always endeavoured to draw
out the oldest Tritons into narratives of the war-service they had
seen. There were but few of them, it is true, who had been in action;
but that only made their narratives the more valuable.

There was an old negro, who went by the name of Tawney, a
sheet-anchor-man, whom we often invited into our top of tranquil
nights, to hear him discourse. He was a staid and sober seaman, very
intelligent, with a fine, frank bearing, one of the best men in the
ship, and held in high estimation by every one.

It seems that, during the last war between England and America, he had,
with several others, been "impressed" upon the high seas, out of a New
England merchantman. The ship that impressed him was an English
frigate, the Macedonian, afterward taken by the Neversink, the ship in
which we were sailing.

It was the holy Sabbath, according to Tawney, and, as the Briton bore
down on the American--her men at their quarters--Tawney and his
countrymen, who happened to be stationed at the quarter-deck battery,
respectfully accosted the captain--an old man by the name of Cardan--as
he passed them, in his rapid promenade, his spy-glass under his arm.
Again they assured him that they were not Englishmen, and that it was a
most bitter thing to lift their hands against the flag of that country
which harboured the mothers that bore them. They conjured him to
release them from their guns, and allow them to remain neutral during
the conflict. But when a ship of any nation is running into action, it
is no time for argument, small time for justice, and not much time for
humanity. Snatching a pistol from the belt of a boarder standing by,
the Captain levelled it at the heads of the three sailors, and
commanded them instantly to their quarters, under penalty of being shot
on the spot. So, side by side with his country's foes, Tawney and his
companions toiled at the guns, and fought out the fight to the last;
with the exception of one of them, who was killed at his post by one of
his own country's balls.

At length, having lost her fore and main-top-masts, and her mizzen-mast
having been shot away to the deck, and her fore-yard lying in two
pieces on her shattered forecastle, and in a hundred places having been
_hulled_ with round shot, the English frigate was reduced to the last
extremity. Captain Cardan ordered his signal quarter-master to strike
the flag.

Tawney was one of those who, at last, helped pull him on board the
Neversink. As he touched the deck, Cardan saluted Decatur, the hostile
commander, and offered his sword; but it was courteously declined.
Perhaps the victor remembered the dinner parties that he and the
Englishman had enjoyed together in Norfolk, just previous to the
breaking out of hostilities--and while both were in command of the very
frigates now crippled on the sea. The Macedonian, it seems, had gone
into Norfolk with dispatches. _Then_ they had laughed and joked over
their wine, and a wager of a beaver hat was said to have been made
between them upon the event of the hostile meeting of their ships.

Gazing upon the heavy batteries before him, Cardan said to Decatur,
"This is a seventy-four, not a frigate; no wonder the day is yours!"

This remark was founded upon the Neversink's superiority in guns. The
Neversink's main-deck-batteries then consisted, as now, of
twenty-four-pounders; the Macedonian's of only eighteens. In all, the
Neversink numbered fifty-four guns and four hundred and fifty men; the
Macedonian, forty-nine guns and three hundred men; a very great
disparity, which, united to the other circumstances of this action,
deprives the victory of all claims to glory beyond those that might be
set up by a river-horse getting the better of a seal.

But if Tawney spoke truth--and he was a truth-telling man this fact
seemed counterbalanced by a circumstance he related. When the guns of
the Englishman were examined, after the engagement, in more than one
instance the wad was found rammed against the cartridge, without
intercepting the ball. And though, in a frantic sea-fight, such a thing
might be imputed to hurry and remissness, yet Tawney, a stickler for
his tribe, always ascribed it to quite a different and less honourable
cause. But, even granting the cause he assigned to have been the true
one, it does not involve anything inimical to the general valour
displayed by the British crew. Yet, from all that may be learned from
candid persons who have been in sea-fights, there can be but little
doubt that on board of all ships, of whatever nation, in time of
action, no very small number of the men are exceedingly nervous, to say
the least, at the guns; ramming and sponging at a venture. And what
special patriotic interest could an impressed man, for instance, take
in a fight, into which he had been dragged from the arms of his wife?
Or is it to be wondered at that impressed English seamen have not
scrupled, in time of war, to cripple the arm that has enslaved them?

During the same general war which prevailed at and previous to the
period of the frigate-action here spoken of, a British flag-officer, in
writing to the Admiralty, said, "Everything appears to be quiet in the
fleet; but, in preparing for battle last week, several of the guns in
the after part of the ship were found to be spiked;" that is to say,
rendered useless. Who had spiked them? The dissatisfied seamen. Is it
altogether improbable, then, that the guns to which Tawney referred
were manned by men who purposely refrained from making them tell on the
foe; that, in this one action, the victory America gained was partly
won for her by the sulky insubordination of the enemy himself?

During this same period of general war, it was frequently the case that
the guns of English armed ships were found in the mornings with their
breechings cut over night. This maiming of the guns, and for the time
incapacitating them, was only to be imputed to that secret spirit of
hatred to the service which induced the spiking above referred to. But
even in cases where no deep-seated dissatisfaction was presumed to
prevail among the crew, and where a seaman, in time of action, impelled
by pure fear, "shirked from his gun;" it seems but flying in the face
of Him who made such a seaman what he constitutionally was, to sew
_coward_ upon his back, and degrade and agonise the already trembling
wretch in numberless other ways. Nor seems it a practice warranted by
the Sermon on the Mount, for the officer of a battery, in time of
battle, to stand over the men with his drawn sword (as was done in the
Macedonian), and run through on the spot the first seaman who showed a
semblance of fear. Tawney told me that he distinctly heard this order
given by the English Captain to his officers of divisions. Were the
secret history of all sea-fights written, the laurels of sea-heroes
would turn to ashes on their brows.

And how nationally disgraceful, in every conceivable point of view, is
the IV. of our American Articles of War: "If any person in the Navy
shall pusillanimously cry for quarter, he shall suffer death." Thus,
with death before his face from the foe, and death behind his back from
his countrymen, the best valour of a man-of-war's-man can never assume
the merit of a noble spontaneousness. In this, as in every other case,
the Articles of War hold out no reward for good conduct, but only
compel the sailor to fight, like a hired murderer, for his pay, by
digging his grave before his eyes if he hesitates.

But this Article IV. is open to still graver objections. Courage is the
most common and vulgar of the virtues; the only one shared with us by
the beasts of the field; the one most apt, by excess, to run into
viciousness. And since Nature generally takes away with one hand to
counter-balance her gifts with the other, excessive animal courage, in
many cases, only finds room in a character vacated of loftier things.
But in a naval officer, animal courage is exalted to the loftiest
merit, and often procures him a distinguished command.

Hence, if some brainless bravo be Captain of a frigate in action, he
may fight her against invincible odds, and seek to crown himself with
the glory of the shambles, by permitting his hopeless crew to be
butchered before his eyes, while at the same time that crew must
consent to be slaughtered by the foe, under penalty of being murdered
by the law. Look at the engagement between the American frigate Essex
with the two English cruisers, the Phoebe and Cherub, off the Bay of
Valparaiso, during the late war. It is admitted on all hands that the
American Captain continued to fight his crippled ship against a greatly
superior force; and when, at last, it became physically impossible that
he could ever be otherwise than vanquished in the end; and when, from
peculiarly unfortunate circumstances, his men merely stood up to their
nearly useless batteries to be dismembered and blown to pieces by the
incessant fire of the enemy's long guns. Nor, by thus continuing to
fight, did this American frigate, one iota, promote the true interests
of her country. I seek not to underrate any reputation which the
American Captain may have gained by this battle. He was a brave man;
_that_ no sailor will deny. But the whole world is made up of brave
men. Yet I would not be at all understood as impugning his special good
name. Nevertheless, it is not to be doubted, that if there were any
common-sense sailors at the guns of the Essex, however valiant they may
have been, those common-sense sailors must have greatly preferred to
strike their flag, when they saw the day was fairly lost, than postpone
that inevitable act till there were few American arms left to assist in
hauling it down. Yet had these men, under these circumstances,
"pusillanimously cried for quarter," by the IV. Article of War they
might have been legally hung.

According to the negro, Tawney, when the Captain of the
Macedonian--seeing that the Neversink had his vessel completely in her
power--gave the word to strike the flag, one of his officers, a man
hated by the seamen for his tyranny, howled out the most terrific
remonstrances, swearing that, for his part, he would not give up, but
was for sinking the Macedonian alongside the enemy. Had he been
Captain, doubtless he would have done so; thereby gaining the name of a
hero in this world;--but what would they have called him in the next?

But as the whole matter of war is a thing that smites common-sense and
Christianity in the face; so everything connected with it is utterly
foolish, unchristian, barbarous, brutal, and savouring of the Feejee
Islands, cannibalism, saltpetre, and the devil.

It is generally the case in a man-of-war when she strikes her flag that
all discipline is at an end, and the men for a time are ungovernable.
This was so on board of the English frigate. The spirit-room was broken
open, and buckets of grog were passed along the decks, where many of
the wounded were lying between the guns. These mariners seized the
buckets, and, spite of all remonstrances, gulped down the burning
spirits, till, as Tawney said, the blood suddenly spirted out of their
wounds, and they fell dead to the deck.

The negro had many more stories to tell of this fight; and frequently
he would escort me along our main-deck batteries--still mounting the
same guns used in the battle--pointing out their ineffaceable
indentations and scars. Coated over with the accumulated paint of more
than thirty years, they were almost invisible to a casual eye; but
Tawney knew them all by heart; for he had returned home in the
Neversink, and had beheld these scars shortly after the engagement.

One afternoon, I was walking with him along the gun-deck, when he
paused abreast of the main-mast. "This part of the ship," said he, "we
called the _slaughter-house_ on board the Macedonian. Here the men
fell, five and six at a time. An enemy always directs its shot here, in
order to hurl over the mast, if possible. The beams and carlines
overhead in the Macedonian _slaughter-house_ were spattered with blood
and brains. About the hatchways it looked like a butcher's stall; bits
of human flesh sticking in the ring-bolts. A pig that ran about the
decks escaped unharmed, but his hide was so clotted with blood, from
rooting among the pools of gore, that when the ship struck the sailors
hove the animal overboard, swearing that it would be rank cannibalism
to eat him."

Another quadruped, a goat, lost its fore legs in this fight.

The sailors who were killed--according to the usual custom--were
ordered to be thrown overboard as soon as they fell; no doubt, as the
negro said, that the sight of so many corpses lying around might not
appall the survivors at the guns. Among other instances, he related the
following. A shot entering one of the port-holes, dashed dead two
thirds of a gun's crew. The captain of the next gun, dropping his
lock-string, which he had just pulled, turned over the heap of bodies
to see who they were; when, perceiving an old messmate, who had sailed
with him in many cruises, he burst into tears, and, taking the corpse
up in his arms, and going with it to the side, held it over the water a
moment, and eying it, cried, "Oh God! Tom!"--"D----n your prayers over
that thing! overboard with it, and down to your gun!" roared a wounded
Lieutenant. The order was obeyed, and the heart-stricken sailor
returned to his post.

Tawney's recitals were enough to snap this man-of-war world's sword in
its scabbard. And thinking of all the cruel carnal glory wrought out by
naval heroes in scenes like these, I asked myself whether, indeed, that
was a glorious coffin in which Lord Nelson was entombed--a coffin
presented to him, during life, by Captain Hallowell; it had been dug
out of the main-most of the French line-of-battle ship L'Orient, which,
burning up with British fire, destroyed hundreds of Frenchmen at the
battle of the Nile.

Peace to Lord Nelson where he sleeps in his mouldering mast! but rather
would I be urned in the trunk of some green tree, and even in death
have the vital sap circulating round me, giving of my dead body to the
living foliage that shaded my peaceful tomb.




CHAPTER LXXV.

"SINK, BURN, AND DESTROY."

_Printed Admiralty orders in time of war_.


Among innumerable "_yarns and twisters_" reeled off in our main-top
during our pleasant run to the North, none could match those of Jack
Chase, our captain.

Never was there better company than ever-glorious Jack. The things
which most men only read of, or dream about, he had seen and
experienced. He had been a dashing smuggler in his day, and could tell
of a long nine-pounder rammed home with wads of French silks; of
cartridges stuffed with the finest gunpowder tea; of cannister-shot
full of West India sweetmeats; of sailor frocks and trowsers, quilted
inside with costly laces; and table legs, hollow as musket barrels,
compactly stowed with rare drugs and spices. He could tell of a wicked
widow, too--a beautiful receiver of smuggled goods upon the English
coast--who smiled so sweetly upon the smugglers when they sold her
silks and laces, cheap as tape and ginghams. She called them gallant
fellows, hearts of game; and bade them bring her more.

He could tell of desperate fights with his British majesty's cutters,
in midnight coves upon a stormy coast; of the capture of a reckless
band, and their being drafted on board a man-of-war; of their swearing
that their chief was slain; of a writ of habeas corpus sent on board
for one of them for a debt--a reserved and handsome man--and his going
ashore, strongly suspected of being the slaughtered captain, and this a
successful scheme for his escape.

But more than all, Jack could tell of the battle of Navarino, for he
had been a captain of one of the main-deck guns on board Admiral
Codrington's flag-ship, the Asia. Were mine the style of stout old
Chapman's Homer, even then I would scarce venture to give noble Jack's
own version of this fight, wherein, on the 20th of October, A. D. 1827,
thirty-two sail of Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Russians, attacked and
vanquished in the Levant an Ottoman fleet of three ships-of-the line,
twenty-five frigates, and a swarm of fire ships and hornet craft.

"We bayed to be at them," said Jack; "and when we _did_ open fire, we
were like dolphin among the flying-fish. 'Every man take his bird' was
the cry, when we trained our guns. And those guns all smoked like rows
of Dutch pipe-bowls, my hearties! My gun's crew carried small flags in
their bosoms, to nail to the mast in case the ship's colours were shot
away. Stripped to the waistbands, we fought like skinned tigers, and
bowled down the Turkish frigates like nine-pins. Among their
shrouds--swarming thick with small-arm men, like flights of pigeons
lighted on pine-trees--our marines sent their leaden pease and
goose-berries, like a shower of hail-stones in Labrador. It was a
stormy time, my hearties! The blasted Turks pitched into the old Asia's
hull a whole quarry of marble shot, each ball one hundred and fifty
pounds. They knocked three port-holes into one. But we gave them better
than they sent. 'Up and at them, my bull-dog!' said I, patting my gun
on the breech; 'tear open hatchways in their Moslem sides!
White-Jacket, my lad, you ought to have been there. The bay was covered
with masts and yards, as I have seen a raft of snags in the Arkansas
River. Showers of burned rice and olives from the exploding foe fell
upon us like manna in the wilderness. '_Allah! Allah! Mohammed!
Mohammed!_' split the air; some cried it out from the Turkish
port-holes; others shrieked it forth from the drowning waters, their
top-knots floating on their shaven skulls, like black snakes on
half-tide rocks. By those top-knots they believed that their Prophet
would drag them up to Paradise, but they sank fifty fathoms, my
hearties, to the bottom of the bay. 'Ain't the bloody 'Hometons going
to strike yet?' cried my first loader, a Guernsey man, thrusting his
neck out of the port-hole, and looking at the Turkish
line-of-battle-ship near by. That instant his head blew by me like a
bursting Paixhan shot, and the flag of Neb Knowles himself was hauled
down for ever. We dragged his hull to one side, and avenged him with
the cooper's anvil, which, endways, we rammed home; a mess-mate shoved
in the dead man's bloody Scotch cap for the wad, and sent it flying
into the line-of-battle ship. By the god of war! boys, we hardly left
enough of that craft to boil a pot of water with. It was a hard day's
work--a sad day's work, my hearties. That night, when all was over, I
slept sound enough, with a box of cannister shot for my pillow! But you
ought to have seen the boat-load of Turkish flags one of our captains
carried home; he swore to dress his father's orchard in colours with
them, just as our spars are dressed for a gala day."

"Though you tormented the Turks at Navarino, noble Jack, yet you came
off yourself with only the loss of a splinter, it seems," said a
top-man, glancing at our cap-tain's maimed hand.

"Yes; but I and one of the Lieutenants had a narrower escape than that.
A shot struck the side of my port-hole, and sent the splinters right
and left. One took off my hat rim clean to my brow; another _razed_ the
Lieutenant's left boot, by slicing off the heel; a third shot killed my
powder-monkey without touching him."

"How, Jack?"

"It _whizzed_ the poor babe dead. He was seated on a _cheese of wads_
at the time, and after the dust of the pow-dered bulwarks had blown
away, I noticed he yet sat still, his eyes wide open. '_My little
hero!_' cried I, and I clapped him on the back; but he fell on his face
at my feet. I touched his heart, and found he was dead. There was not a
little finger mark on him."

Silence now fell upon the listeners for a time, broken at last by the
Second Captain of the Top.

"Noble Jack, I know you never brag, but tell us what you did yourself
that day?"

"Why, my hearties, I did not do quite as much as my gun. But I flatter
myself it was that gun that brought clown the Turkish Admiral's
main-mast; and the stump left wasn't long enough to make a wooden leg
for Lord Nelson."

"How? but I thought, by the way you pull a lock-string on board here,
and look along the sight, that you can steer a shot about right--hey,
Jack?"

"It was the Admiral of the fleet--God Almighty--who directed the shot
that dismasted the Turkish Admiral," said Jack; "I only pointed the
gun."

"But how did you feel, Jack, when the musket-ball carried away one of
your hooks there?"

"Feel! only a finger the lighter. I have seven more left, besides
thumbs; and they did good service, too, in the torn rigging the day
after the fight; for you must know, my hearties, that the hardest work
comes after the guns are run in. Three days I helped work, with one
hand, in the rigging, in the same trowsers that I wore in the action;
the blood had dried and stiffened; they looked like glazed red morocco."

Now, this Jack Chase had a heart in him like a mastodon's. I have seen
him weep when a man has been flogged at the gangway; yet, in relating
the story of the Battle of Navarino, he plainly showed that he held the
God of the blessed Bible to have been the British Commodore in the
Levant, on the bloody 20th of October, A. D. 1827. And thus it would
seem that war almost makes blasphemers of the best of men, and brings
them all down to the Feejee standard of humanity. Some man-of-war's-men
have confessed to me, that as a battle has raged more and more, their
hearts have hardened in infernal harmony; and, like their own guns,
they have fought without a thought.

Soldier or sailor, the fighting man is but a fiend; and the staff and
body-guard of the Devil musters many a baton. But war at times is
inevitable. Must the national honour be trampled under foot by an
insolent foe?

Say on, say on; but know you this, and lay it to heart, war-voting
Bench of Bishops, that He on whom we believe _himself_ has enjoined us
to turn the left cheek if the right be smitten. Never mind what
follows. That passage you can not expunge from the Bible; that passage
is as binding upon us as any other; that passage embodies the soul and
substance of the Christian faith; without it, Christianity were like
any other faith. And that passage will yet, by the blessing of God,
turn the world. But in some things we must turn Quakers first.

But though unlike most scenes of carnage, which have proved useless
murders of men, Admiral Codrington's victory undoubtedly achieved the
emancipation of Greece, and terminated the Turkish atrocities in that
tomahawked state, yet who shall lift his hand and swear that a Divine
Providence led the van of the combined fleets of England, France, and
Russia at the battle of Navarino? For if this be so, then it led the
van against the Church's own elect--the persecuted Waldenses in
Switzerland--and kindled the Smithfield fires in bloody Mary's time.

But all events are mixed in a fusion indistinguishable. What we call
Fate is even, heartless, and impartial; not a fiend to kindle bigot
flames, nor a philanthropist to espouse the cause of Greece. We may
fret, fume, and fight; but the thing called Fate everlastingly sustains
an armed neutrality.

Yet though all this be so, nevertheless, in our own hearts, we mould
the whole world's hereafters; and in our own hearts we fashion our own
gods. Each mortal casts his vote for whom he will to rule the worlds; I
have a voice that helps to shape eternity; and my volitions stir the
orbits of the furthest suns. In two senses, we are precisely what we
worship. Ourselves are Fate.




CHAPTER LXXVI.

THE CHAINS.


When wearied with the tumult and occasional contention of the gun-deck
of our frigate, I have often retreated to a port-hole, and calmed
myself down by gazing broad off upon a placid sea. After the battle-din
of the last two chapters, let us now do the like, and, in the
sequestered fore-chains of the Neversink, tranquillise ourselves, if we
may.

Notwithstanding the domestic communism to which the seamen in a
man-of-war are condemned, and the publicity in which actions the most
diffident and retiring in their nature must be performed, there is yet
an odd corner or two where you may sometimes steal away, and, for a few
moments, almost be private.

Chief among these places is the _chains_, to which I would sometimes
hie during our pleasant homeward-bound glide over those pensive
tropical latitudes. After hearing my fill of the wild yarns of our top,
here would I recline--if not disturbed--serenely concocting information
into wisdom.

The chains designates the small platform outside of the hull, at the
base of the large shrouds leading down from the three mast-heads to the
bulwarks. At present they seem to be getting out of vogue among
merchant-vessels, along with the fine, old-fashioned quarter-galleries,
little turret-like ap-purtenances, which, in the days of the old
Admirals, set off the angles of an armed ship's stern. Here a naval
officer might lounge away an hour after action, smoking a cigar, to
drive out of his whiskers the villainous smoke of the gun-powder. The
picturesque, delightful stern-gallery, also, a broad balcony
overhanging the sea, and entered from the Captain's cabin, much as you
might enter a bower from a lady's chamber; this charming balcony,
where, sailing over summer seas in the days of the old Peruvian
viceroys, the Spanish cavalier Mendanna, of Lima, made love to the Lady
Isabella, as they voyaged in quest of the Solomon Islands, the fabulous
Ophir, the Grand Cyclades; and the Lady Isabella, at sunset, blushed
like the Orient, and gazed down to the gold-fish and silver-hued
flying-fish, that wove the woof and warp of their wakes in bright,
scaly tartans and plaids underneath where the Lady reclined; this
charming balcony--exquisite retreat--has been cut away by Vandalic
innovations. Ay, that claw-footed old gallery is no longer in fashion;
in Commodore's eyes, is no longer genteel.

Out on all furniture fashions but those that are past! Give me my
grandfather's old arm-chair, planted upon four carved frogs, as the
Hindoos fabled the world to be supported upon four tortoises; give me
his cane, with the gold-loaded top--a cane that, like the musket of
General Washington's father and the broadsword of William Wallace,
would break down the back of the switch-carrying dandies of these
spindle-shank days; give me his broad-breasted vest, coming bravely
down over the hips, and furnished with two strong-boxes of pockets to
keep guineas in; toss this toppling cylinder of a beaver overboard, and
give me my grandfather's gallant, gable-ended, cocked hat.

But though the quarter-galleries and the stern-gallery of a man-of-war
are departed, yet the _chains_ still linger; nor can there be imagined
a more agreeable retreat. The huge blocks and lanyards forming the
pedestals of the shrouds divide the chains into numerous little
chapels, alcoves, niches, and altars, where you lazily lounge--outside
of the ship, though on board. But there are plenty to divide a good
thing with you in this man-of-war world. Often, when snugly seated in
one of these little alcoves, gazing off to the horizon, and thinking of
Cathay, I have been startled from my repose by some old quarter-gunner,
who, having newly painted a parcel of match-tubs, wanted to set them to
dry.

At other times, one of the tattooing artists would crawl over the
bulwarks, followed by his sitter; and then a bare arm or leg would be
extended, and the disagreeable business of "_pricking_" commence, right
under my eyes; or an irruption of tars, with ditty-bags or
sea-reticules, and piles of old trowsers to mend, would break in upon
my seclusion, and, forming a sewing-circle, drive me off with their
chatter.

But once--it was a Sunday afternoon--I was pleasantly reclining in a
particularly shady and secluded little niche between two lanyards, when
I heard a low, supplicating voice. Peeping through the narrow space
between the ropes, I perceived an aged seaman on his knees, his face
turned seaward, with closed eyes, buried in prayer. Softly rising, I
stole through a port-hole, and left the venerable worshipper alone.

He was a sheet-anchor-man, an earnest Baptist, and was well known, in
his own part of the ship, to be constant in his solitary devotions in
the _chains_. He reminded me of St. Anthony going out into the
wilderness to pray.

This man was captain of the starboard bow-chaser, one of the two long
twenty-four-pounders on the forecastle. In time of action, the command
of that iron Thalaba the Destroyer would devolve upon _him_. It would
be his business to "train" it properly; to see it well loaded; the
grape and cannister rammed home; also, to "prick the cartridge," "take
the sight," and give the word for the match-man to apply his wand;
bidding a sudden hell to flash forth from the muzzle, in wide
combustion and death.

Now, this captain of the bow-chaser was an upright old man, a sincere,
humble believer, and he but earned his bread in being captain of that
gun; but how, with those hands of his begrimed with powder, could he
break that _other_ and most peaceful and penitent bread of the Supper?
though in that hallowed sacrament, it seemed, he had often partaken
ashore. The omission of this rite in a man-of-war--though there is a
chaplain to preside over it, and at least a few communicants to
partake--must be ascribed to a sense of religious propriety, in the
last degree to be commended.

Ah! the best righteousness of our man-of-war world seems but an
unrealised ideal, after all; and those maxims which, in the hope of
bringing about a Millennium, we busily teach to the heathen, we
Christians ourselves disregard. In view of the whole present social
frame-work of our world, so ill adapted to the practical adoption of
the meekness of Christianity, there seems almost some ground for the
thought, that although our blessed Saviour was full of the wisdom of
heaven, yet his gospel seems lacking in the practical wisdom of
earth--in a due appreciation of the necessities of nations at times
demanding bloody massacres and wars; in a proper estimation of the
value of rank, title, and money. But all this only the more crowns the
divine consistency of Jesus; since Burnet and the best theologians
demonstrate, that his nature was not merely human--was not that of a
mere man of the world.




CHAPTER LXXVII.

THE HOSPITAL IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


After running with a fine steady breeze up to the Line, it fell calm,
and there we lay, three days enchanted on the sea. We were a most
puissant man-of-war, no doubt, with our five hundred men, Commodore and
Captain, backed by our long batteries of thirty-two and twenty-four
pounders; yet, for all that, there we lay rocking, helpless as an
infant in the cradle. Had it only been a gale instead of a calm, gladly
would we have charged upon it with our gallant bowsprit, as with a
stout lance in rest; but, as with man-kind, this serene, passive
foe--unresisting and irresistible--lived it out, unconquered to the
last.

All these three days the heat was excessive; the sun drew the tar from
the seams of the ship; the awnings were spread fore and aft; the decks
were kept constantly sprinkled with water. It was during this period
that a sad event occurred, though not an unusual one on shipboard. But
in order to prepare for its narration, some account of a part of the
ship called the "_sick-bay_" must needs be presented.

The "_sick-bay_" is that part of a man-of-war where the invalid seamen
are placed; in many respects it answers to a public hospital ashore. As
with most frigates, the sick-bay of the Neversink was on the
berth-deck--the third deck from above. It was in the extreme forward
part of that deck, embracing the triangular area in the bows of the
ship. It was, therefore, a subterranean vault, into which scarce a ray
of heaven's glad light ever penetrated, even at noon.

In a sea-going frigate that has all her armament and stores on board,
the floor of the berth-deck is partly below the surface of the water.
But in a smooth harbour, some circulation of air is maintained by
opening large auger-holes in the upper portion of the sides, called
"air-ports," not much above the water level. Before going to sea,
however, these air-ports must be closed, caulked, and the seams
hermetically sealed with pitch. These places for ventilation being
shut, the sick-bay is entirely barred against the free, natural
admission of fresh air. In the Neversink a few lungsful were forced
down by artificial means. But as the ordinary _wind-sail_ was the only
method adopted, the quantity of fresh air sent down was regulated by
the force of the wind. In a calm there was none to be had, while in a
severe gale the wind-sail had to be hauled up, on account of the
violent draught flowing full upon the cots of the sick. An open-work
partition divided our sick-bay from the rest of the deck, where the
hammocks of the watch were slung; it, therefore, was exposed to all the
uproar that ensued upon the watches being relieved.

An official, called the surgeon's steward, assisted by subordinates,
presided over the place. He was the same individual alluded to as
officiating at the amputation of the top-man. He was always to be found
at his post, by night and by day.

This surgeon's steward deserves a description. He was a small, pale,
hollow-eyed young man, with that peculiar Lazarus-like expression so
often noticed in hospital attendants. Seldom or never did you see him
on deck, and when he _did_ emerge into the light of the sun, it was
with an abashed look, and an uneasy, winking eye. The sun was not made
for _him_. His nervous organization was confounded by the sight of the
robust old sea-dogs on the forecastle and the general tumult of the
spar-deck, and he mostly buried himself below in an atmosphere which
long habit had made congenial.

This young man never indulged in frivolous conversation; he only talked
of the surgeon's prescriptions; his every word was a bolus. He never
was known to smile; nor did he even look sober in the ordinary way; but
his countenance ever wore an aspect of cadaverous resignation to his
fate. Strange! that so many of those who would fain minister to our own
health should look so much like invalids themselves.

Connected with the sick-bay, over which the surgeon's steward
presided--but removed from it in place, being next door to the
counting-room of the purser's steward--was a regular apothecary's shop,
of which he kept the key. It was fitted up precisely like an
apothecary's on shore, dis-playing tiers of shelves on all four sides
filled with green bottles and gallipots; beneath were multitudinous
drawers bearing incomprehensible gilded inscriptions in abbreviated
Latin.

He generally opened his shop for an hour or two every morning and
evening. There was a Venetian blind in the upper part of the door,
which he threw up when inside so as to admit a little air. And there
you would see him, with a green shade over his eyes, seated on a stool,
and pounding his pestle in a great iron mortar that looked like a
howitzer, mixing some jallapy compound. A smoky lamp shed a flickering,
yellow-fever tinge upon his pallid face and the closely-packed
regiments of gallipots.

Several times when I felt in need of a little medicine, but was not ill
enough to report myself to the surgeon at his levees, I would call of a
morning upon his steward at the Sign of the Mortar, and beg him to give
me what I wanted; when, without speaking a word, this cadaverous young
man would mix me my potion in a tin cup, and hand it out through the
little opening in his door, like the boxed-up treasurer giving you your
change at the ticket-office of a theatre.

But there was a little shelf against the wall of the door, and upon
this I would set the tin cup for a while, and survey it; for I never
was a Julius Caesar at taking medicine; and to take it in this way,
without a single attempt at dis-guising it; with no counteracting
little morsel to hurry down after it; in short to go to the very
apothecary's in person, and there, at the counter, swallow down your
dose, as if it were a nice mint-julep taken at the bar of a
hotel--_this_ was a bitter bolus indeed. But, then, this pallid young
apothecary charged nothing for it, and _that_ was no small
satisfaction; for is it not remarkable, to say the least, that a shore
apothecary should actually charge you money--round dollars and
cents--for giving you a horrible nausea?

My tin cup would wait a long time on that little shelf; yet "Pills," as
the sailors called him, never heeded my lingering, but in sober, silent
sadness continued pounding his mortar or folding up his powders; until
at last some other customer would appear, and then in a sudden frenzy
of resolution, I would gulp clown my sherry-cobbler, and carry its
unspeakable flavour with me far up into the frigate's main-top. I do
not know whether it was the wide roll of the ship, as felt in that
giddy perch, that occasioned it, but I always got sea-sick after taking
medicine and going aloft with it. Seldom or never did it do me any
lasting good.

Now the Surgeon's steward was only a subordinate of Surgeon Cuticle
himself, who lived in the ward-room among the Lieutenants,
Sailing-master, Chaplain, and Purser.

The Surgeon is, by law, charged with the business of overlooking the
general sanitary affairs of the ship. If anything is going on in any of
its departments which he judges to be detrimental to the healthfulness
of the crew, he has a right to protest against it formally to the
Captain. When a man is being scourged at the gangway, the Surgeon
stands by; and if he thinks that the punishment is becoming more than
the culprit's constitution can well bear, he has a right to interfere
and demand its cessation for the time.

But though the Navy regulations nominally vest him with this high
discretionary authority over the very Commodore himself, how seldom
does he exercise it in cases where humanity demands it? Three years is
a long time to spend in one ship, and to be at swords' points with its
Captain and Lieutenants during such a period, must be very unsocial and
every way irksome. No otherwise than thus, at least, can the remissness
of some surgeons in remonstrating against cruelty be accounted for.

Not to speak again of the continual dampness of the decks consequent
upon flooding them with salt water, when we were driving near to Cape
Horn, it needs only to be mentioned that, on board of the Neversink,
men known to be in consumptions gasped under the scourge of the
boatswain's mate, when the Surgeon and his two attendants stood by and
never interposed. But where the unscrupulousness of martial discipline
is maintained, it is in vain to attempt softening its rigour by the
ordaining of humanitarian laws. Sooner might you tame the grizzly bear
of Missouri than humanise a thing so essentially cruel and heartless.

But the Surgeon has yet other duties to perform. Not a seaman enters
the Navy without undergoing a corporal examination, to test his
soundness in wind and limb.

One of the first places into which I was introduced when I first
entered on board the Neversink was the sick-bay, where I found one of
the Assistant Surgeons seated at a green-baize table. It was his turn
for visiting the apartment. Having been commanded by the deck officer
to report my business to the functionary before me, I accordingly
hemmed, to attract his attention, and then catching his eye, politely
intimated that I called upon him for the purpose of being accurately
laid out and surveyed.

"Strip!" was the answer, and, rolling up his gold-laced cuff, he
proceeded to manipulate me. He punched me in the ribs, smote me across
the chest, commanded me to stand on one leg and hold out the other
horizontally. He asked me whether any of my family were consumptive;
whether I ever felt a tendency to a rush of blood to the head; whether
I was gouty; how often I had been bled during my life; how long I had
been ashore; how long I had been afloat; with several other questions
which have altogether slipped my memory. He concluded his
interrogatories with this extraordinary and unwarranted one--"Are you
pious?"

It was a leading question which somewhat staggered me, but I said not a
word; when, feeling of my calves, he looked up and incomprehensibly
said, "I am afraid you are not."

At length he declared me a sound animal, and wrote a certificate to
that effect, with which I returned to the deck.

This Assistant Surgeon turned out to be a very singular character, and
when I became more acquainted with him, I ceased to marvel at the
curious question with which he had concluded his examination of my
person.

He was a thin, knock-kneed man, with a sour, saturnine expression,
rendered the more peculiar from his shaving his beard so remorselessly,
that his chin and cheeks always looked blue, as if pinched with cold.
His long familiarity with nautical invalids seemed to have filled him
full of theological hypoes concerning the state of their souls. He was
at once the physician and priest of the sick, washing down his boluses
with ghostly consolation, and among the sailors went by the name of The
Pelican, a fowl whose hanging pouch imparts to it a most chop-fallen,
lugubrious expression.

The privilege of going off duty and lying by when you are sick, is one
of the few points in which a man-of-war is far better for the sailor
than a merchantman. But, as with every other matter in the Navy, the
whole thing is subject to the general discipline of the vessel, and is
conducted with a severe, unyielding method and regularity, making no
allowances for exceptions to rules.

During the half-hour preceding morning quarters, the Surgeon of a
frigate is to be found in the sick-bay, where, after going his rounds
among the invalids, he holds a levee for the benefit of all new
candidates for the sick-list. If, after looking at your tongue, and
feeling of your pulse, he pronounces you a proper candidate, his
secretary puts you down on his books, and you are thenceforth relieved
from all duty, and have abundant leisure in which to recover your
health. Let the boatswain blow; let the deck officer bellow; let the
captain of your gun hunt you up; yet, if it can be answered by your
mess-mates that you are "_down on the list_," you ride it all out with
impunity. The Commodore himself has then no authority over you. But you
must not be too much elated, for your immunities are only secure while
you are immured in the dark hospital below. Should you venture to get a
mouthful of fresh air on the spar-deck, and be there discovered by an
officer, you will in vain plead your illness; for it is quite
impossible, it seems, that any true man-of-war invalid can be hearty
enough to crawl up the ladders. Besides, the raw sea air, as they will
tell you, is not good for the sick.

But, notwithstanding all this, notwithstanding the darkness and
closeness of the sick-bay, in which an alleged invalid must be content
to shut himself up till the Surgeon pronounces him cured, many
instances occur, especially in protracted bad weather, where pretended
invalids will sub-mit to this dismal hospital durance, in order to
escape hard work and wet jackets.

There is a story told somewhere of the Devil taking down the
confessions of a woman on a strip of parchment, and being obliged to
stretch it longer and longer with his teeth, in order to find room for
all the lady had to say. Much thus was it with our Purser's steward,
who had to lengthen out his manuscript sick-list, in order to
accommodate all the names which were presented to him while we were off
the pitch of Cape Horn. What sailors call the "_Cape Horn fever_,"
alarmingly prevailed; though it disappeared altogether when we got into
the weather, which, as with many other invalids, was solely to be
imputed to the wonder-working effects of an entire change of climate.

It seems very strange, but it is really true, that off Cape Horn some
"_sogers_" of sailors will stand cupping, and bleeding, and blistering,
before they will budge. On the other hand, there are cases where a man
actually sick and in need of medicine will refuse to go on the
sick-list, because in that case his allowance of _grog_ must be stopped.

On board of every American man-of-war, bound for sea, there is a goodly
supply of wines and various delicacies put on board--according to
law--for the benefit of the sick, whether officers or sailors. And one
of the chicken-coops is always reserved for the Government chickens,
destined for a similar purpose. But, on board of the Neversink, the
only delicacies given to invalid sailors was a little sago or
arrow-root, and they did not get _that_ unless severely ill; but, so
far as I could learn, no wine, in any quantity, was ever prescribed for
them, though the Government bottles often went into the ward-room, for
the benefit of indisposed officers.

And though the Government chicken-coop was replenished at every port,
yet not four pair of drum-sticks were ever boiled into broth for sick
sailors. Where the chickens went, some one must have known; but, as I
cannot vouch for it myself, I will not here back the hardy assertion of
the men, which was that the pious Pelican--true to his name--was
extremely fond of poultry. I am the still less disposed to believe this
scandal, from the continued leanness of the Pelican, which could hardly
have been the case did he nourish himself by so nutritious a dish as
the drum-sticks of fowls, a diet prescribed to pugilists in training.
But who can avoid being suspicious of a very suspicious person?
Pelican! I rather suspect you still.




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

DISMAL TIMES IN THE MESS.


It was on the first day of the long, hot calm which we had on the
Equator, that a mess-mate of mine, by the name of Shenly, who had been
for some weeks complaining, at length went on the sick-list.

An old gunner's mate of the mess--Priming, the man with the hare-lip,
who, true to his tribe, was charged to the muzzle with bile, and,
moreover, rammed home on top of it a wad of sailor superstition--this
gunner's mate indulged in some gloomy and savage remarks--strangely
tinged with genuine feeling and grief--at the announcement of the
sick-ness of Shenly, coming as it did not long after the almost fatal
accident befalling poor Baldy, captain of the mizzen-top, another
mess-mate of ours, and the dreadful fate of the amputated fore-top-man
whom we buried in Rio, also our mess-mate.

We were cross-legged seated at dinner, between the guns, when the sad
news concerning Shenly was first communicated.

"I know'd it, I know'd it," said Priming, through his nose. "Blast ye,
I told ye so; poor fellow! But dam'me, I know'd it. This comes of
having _thirteen_ in the mess. I hope he arn't dangerous, men? Poor
Shenly! But, blast it, it warn't till White-Jacket there comed into the
mess that these here things began. I don't believe there'll be more nor
three of us left by the time we strike soundings, men. But how is he
now? Have you been down to see him, any on ye? Damn you, you Jonah! I
don't see how you can sleep in your hammock, knowing as you do that by
making an odd number in the mess you have been the death of one poor
fellow, and ruined Baldy for life, and here's poor Shenly keeled up.
Blast you, and your jacket, say I."

"My dear mess-mate," I cried, "don't blast me any more, for Heaven's
sale. Blast my jacket you may, and I'll join you in _that;_ but don't
blast _me;_ for if you do, I shouldn't wonder if I myself was the next
man to keel up."

"Gunner's mate!" said Jack Chase, helping himself to a slice of beef,
and sandwiching it between two large biscuits--"Gunner's mate!
White-Jacket there is my particular friend, and I would take it as a
particular favour if you would _knock off_ blasting him. It's in bad
taste, rude, and unworthy a gentleman."

"Take your back away from that 'ere gun-carriage, will ye now, Jack
Chase?" cried Priming, in reply, just then Jack happening to lean up
against it. "Must I be all the time cleaning after you fellows? Blast
ye! I spent an hour on that 'ere gun-carriage this very mornin'. But it
all comes of White-Jacket there. If it warn't for having one too many,
there wouldn't be any crowding and jamming in the mess. I'm blessed if
we ar'n't about chock a' block here! Move further up there, I'm sitting
on my leg!"

"For God's sake, gunner's mate," cried I, "if it will content you, I
and my jacket will leave the mess."

"I wish you would, and be ---- to you!" he replied.

"And if he does, you will mess alone, gunner's mate," said Jack Chase.

"That you will," cried all.

"And I wish to the Lord you'd let me!" growled Priming, irritably
rubbing his head with the handle of his sheath-knife.

"You are an old bear, gunner's mate," said Jack Chase.

"I am an old Turk," he replied, drawing the flat blade of his knife
between his teeth, thereby producing a whetting, grating sound.

"Let him alone, let him alone, men," said Jack Chase. "Only keep off
the tail of a rattlesnake, and he'll not rattle."

"Look out he don't bite, though," said Priming, snapping his teeth; and
with that he rolled off, growling as he went.

Though I did my best to carry off my vexation with an air of
indifference, need I say how I cursed my jacket, that it thus seemed
the means of fastening on me the murder of one of my shipmates, and the
probable murder of two more. For, had it not been for my jacket,
doubtless, I had yet been a member of my old mess, and so have escaped
making the luckless odd number among my present companions.

All I could say in private to Priming had no effect; though I often
took him aside, to convince him of the philosophical impossibility of
my having been accessary to the misfortunes of Baldy, the buried sailor
in Rio, and Shenly. But Priming knew better; nothing could move him;
and he ever afterward eyed me as virtuous citizens do some notorious
underhand villain going unhung of justice.

Jacket! jacket! thou hast much to answer for, jacket!




CHAPTER LXXIX.

HOW MAN-OF-WAR'S-MEN DIE AT SEA.


Shenly, my sick mess-mate, was a middle-aged, handsome, intelligent
seaman, whom some hard calamity, or perhaps some unfortunate excess,
must have driven into the Navy. He told me he had a wife and two
children in Portsmouth, in the state of New Hampshire. Upon being
examined by Cuticle, the surgeon, he was, on purely scientific grounds,
reprimanded by that functionary for not having previously appeared
before him. He was immediately consigned to one of the invalid cots as
a serious case. His complaint was of long standing; a pulmonary one,
now attended with general prostration.

The same evening he grew so much worse, that according to man-of-war
usage, we, his mess-mates, were officially notified that we must take
turns at sitting up with him through the night. We at once made our
arrangements, allotting two hours for a watch. Not till the third night
did my own turn come round. During the day preceding, it was stated at
the mess that our poor mess-mate was run down completely; the surgeon
had given him up.


At four bells (two o'clock in the morning), I went down to relieve one
of my mess-mates at the sick man's cot. The profound quietude of the
calm pervaded the entire frigate through all her decks. The watch on
duty were dozing on the carronade-slides, far above the sick-bay; and
the watch below were fast asleep in their hammocks, on the same deck
with the invalid.

Groping my way under these two hundred sleepers, I en-tered the
hospital. A dim lamp was burning on the table, which was screwed down
to the floor. This light shed dreary shadows over the white-washed
walls of the place, making it look look a whited sepulchre underground.
The wind-sail had collapsed, and lay motionless on the deck. The low
groans of the sick were the only sounds to be heard; and as I advanced,
some of them rolled upon me their sleepless, silent, tormented eyes.

"Fan him, and keep his forehead wet with this sponge," whispered my
mess-mate, whom I came to relieve, as I drew near to Shenly's cot, "and
wash the foam from his mouth; nothing more can be done for him. If he
dies before your watch is out, call the Surgeon's steward; he sleeps in
that hammock," pointing it out. "Good-bye, good-bye, mess-mate," he
then whispered, stooping over the sick man; and so saying, he left the
place.

Shenly was lying on his back. His eyes were closed, forming two
dark-blue pits in his face; his breath was coming and going with a
slow, long-drawn, mechanical precision. It was the mere foundering hull
of a man that was before me; and though it presented the well-known
features of my mess-mate, yet I knew that the living soul of Shenly
never more would look out of those eyes.

So warm had it been during the day, that the Surgeon himself, when
visiting the sick-bay, had entered it in his shirt-sleeves; and so warm
was now the night that even in the lofty top I had worn but a loose
linen frock and trowsers. But in this subterranean sick-bay, buried in
the very bowels of the ship, and at sea cut off from all ventilation,
the heat of the night calm was intense. The sweat dripped from me as if
I had just emerged from a bath; and stripping myself naked to the
waist, I sat by the side of the cot, and with a bit of crumpled
paper--put into my hand by the sailor I had relieved--kept fanning the
motionless white face before me.

I could not help thinking, as I gazed, whether this man's fate had not
been accelerated by his confinement in this heated furnace below; and
whether many a sick man round me might not soon improve, if but
permitted to swing his hammock in the airy vacancies of the half-deck
above, open to the port-holes, but reserved for the promenade of the
officers.

At last the heavy breathing grew more and more irregular, and gradually
dying away, left forever the unstirring form of Shenly.

Calling the Surgeon's steward, he at once told me to rouse the
master-at-arms, and four or five of my mess-mates. The master-at-arms
approached, and immediately demanded the dead man's bag, which was
accordingly dragged into the bay. Having been laid on the floor, and
washed with a bucket of water which I drew from the ocean, the body was
then dressed in a white frock, trowsers, and neckerchief, taken out of
the bag. While this was going on, the master-at-arms--standing over the
operation with his rattan, and directing myself and
mess-mates--indulged in much discursive levity, intended to manifest
his fearlessness of death.

Pierre, who had been a "_chummy_" of Shenly's, spent much time in tying
the neckerchief in an elaborate bow, and affectionately adjusting the
white frock and trowsers; but the master-at-arms put an end to this by
ordering us to carry the body up to the gun-deck. It was placed on the
death-board (used for that purpose), and we proceeded with it toward
the main hatchway, awkwardly crawling under the tiers of hammocks,
where the entire watch-below was sleeping. As, unavoidably, we rocked
their pallets, the man-of-war's-men would cry out against us; through
the mutterings of curses, the corpse reached the hatchway. Here the
board slipped, and some time was spent in readjusting the body. At
length we deposited it on the gun-deck, between two guns, and a
union-jack being thrown over it for a pall, I was left again to watch
by its side.

I had not been seated on my shot-box three minutes, when the
messenger-boy passed me on his way forward; presently the slow, regular
stroke of the ship's great bell was heard, proclaiming through the calm
the expiration of the watch; it was four o'clock in the morning.

Poor Shenly! thought I, that sounds like your knell! and here you lie
becalmed, in the last calm of all!

Hardly had the brazen din died away, when the Boatswain and his mates
mustered round the hatchway, within a yard or two of the corpse, and
the usual thundering call was given for the watch below to turn out.

"All the starboard-watch, ahoy! On deck there, below! Wide awake there,
sleepers!"

But the dreamless sleeper by my side, who had so often sprung from his
hammock at that summons, moved not a limb; the blue sheet over him lay
unwrinkled.

A mess-mate of the other watch now came to relieve me; but I told him I
chose to remain where I was till daylight came.




CHAPTER LXXX.

THE LAST STITCH.


Just before daybreak, two of the sail-maker's gang drew near, each with
a lantern, carrying some canvas, two large shot, needles, and twine. I
knew their errand; for in men-of-war the sail-maker is the undertaker.

They laid the body on deck, and, after fitting the canvas to it, seated
themselves, cross-legged like tailors, one on each side, and, with
their lanterns before them, went to stitching away, as if mending an
old sail. Both were old men, with grizzled hair and beard, and shrunken
faces. They belonged to that small class of aged seamen who, for their
previous long and faithful services, are retained in the Navy more as
pensioners upon its merited bounty than anything else. They are set to
light and easy duties.

"Ar'n't this the fore-top-man, Shenly?" asked the foremost, looking
full at the frozen face before him.

"Ay, ay, old Ringrope," said the other, drawing his hand far back with
a long thread, "I thinks it's him; and he's further aloft now, I hope,
than ever he was at the fore-truck. But I only hopes; I'm afeard this
ar'n't the last on him!"

"His hull here will soon be going out of sight below hatches, though,
old Thrummings," replied Ringrope, placing two heavy cannon-balls in
the foot of the canvas shroud.

"I don't know that, old man; I never yet sewed up a ship-mate but he
spooked me arterward. I tell ye, Ring-rope, these 'ere corpses is
cunning. You think they sinks deep, but they comes up again as soon as
you sails over 'em. They lose the number of their mess, and their
mess-mates sticks the spoons in the rack; but no good--no good, old
Ringrope; they ar'n't dead yet. I tell ye, now, ten best--bower-anchors
wouldn't sink this 'ere top-man. He'll be soon coming in the wake of
the thirty-nine spooks what spooks me every night in my hammock--jist
afore the mid-watch is called. Small thanks I gets for my pains; and
every one on 'em looks so 'proachful-like, with a sail-maker's needle
through his nose. I've been thinkin', old Ringrope, it's all wrong that
'ere last stitch we takes. Depend on't, they don't like it--none on
'em."

I was standing leaning over a gun, gazing at the two old men. The last
remark reminded me of a superstitious custom generally practised by
most sea-undertakers upon these occasions. I resolved that, if I could
help it, it should not take place upon the remains of Shenly.

"Thrummings," said I, advancing to the last speaker, "you are right.
That last thing you do to the canvas is the very reason, be sure of it,
that brings the ghosts after you, as you say. So don't do it to this
poor fellow, I entreat. Try once, now, how it goes not to do it."

"What do you say to the youngster, old man?" said Thrummings, holding
up his lantern into his comrade's wrinkled face, as if deciphering some
ancient parchment.

"I'm agin all innowations," said Ringrope; "it's a good old fashion,
that last stitch; it keeps 'em snug, d'ye see, youngster. I'm blest if
they could sleep sound, if it wa'n't for that. No, no, Thrummings! no
innowations; I won't hear on't. I goes for the last stitch!"

"S'pose you was going to be sewed up yourself, old Ringrope, would you
like the last stitch then! You are an old, gun, Ringrope; you can't
stand looking out at your port-hole much longer," said Thrummings, as
his own palsied hands were quivering over the canvas.

"Better say that to yourself, old man," replied Ringrope, stooping
close to the light to thread his coarse needle, which trembled in his
withered hands like the needle, in a compass of a Greenland ship near
the Pole. "You ain't long for the sarvice. I wish I could give you some
o' the blood in my veins, old man!"


"Ye ain't got ne'er a teaspoonful to spare," said Thrummings. "It will
go hard, and I wouldn't want to do it; but I'm afeard I'll have the
sewing on ye up afore long!"

"Sew me up? Me dead and you alive, old man?" shrieked Ringrope. "Well,
I've he'rd the parson of the old Independence say as how old age was
deceitful; but I never seed it so true afore this blessed night. I'm
sorry for ye, old man--to see you so innocent-like, and Death all the
while turning in and out with you in your hammock, for all the world
like a hammock-mate."

"You lie! old man," cried Thrummings, shaking with rage. "It's _you_
that have Death for a hammock-mate; it's _you_ that will make a hole in
the shot-locker soon."

"Take that back!" cried Ringrope, huskily, leaning far over the corpse,
and, needle in hand, menacing his companion with his aguish fist. "Take
that back, or I'll throttle your lean bag of wind fer ye!"

"Blast ye! old chaps, ain't ye any more manners than to be fighting
over a dead man?" cried one of the sail-maker's mates, coming down from
the spar-deck. "Bear a hand!--bear a hand! and get through with that
job!"

"Only one more stitch to take," muttered Ringrope, creeping near the
face.

"Drop your '_palm_,' then and let Thrummings take it; follow me--the
foot of the main-sail wants mending--must do it afore a breeze springs
up. D'ye hear, old chap! I say, drop your _palm_, and follow me."

At the reiterated command of his superior, Ringrope rose, and, turning
to his comrade, said, "I take it all back, Thrummings, and I'm sorry
for it, too. But mind ye, take that 'ere last stitch, now; if ye don't,
there's no tellin' the consekenses."

As the mate and his man departed, I stole up to Thrummings. "Don't do
it--don't do it, now, Thrummings--depend on it, it's wrong!"

"Well, youngster, I'll try this here one without it for jist this here
once; and if, arter that, he don't spook me, I'll be dead agin the last
stitch as long as my name is Thrummings."

So, without mutilation, the remains were replaced between the guns, the
union jack again thrown over them, and I reseated myself on the
shot-box.




CHAPTER LXXXI.

HOW THEY BURY A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN AT SEA.


Quarters over in the morning, the boatswain and his four mates stood
round the main hatchway, and after giving the usual whistle, made the
customary announcement--"_All hands bury the dead, ahoy!_"

In a man-of-war, every thing, even to a man's funeral and burial,
proceeds with the unrelenting promptitude of the martial code. And
whether it is _all hands bury the dead!_ or _all hands splice the
main-brace_, the order is given in the same hoarse tones.

Both officers and men assembled in the lee waist, and through that
bareheaded crowd the mess-mates of Shenly brought his body to the same
gangway where it had thrice winced under the scourge. But there is
something in death that ennobles even a pauper's corpse; and the
Captain himself stood bareheaded before the remains of a man whom, with
his hat on, he had sentenced to the ignominious gratings when alive.

"_I am the resurrection and the life!_" solemnly began the Chaplain, in
full canonicals, the prayer-book in his hand.

"Damn you! off those booms!" roared a boatswain's mate to a crowd of
top-men, who had elevated themselves to gain a better view of the scene.

"_We commit this body to the deep!_" At the word, Shenly's mess-mates
tilted the board, and the dead sailor sank in the sea.

"Look aloft," whispered Jack Chase. "See that bird! it is the spirit of
Shenly."

Gazing upward, all beheld a snow-white, solitary fowl, which--whence
coming no one could tell--had been hovering over the main-mast during
the service, and was now sailing far up into the depths of the sky.




CHAPTER LXXXII.

WHAT REMAINS OF A MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN AFTER HIS BURIAL AT SEA.


Upon examining Shenly's bag, a will was found, scratched in pencil,
upon a blank leaf in the middle of his Bible; or, to use the phrase of
one of the seamen, in the midships, atween the Bible and Testament,
where the Pothecary (Apocrypha) uses to be.

The will was comprised in one solitary sentence, exclusive of the dates
and signatures: "_In case I die on the voyage, the Purser will please
pay over my wages to my wife, who lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire_."

Besides the testator's, there were two signatures of witnesses.

This last will and testament being shown to the Purser, who, it seems,
had been a notary, or surrogate, or some sort of cosy chamber
practitioner in his time, he declared that it must be "proved." So the
witnesses were called, and after recognising their hands to the paper;
for the purpose of additionally testing their honesty, they were
interrogated concerning the day on which they had signed--whether it
was _Banyan Day_, or _Duff Day_, or _Swampseed Day_; for among the
sailors on board a man-of-war, the land terms, _Monday_, _Tuesday_,
_Wednesday_, are almost unknown. In place of these they substitute
nautical names, some of which are significant of the daily bill of fare
at dinner for the week.

The two witnesses were somewhat puzzled by the attorney-like questions
of the Purser, till a third party came along, one of the ship's
barbers, and declared, of his own knowledge, that Shenly executed the
instrument on a _Shaving Day_; for the deceased seaman had informed him
of the circumstance, when he came to have his beard reaped on the
morning of the event.

In the Purser's opinion, this settled the question; and it is to be
hoped that the widow duly received her husband's death-earned wages.

Shenly was dead and gone; and what was Shenly's epitaph?

     --"D. D."--

opposite his name in the Purser's books, in "_Black's best Writing
Fluid_"--funereal name and funereal hue--meaning "Discharged, Dead."




CHAPTER LXXXIII.

A MAN-OF-WAR  COLLEGE.


In our man-of-war world, Life comes in at one gangway and Death goes
overboard at the other. Under the man-of-war scourge, curses mix with
tears; and the sigh and the sob furnish the bass to the shrill octave
of those who laugh to drown buried griefs of their own. Checkers were
played in the waist at the time of Shenly's burial; and as the body
plunged, a player swept the board. The bubbles had hardly burst, when
all hands were _piped down_ by the Boatswain, and the old jests were
heard again, as if Shenly himself were there to hear.

This man-of-war life has not left me unhardened. I cannot stop to weep
over Shenly now; that would be false to the life I depict; wearing no
mourning weeds, I resume the task of portraying our man-of-war world.

Among the various other vocations, all driven abreast on board of the
Neversink, was that of the schoolmaster. There were two academies in
the frigate. One comprised the apprentice boys, who, upon certain days
of the week, were indoctrinated in the mysteries of the primer by an
invalid corporal of marines, a slender, wizzen-cheeked man, who had
received a liberal infant-school education.

The other school was a far more pretentious affair--a sort of army and
navy seminary combined, where mystical mathematical problems were
solved by the midshipmen, and great ships-of-the-line were navigated
over imaginary shoals by unimaginable observations of the moon and the
stars, and learned lectures were delivered upon great guns, small arms,
and the curvilinear lines described by bombs in the air.

"_The Professor_" was the title bestowed upon the erudite gentleman who
conducted this seminary, and by that title alone was he known
throughout the ship. He was domiciled in the Ward-room, and circulated
there on a social par with the Purser, Surgeon, and other
_non-combatants_ and Quakers. By being advanced to the dignity of a
peerage in the Ward-room, Science and Learning were ennobled in the
person of this Professor, even as divinity was honoured in the Chaplain
enjoying the rank of a spiritual peer.

Every other afternoon, while at sea, the Professor assembled his pupils
on the half-deck, near the long twenty-four pounders. A bass drum-head
was his desk, his pupils forming a semicircle around him, seated on
shot-boxes and match-tubs.


They were in the jelly of youth, and this learned Professor poured into
their susceptible hearts all the gentle gunpowder maxims of war.
Presidents of Peace Societies and Superintendents of Sabbath-schools,
must it not have been a most interesting sight?

But the Professor himself was a noteworthy person. A tall, thin,
spectacled man, about forty years old, with a student's stoop in his
shoulders, and wearing uncommonly scanty pantaloons, exhibiting an
undue proportion of his boots. In early life he had been a cadet in the
military academy of West Point; but, becoming very weak-sighted, and
thereby in a good manner disqualified for active service in the field,
he had declined entering the army, and accepted the office of Professor
in the Navy.

His studies at West Point had thoroughly grounded him in a knowledge of
gunnery; and, as he was not a little of a pedant, it was sometimes
amusing, when the sailors were at quarters, to hear him criticise their
evolutions at the batteries. He would quote Dr. Hutton's Tracts on the
subject, also, in the original, "_The French Bombardier_," and wind up
by Italian passages from the "_Prattica Manuale dell' Artiglieria_."

Though not required by the Navy regulations to instruct his scholars in
aught but the application of mathematics to navigation, yet besides
this, and besides instructing them in the theory of gunnery, he also
sought to root them in the theory of frigate and fleet tactics. To be
sure, he himself did not know how to splice a rope or furl a sail; and,
owing to his partiality for strong coffee, he was apt to be nervous
when we fired salutes; yet all this did not prevent him from delivering
lectures on cannonading and "breaking the enemy's line."

He had arrived at his knowledge of tactics by silent, solitary study,
and earnest meditation in the sequestered retreat of his state-room.
His case was somewhat parallel to the Scotchman's--John. Clerk, Esq.,
of Eldin--who, though he had never been to sea, composed a quarto
treatise on fleet-fighting, which to this day remains a text-book; and
he also originated a nautical manoeuvre, which has given to England
many a victory over her foes.

Now there was a large black-board, something like a great-gun
target--only it was square--which during the professor's lectures was
placed upright on the gun-deck, supported behind by three
boarding-pikes. And here he would chalk out diagrams of great fleet
engagements; making marks, like the soles of shoes, for the ships, and
drawing a dog-vane in one corner to denote the assumed direction of the
wind. This done, with a cutlass he would point out every spot of
interest.

"Now, young gentlemen, the board before you exhibits the disposition of
the British West Indian squadron under Rodney, when, early on the
morning of the 9th of April, in the year of our blessed Lord 1782, he
discovered part of the French fleet, commanded by the Count de Grasse,
lying under the north end of the Island of Dominica. It was at this
juncture that the Admiral gave the signal for the British line to
prepare for battle, and stand on. D'ye understand, young gentlemen?
Well, the British van having nearly fetched up with the centre of the
enemy--who, be it remembered, were then on the starboard tack--and
Rodney's centre and rear being yet becalmed under the lee of the
land--the question I ask you is, What should Rodney now do?"

"Blaze away, by all means!" responded a rather confident reefer, who
had zealously been observing the diagram.

"But, sir, his centre and rear are still becalmed, and his van has not
yet closed with the enemy."

"Wait till he _does_ come in range, and _then_ blaze away," said the
reefer.

"Permit me to remark, Mr. Pert, that '_blaze away_' is not a strictly
technical term; and also permit me to hint, Mr. Pert, that you should
consider the subject rather more deeply before you hurry forward your
opinion."

This rebuke not only abashed Mr. Pert, but for a time intimidated the
rest; and the professor was obliged to proceed, and extricate the
British fleet by himself. He concluded by awarding Admiral Rodney the
victory, which must have been exceedingly gratifying to the family
pride of the surviving relatives and connections of that distinguished
hero.

"Shall I clean the board, sir?" now asked Mr. Pert, brightening up.

"No, sir; not till you have saved that crippled French ship in the
corner. That ship, young gentlemen, is the Glorieuse: you perceive she
is cut off from her consorts, and the whole British fleet is giving
chase to her. Her bowsprit is gone; her rudder is torn away; she has
one hundred round shot in her hull, and two thirds of her men are dead
or dying. What's to be done? the wind being at northeast by north?"

"Well, sir," said Mr. Dash, a chivalric young gentleman from Virginia,
"I wouldn't strike yet; I'd nail my colours to the main-royal-mast! I
would, by Jove!"

"That would not save your ship, sir; besides, your main-mast has gone
by the board."

"I think, sir," said Mr. Slim, a diffident youth, "I think, sir, I
would haul back the fore-top-sail."

"And why so? of what service would _that_ be, I should like to know,
Mr. Slim?"

"I can't tell exactly; but I think it would help her a little," was the
timid reply.

"Not a whit, sir--not one particle; besides, you can't haul back your
fore-top-sail--your fore-mast is lying across your forecastle."

"Haul back the main-top-sail, then," suggested another.

"Can't be done; your main-mast, also, has gone by the board!"

"Mizzen-top-sail?" meekly suggested little Boat-Plug.

"Your mizzen-top-mast, let me inform you, sir, was shot down in the
first of the fight!"

"Well, sir," cried Mr. Dash, "I'd tack ship, anyway; bid 'em good-by
with a broadside; nail my flag to the keel, if there was no other
place; and blow my brains out on the poop!"

"Idle, idle, sir! worse than idle! you are carried away, Mr. Dash, by
your ardent Southern temperament! Let me inform you, young gentlemen,
that this ship," touching it with his cutlass, "_cannot_ be saved."

Then, throwing down his cutlass, "Mr. Pert, have the goodness to hand
me one of those cannon-balls from the rack."

Balancing the iron sphere in one hand, the learned professor began
fingering it with the other, like Columbus illustrating the rotundity
of the globe before the Royal Commission of Castilian Ecclesiastics.

"Young gentlemen, I resume my remarks on the passage of a shot _in
vacuo_, which remarks were interrupted yesterday by general quarters.
After quoting that admirable passage in 'Spearman's British Gunner,' I
then laid it down, you remember, that the path of a shot _in vacuo_
describes a parabolic curve. I now add that, agreeably to the method
pursued by the illustrious Newton in treating the subject of
curvilinear motion, I consider the _trajectory_ or curve described by a
moving body in space as consisting of a series of right lines,
described in successive intervals of time, and constituting the
diagonals of parallelograms formed in a vertical plane between the
vertical deflections caused by gravity and the production of the line
of motion which has been described in each preceding interval of time.
This must be obvious; for, if you say that the passage _in vacuo_ of
this cannon-ball, now held in my hand, would describe otherwise than a
series of right lines, etc., then you are brought to the _Reductio ad
Absurdum_, that the diagonals of parallelograms are----"

"All hands reef top-sail!" was now thundered forth by the boatswain's
mates. The shot fell from the professor's palm; his spectacles dropped
on his nose, and the school tumultuously broke up, the pupils
scrambling up the ladders with the sailors, who had been overhearing
the lecture.




CHAPTER LXXXIV.

MAN-OF-WAR BARBERS.


The allusion to one of the ship's barbers in a previous chapter,
together with the recollection of how conspicuous a part they enacted
in a tragical drama soon to be related, leads me now to introduce them
to the reader.

Among the numerous artists and professors of polite trades in the Navy,
none are held in higher estimation or drive a more profitable business
than these barbers. And it may well be imagined that the five hundred
heads of hair and five hundred beards of a frigate should furnish no
small employment for those to whose faithful care they may be
intrusted. As everything connected with the domestic affairs of a
man-of-war comes under the supervision of the martial executive, so
certain barbers are formally licensed by the First Lieutenant. The
better to attend to the profitable duties of their calling, they are
exempted from all ship's duty except that of standing night-watches at
sea, mustering at quarters, and coming on deck when all hands are
called. They are rated as _able seamen_ or _ordinary seamen_, and
receive their wages as such; but in addition to this, they are
liberally recompensed for their professional services. Herein their
rate of pay is fixed for every sailor manipulated--so much per quarter,
which is charged to the sailor, and credited to his barber on the books
of the Purser.

It has been seen that while a man-of-war barber is shaving his
customers at so much per chin, his wages as a seaman are still running
on, which makes him a sort of _sleeping partner_ of a sailor; nor are
the sailor wages he receives altogether to be reckoned as earnings.
Considering the circumstances, however, not much objection can be made
to the barbers on this score. But there were instances of men in the
Neversink receiving government money in part pay for work done for
private individuals. Among these were several accomplished tailors, who
nearly the whole cruise sat cross-legged on the half deck, making
coats, pantaloons, and vests for the quarter-deck officers. Some of
these men, though knowing little or nothing about sailor duties, and
seldom or never performing them, stood upon the ship's books as
ordinary seamen, entitled to ten dollars a month. Why was this?
Previous to shipping they had divulged the fact of their being tailors.
True, the officers who employed them upon their wardrobes paid them for
their work, but some of them in such a way as to elicit much grumbling
from the tailors. At any rate, these makers and menders of clothes did
not receive from some of these officers an amount equal to what they
could have fairly earned ashore by doing the same work. It was a
considerable saving to the officers to have their clothes made on board.

The men belonging to the carpenter's gang furnished another case in
point. There were some six or eight allotted to this department. All
the cruise they were hard at work. At what? Mostly making chests of
drawers, canes, little ships and schooners, swifts, and other
elaborated trifles, chiefly for the Captain. What did the Captain pay
them for their trouble? Nothing. But the United States government paid
them; two of them (the mates) at nineteen dollars a month, and the rest
receiving the pay of able seamen, twelve dollars.

To return.

The regular days upon which the barbers shall exercise their vocation
are set down on the ship's calendar, and known as _shaving days_. On
board of the Neversink these days are Wednesdays and Saturdays; when,
immediately after breakfast, the barbers' shops were opened to
customers. They were in different parts of the gun-deck, between the
long twenty-four pounders. Their furniture, however, was not very
elaborate, hardly equal to the sumptuous appointments of metropolitan
barbers. Indeed, it merely consisted of a match-tub, elevated upon a
shot-box, as a barber's chair for the patient. No Psyche glasses; no
hand-mirror; no ewer and basin; no comfortable padded footstool;
nothing, in short, that makes a shore "_shave_" such a luxury.

Nor are the implements of these man-of-war barbers out of keeping with
the rude appearance of their shops. Their razors are of the simplest
patterns, and, from their jagged-ness, would seem better fitted for the
preparing and harrowing of the soil than for the ultimate reaping of
the crop. But this is no matter for wonder, since so many chins are to
be shaven, and a razor-case holds but two razors. For only two razors
does a man-of-war barber have, and, like the marine sentries at the
gangway in port, these razors go off and on duty in rotation. One
brush, too, brushes every chin, and one lather lathers them all. No
private brushes and boxes; no reservations whatever.

As it would be altogether too much trouble for a man-of-war's-man to
keep his own shaving-tools and shave himself at sea, and since,
therefore, nearly the whole ship's company patronise the ship's
barbers, and as the seamen must be shaven by evening quarters of the
days appointed for the business, it may be readily imagined what a
scene of bustle and confusion there is when the razors are being
applied. First come, first served, is the motto; and often you have to
wait for hours together, sticking to your position (like one of an
Indian file of merchants' clerks getting letters out of the
post-office), ere you have a chance to occupy the pedestal of the
match-tub. Often the crowd of quarrelsome candidates wrangle and fight
for precedency, while at all times the interval is employed by the
garrulous in every variety of ship-gossip.

As the shaving days are unalterable, they often fall upon days of high
seas and tempestuous winds, when the vessel pitches and rolls in a
frightful manner. In consequence, many valuable lives are jeopardised
from the razor being plied under such untoward circumstances. But these
sea-barbers pride themselves upon their sea-legs, and often you will
see them standing over their patients with their feet wide apart, and
scientifically swaying their bodies to the motion of the ship, as they
flourish their edge-tools about the lips, nostrils, and jugular.

As I looked upon the practitioner and patient at such times, I could
not help thinking that, if the sailor had any insurance on his life, it
would certainly be deemed forfeited should the president of the company
chance to lounge by and behold him in that imminent peril. For myself,
I accounted it an excellent preparation for going into a sea-fight,
where fortitude in standing up to your gun and running the risk of all
splinters, comprise part of the practical qualities that make up an
efficient man-of-war's man.

It remains to be related, that these barbers of ours had their labours
considerably abridged by a fashion prevailing among many of the crew,
of wearing very large whiskers; so that, in most cases, the only parts
needing a shave were the upper lip and suburbs of the chin. This had
been more or less the custom during the whole three years' cruise; but
for some time previous to our weathering Cape Horn, very many of the
seamen had redoubled their assiduity in cultivating their beards
preparatory to their return to America. There they anticipated creating
no small impression by their immense and magnificent
_homeward-bounders_--so they called the long fly-brushes at their
chins. In particular, the more aged sailors, embracing the Old Guard of
sea grenadiers on the forecastle, and the begrimed gunner's mates and
quarter-gunners, sported most venerable beards of an exceeding length
and hoariness, like long, trailing moss hanging from the bough of some
aged oak. Above all, the Captain of the Forecastle, old Ushant--a fine
specimen of a sea sexagenarian--wore a wide, spreading beard, gizzled
and grey, that flowed over his breast and often became tangled and
knotted with tar. This Ushant, in all weathers, was ever alert at his
duty; intrepidly mounting the fore-yard in a gale, his long beard
streaming like Neptune's. Off Cape Horn it looked like a miller's,
being all over powdered with frost; sometimes it glittered with minute
icicles in the pale, cold, moonlit Patagonian nights. But though he was
so active in time of tempest, yet when his duty did not call for
exertion, he was a remarkably staid, reserved, silent, and majestic old
man, holding himself aloof from noisy revelry, and never participating
in the boisterous sports of the crew. He resolutely set his beard
against their boyish frolickings, and often held forth like an oracle
concerning the vanity thereof. Indeed, at times he was wont to talk
philosophy to his ancient companions--the old sheet-anchor-men around
him--as well as to the hare-brained tenants of the fore-top, and the
giddy lads in the mizzen.

Nor was his philosophy to be despised; it abounded in wisdom. For this
Ushant was an old man, of strong natural sense, who had seen nearly the
whole terraqueous globe, and could reason of civilized and savage, of
Gentile and Jew, of Christian and Moslem. The long night-watches of the
sailor are eminently adapted to draw out the reflective faculties of
any serious-minded man, however humble or uneducated. Judge, then, what
half a century of battling out watches on the ocean must have done for
this fine old tar. He was a sort of a sea-Socrates, in his old age
"pouring out his last philosophy and life," as sweet Spenser has it;
and I never could look at him, and survey his right reverend beard,
without bestowing upon him that title which, in one of his satires,
Persius gives to the immortal quaffer of the hemlock--_Magister
Barbatus_--the bearded master.

Not a few of the ship's company had also bestowed great pains upon
their hair, which some of them--especially the genteel young sailor
bucks of the After-guard--wore over their shoulders like the ringleted
Cavaliers. Many sailors, with naturally tendril locks, prided
themselves upon what they call _love curls_, worn at the side of the
head, just before the ear--a custom peculiar to tars, and which seems
to have filled the vacated place of the old-fashioned Lord Rodney cue,
which they used to wear some fifty years ago.

But there were others of the crew labouring under the misfortune of
long, lank, Winnebago locks, carroty bunches of hair, or rebellious
bristles of a sandy hue. Ambitious of redundant mops, these still
suffered their carrots to grow, spite of all ridicule. They looked like
Huns and Scandinavians; and one of them, a young Down Easter, the
unenvied proprietor of a thick crop of inflexible yellow bamboos, went
by the name of _Peter the Wild Boy_; for, like Peter the Wild Boy in
France, it was supposed that he must have been caught like a catamount
in the pine woods of Maine. But there were many fine, flowing heads of
hair to counter-balance such sorry exhibitions as Peter's.

What with long whiskers and venerable beards, then, of every variety of
cut--Charles the Fifth's and Aurelian's--and endless _goatees_ and
_imperials;_ and what with abounding locks, our crew seemed a company
of Merovingians or Long-haired kings, mixed with savage Lombards or
Longobardi, so called from their lengthy beards.




CHAPTER LXXXV.

THE GREAT MASSACRE OF THE BEARDS.


The preceding chapter fitly paves the way for the present, wherein it
sadly befalls White-Jacket to chronicle a calamitous event, which
filled the Neversink with long lamentations, that echo through all her
decks and tops. After dwelling upon our redundant locks and
thrice-noble beards, fain would I cease, and let the sequel remain
undisclosed, but truth and fidelity forbid.

As I now deviously hover and lingeringly skirmish about the frontiers
of this melancholy recital, a feeling of sadness comes over me that I
cannot withstand. Such a heartless massacre of hair! Such a
Bartholomew's Day and Sicilian Vespers of assassinated beards! Ah! who
would believe it! With intuitive sympathy I feel of my own brown beard
while I write, and thank my kind stars that each precious hair is for
ever beyond the reach of the ruthless barbers of a man-of-war!

It needs that this sad and most serious matter should be faithfully
detailed. Throughout the cruise, many of the officers had expressed
their abhorrence of the impunity with which the most extensive
plantations of hair were cultivated under their very noses; and they
frowned upon every beard with even greater dislike. They said it was
unseamanlike; not _ship-shape;_ in short, it was disgraceful to the
Navy. But as Captain Claret said nothing, and as the officers, of
themselves, had no authority to preach a crusade against whiskerandoes,
the Old Guard on the forecastle still complacently stroked their
beards, and the sweet youths of the After-guard still lovingly threaded
their fingers through their curls.

Perhaps the Captain's generosity in thus far permitting our beards
sprung from the fact that he himself wore a small speck of a beard upon
his own imperial cheek; which if rumour said true, was to hide
something, as Plutarch relates of the Emperor Adrian. But, to do him
justice--as I always have done--the Captain's beard did not exceed the
limits prescribed by the Navy Department.

According to a then recent ordinance at Washington, the beards of both
officers and seamen were to be accurately laid out and surveyed, and on
no account must come lower than the mouth, so as to correspond with the
Army standard--a regulation directly opposed to the theocratical law
laid down in the nineteenth chapter and twenty-seventh verse of
Leviticus, where it is expressly ordained, "_Thou shalt not mar the
corners of thy beard_." But legislators do not always square their
statutes by those of the Bible.

At last, when we had crossed the Northern Tropic, and were standing up
to our guns at evening quarters, and when the setting sun, streaming in
at the port-holes, lit up every hair, till to an observer on the
quarter-deck, the two long, even lines of beards seemed one dense
grove; in that evil hour it must have been, that a cruel thought
entered into the heart of our Captain.

A pretty set of savages, thought he, am I taking home to America;
people will think them all catamounts and Turks. Besides, now that I
think of it, it's against the law. It will never do. They must be
shaven and shorn--that's flat.

There is no knowing, indeed, whether these were the very words in which
the Captain meditated that night; for it is yet a mooted point among
metaphysicians, whether we think in words or whether we think in
thoughts. But something like the above must have been the Captain's
cogitations. At any rate, that very evening the ship's company were
astounded by an extraordinary announcement made at the main-hatch-way
of the gun-deck, by the Boat-swain's mate there stationed. He was
afterwards discovered to have been tipsy at the time.

"D'ye hear there, fore and aft? All you that have hair on your heads,
shave them off; and all you that have beards, trim 'em small!"

Shave off our Christian heads! And then, placing them between our
knees, trim small our worshipped beards! The Captain was mad.

But directly the Boatswain came rushing to the hatchway, and, after
soundly rating his tipsy mate, thundered forth a true version of the
order that had issued from the quarter-deck. As amended, it ran thus:

"D'ye hear there, fore and aft? All you that have long hair, cut it
short; and all you that have large whiskers, trim them down, according
to the Navy regulations."

This was an amendment, to be sure; but what barbarity, after all! What!
not thirty days' run from home, and lose our magnificent
homeward-bounders! The homeward-bounders we had been cultivating so
long! Lose them at one fell swoop? Were the vile barbers of the
gun-deck to reap our long, nodding harvests, and expose our innocent
chins to the chill air of the Yankee coast! And our viny locks! were
they also to be shorn? Was a grand sheep-shearing, such as they
annually have at Nantucket, to take place; and our ignoble barbers to
carry off the fleece?

Captain Claret! in cutting our beards and our hair, you cut us the
unkindest cut of all! Were we going into action, Captain Claret--going
to fight the foe with our hearts of flame and our arms of steel, then
would we gladly offer up our beards to the terrific God of War, and
_that_ we would account but a wise precaution against having them
tweaked by the foe. _Then_, Captain Claret, you would but be imitating
the example of Alexander, who had his Macedonians all shaven, that in
the hour of battle their beards might not be handles to the Persians.
But _now_, Captain Claret! when after our long, long cruise, we are
returning to our homes, tenderly stroking the fine tassels on our
chins; and thinking of father or mother, or sister or brother, or
daughter or son; to cut off our beards now--the very beards that were
frosted white off the pitch of Patagonia--_this_ is too bitterly bad,
Captain Claret! and, by Heaven, we will not submit. Train your guns
inboard, let the marines fix their bayonets, let the officers draw
their swords; we _will not_ let our beards be reaped--the last insult
inflicted upon a vanquished foe in the East!

Where are you, sheet-anchor-men! Captains of the tops! gunner's mates!
mariners, all! Muster round the capstan your venerable beards, and
while you braid them together in token of brotherhood, cross hands and
swear that we will enact over again the mutiny of the Nore, and sooner
perish than yield up a hair!

The excitement was intense throughout that whole evening. Groups of
tens and twenties were scattered about all the decks, discussing the
mandate, and inveighing against its barbarous author. The long area of
the gun-deck was something like a populous street of brokers, when some
terrible commercial tidings have newly arrived. One and all, they
resolved not to succumb, and every man swore to stand by his beard and
his neighbour.

Twenty-four hours after--at the next evening quarters--the Captain's
eye was observed to wander along the men at their guns--not a beard was
shaven!

When the drum beat the retreat, the Boatswain--now attended by all four
of his mates, to give additional solemnity to the
announcement--repeated the previous day's order, and concluded by
saying, that twenty-four hours would be given for all to acquiesce.

But the second day passed, and at quarters, untouched, every beard
bristled on its chin. Forthwith Captain Claret summoned the midshipmen,
who, receiving his orders, hurried to the various divisions of the
guns, and communicated them to the Lieutenants respectively stationed
over divisions.

The officer commanding mine turned upon us, and said, "Men, if tomorrow
night I find any of you with long hair, or whiskers of a standard
violating the Navy regulations, the names of such offenders shall be
put down on the report."

The affair had now assumed a most serious aspect. The Captain was in
earnest. The excitement increased ten-fold; and a great many of the
older seamen, exasperated to the uttermost, talked about _knocking of
duty_ till the obnoxious mandate was revoked. I thought it impossible
that they would seriously think of such a folly; but there is no
knowing what man-of-war's-men will sometimes do, under
provocation--witness Parker and the Nore.

That same night, when the first watch was set, the men in a body drove
the two boatswain's mates from their stations at the fore and main
hatchways, and unshipped the ladders; thus cutting off all
communication between the gun and spar decks, forward of the main-mast.

Mad Jack had the trumpet; and no sooner was this incipient mutiny
reported to him, than he jumped right down among the mob, and
fearlessly mingling with them, exclaimed, "What do you mean, men? don't
be fools! This is no way to get what you want. Turn to, my lads, turn
to! Boatswain's mate, ship that ladder! So! up you tumble, now, my
hearties! away you go!"

His gallant, off-handed, confident manner, recognising no attempt at
mutiny, operated upon the sailors like magic.

They _tumbled up_, as commanded; and for the rest of that night
contented themselves with privately fulminating their displeasure
against the Captain, and publicly emblazoning every anchor-button on
the coat of admired Mad jack.

Captain Claret happened to be taking a nap in his cabin at the moment
of the disturbance; and it was quelled so soon that he knew nothing of
it till it was officially reported to him. It was afterward rumoured
through the ship that he reprimanded Mad Jack for acting as he did. He
main-tained that he should at once have summoned the marines, and
charged upon the "mutineers." But if the sayings imputed to the Captain
were true, he nevertheless refrained from subsequently noticing the
disturbance, or attempting to seek out and punish the ringleaders. This
was but wise; for there are times when even the most potent governor
must wink at transgression in order to preserve the laws inviolate for
the future. And great care is to be taken, by timely management, to
avert an incontestable act of mutiny, and so prevent men from being
roused, by their own consciousness of transgression, into all the fury
of an unbounded insurrection. _Then_ for the time, both soldiers and
sailors are irresistible; as even the valour of Caesar was made to
know, and the prudence of Germanicus, when their legions rebelled. And
not all the concessions of Earl Spencer, as First lord of the
Admiralty, nor the threats and entreaties of Lord Bridport, the Admiral
of the Fleet--no, nor his gracious Majesty's plenary pardon in
prospective, could prevail upon the Spithead mutineers (when at last
fairly lashed up to the mark) to succumb, until deserted by their own
mess-mates, and a handful was left in the breach.

Therefore, Mad Jack! you did right, and no one else could have
acquitted himself better. By your crafty simplicity, good-natured
daring, and off-handed air (as if nothing was happening) you perhaps
quelled a very serious affair in the bud, and prevented the disgrace to
the American Navy of a tragical mutiny, growing out of whiskers,
soap-suds, and razors. Think of it, if future historians should devote
a long chapter to the great _Rebellion of the Beards_ on board the
United States ship Neversink. Why, through all time thereafter, barbers
would cut down their spiralised poles, and substitute miniature
main-masts for the emblems of their calling.

And here is ample scope for some pregnant instruction, how that events
of vast magnitude in our man-of-war world may originate in the pettiest
of trifles. But that is an old theme; we waive it, and proceed.

On the morning following, though it was not a regular shaving day, the
gun-deck barbers were observed to have their shops open, their
match-tub accommodations in readiness, and their razors displayed. With
their brushes, raising a mighty lather in their tin pots, they stood
eyeing the passing throng of seamen, silently inviting them to walk in
and be served. In addition to their usual implements, they now
flourished at intervals a huge pair of sheep-shears, by way of more
forcibly reminding the men of the edict which that day must be obeyed,
or woe betide them.

For some hours the seamen paced to and fro in no very good humour,
vowing not to sacrifice a hair. Beforehand, they denounced that man who
should abase himself by compliance. But habituation to discipline is
magical; and ere long an old forecastle-man was discovered elevated
upon a match-tub, while, with a malicious grin, his barber--a fellow
who, from his merciless rasping, was called Blue-Skin--seized him by
his long beard, and at one fell stroke cut it off and tossed it out of
the port-hole behind him. This forecastle-man was ever afterwards known
by a significant title--in the main equivalent to that name of reproach
fastened upon that Athenian who, in Alexander's time, previous to which
all the Greeks sported beards, first submitted to the deprivation of
his own. But, spite of all the contempt hurled on our forecastle-man,
so prudent an example was soon followed; presently all the barbers were
busy.

Sad sight! at which any one but a barber or a Tartar would have wept!
Beards three years old; _goatees_ that would have graced a Chamois of
the Alps; _imperials_ that Count D'Orsay would have envied; and
_love-curls_ and man-of-war ringlets that would have measured, inch for
inch, with the longest tresses of The Fair One with the Golden
Locks--all went by the board! Captain Claret! how can you rest in your
hammock! by this brown beard which now waves from my chin--the
illustrious successor to that first, young, vigorous beard I yielded to
your tyranny--by this manly beard, I swear, it was barbarous!

My noble captain, Jack Chase, was indignant. Not even all the special
favours he had received from Captain Claret, and the plenary pardon
extended to him for his desertion into the Peruvian service, could
restrain the expression of his feelings. But in his cooler moments,
Jack was a wise man; he at last deemed it but wisdom to succumb.

When he went to the barber he almost drew tears from his eyes. Seating
himself mournfully on the match-tub, he looked sideways, and said to
the barber, who was _slithering_ his sheep-shears in readiness to
begin: "My friend, I trust your scissors are consecrated. Let them not
touch this beard if they have yet to be dipped in holy water; beards
are sacred things, barber. Have you no feeling for beards, my friend?
think of it;" and mournfully he laid his deep-dyed, russet cheek upon
his hand. "Two summers have gone by since my chin has been reaped. I
was in Coquimbo then, on the Spanish Main; and when the husband-man was
sowing his Autumnal grain on the Vega, I started this blessed beard;
and when the vine-dressers were trimming their vines in the vineyards,
I first trimmed it to the sound of a flute. Ah! barber, have you no
heart? This beard has been caressed by the snow-white hand of the
lovely Tomasita of Tombez--the Castilian belle of all lower Peru. Think
of _that_, barber! I have worn it as an officer on the quarter-deck of
a Peruvian man-of-war.  I have sported it at brilliant fandangoes in
Lima. I have been alow and aloft with it at sea. Yea, barber! it has
streamed like an Admiral's pennant at the mast-head of this same
gallant frigate, the Neversink! Oh! barber, barber! it stabs me to the
heart.--Talk not of hauling down your ensigns and standards when
vanquished--what is _that_, barber! to striking the flag that Nature
herself has nailed to the mast!"

Here noble Jack's feelings overcame him: he dropped from the animated
attitude into which his enthusiasm had momentarily transported him; his
proud head sunk upon his chest, and his long, sad beard almost grazed
the deck.

"Ay! trail your beards in grief and dishonour, oh crew of the
Neversink!" sighed Jack. "Barber, come closer--now, tell me, my friend,
have you obtained absolution for this deed you are about to commit? You
have not? Then, barber, I will absolve you; your hands shall be washed
of this sin; it is not you, but another; and though you are about to
shear off my manhood, yet, barber, I freely forgive you; kneel, kneel,
barber! that I may bless you, in token that I cherish no malice!"

So when this barber, who was the only tender-hearted one of his tribe,
had kneeled, been absolved, and then blessed, Jack gave up his beard
into his hands, and the barber, clipping it off with a sigh, held it
high aloft, and, parodying the style of the boatswain's mates, cried
aloud, "D'ye hear, fore and aft? This is the beard of our matchless
Jack Chase, the noble captain of this frigate's main-top!"




CHAPTER LXXXVI.

THE REBELS BROUGHT TO THE MAST.


Though many heads of hair were shorn, and many fine beards reaped that
day, yet several still held out, and vowed to defend their sacred hair
to the last gasp of their breath. These were chiefly old sailors--some
of them petty officers--who, presuming upon their age or rank,
doubtless thought that, after so many had complied with the Captain's
commands, _they_, being but a handful, would be exempted from
compliance, and remain a monument of our master's clemency.

That same evening, when the drum beat to quarters, the sailors went
sullenly to their guns, and the old tars who still sported their beards
stood up, grim, defying, and motionless, as the rows of sculptured
Assyrian kings, who, with their magnificent beards, have recently been
exhumed by Layard.

When the proper time arrived, their names were taken down by the
officers of divisions, and they were afterward summoned in a body to
the mast, where the Captain stood ready to receive them. The whole
ship's company crowded to the spot, and, amid the breathless multitude,
the vener-able rebels advanced and unhatted.

It was an imposing display. They were old and venerable mariners; their
cheeks had been burned brown in all latitudes, wherever the sun sends a
tropical ray. Reverend old tars, one and all; some of them might have
been grandsires, with grandchildren in every port round the world. They
ought to have commanded the veneration of the most frivolous or
magisterial beholder. Even Captain Claret they ought to have humiliated
into deference. But a Scythian is touched with no reverential
promptings; and, as the Roman student well knows, the august Senators
themselves, seated in the Senate-house, on the majestic hill of the
Capitol, had their holy beards tweaked by the insolent chief of the
Goths.

Such an array of beards! spade-shaped, hammer-shaped, dagger-shaped,
triangular, square, peaked, round, hemispherical, and forked. But chief
among them all, was old Ushant's, the ancient Captain of the
Forecastle. Of a Gothic venerableness, it fell upon his breast like a
continual iron-gray storm.

Ah! old Ushant, Nestor of the crew! it promoted my longevity to behold
you.

He was a man-of-war's-man of the old Benbow school. He wore a short
cue, which the wags of the mizzen-top called his "_plug of pig-tail_."
About his waist was a broad boarder's belt, which he wore, he said, to
brace his main-mast, meaning his backbone; for at times he complained
of rheumatic twinges in the spine, consequent upon sleeping on deck,
now and then, during the night-watches of upward of half a century. His
sheath-knife was an antique--a sort of old-fashioned pruning-hook; its
handle--a sperm whale's tooth--was carved all over with ships, cannon,
and anchors. It was attached to his neck by a _lanyard_, elaborately
worked into "rose-knots" and "Turks' heads" by his own venerable
fingers.

Of all the crew, this Ushant was most beloved by my glorious captain,
Jack Chase, who one day pointed him out to me as the old man was slowly
coming down the rigging from the fore-top.

"There, White-Jacket! isn't that old Chaucer's shipman?

     "'A dagger hanging by a las hadde he,
         About his nekke, under his arm adown;
         The hote sommer hadde made his beard all brown.
       Hardy he is, and wise; I undertake
       With many a tempest has his beard be shake.'

From the Canterbury Tales, White-Jacket! and must not old Ushant have
been living in Chaucer's time, that Chaucer could draw his portrait so
well?"




CHAPTER LXXXVII.

OLD USHANT AT THE GANGWAY.


The rebel beards, headed by old Ushant's, streaming like a Commodore's
_bougee_, now stood in silence at the mast.

"You knew the order!" said the Captain, eyeing them severely; "what
does that hair on your chins?"

"Sir," said the Captain of the Forecastle, "did old Ushant ever refuse
doing his duty? did he ever yet miss his muster? But, sir, old Ushant's
beard is his own!"

"What's that, sir? Master-at-arms, put that man into the brig."

"Sir," said the old man, respectfully, "the three years for which I
shipped are expired; and though I am perhaps bound to work the ship
home, yet, as matters are, I think my beard might be allowed me. It is
but a few days, Captain Claret."

"Put him into the brig!" cried the Captain; "and now, you old rascals!"
he added, turning round upon the rest, "I give you fifteen minutes to
have those beards taken off; if they then remain on your chins, I'll
flog you--every mother's son of you--though you were all my own
god-fathers!"

The band of beards went forward, summoned their barbers, and their
glorious pennants were no more. In obedience to orders, they then
paraded themselves at the mast, and, addressing the Captain, said,
"Sir, our _muzzle-lashings_ are cast off!"

Nor is it unworthy of being chronicled, that not a single sailor who
complied with the general order but refused to sport the vile
_regulation-whiskers_ prescribed by the Navy Department. No! like
heroes they cried, "Shave me clean! I will not wear a hair, since I
cannot wear all!"

On the morrow, after breakfast, Ushant was taken out of irons, and,
with the master-at-arms on one side and an armed sentry on the other,
was escorted along the gun-deck and up the ladder to the main-mast.
There the Captain stood, firm as before. They must have guarded the old
man thus to prevent his escape to the shore, something less than a
thousand miles distant at the time.

"Well, sir, will you have that beard taken off? you have slept over it
a whole night now; what do you say? I don't want to flog an old man
like you, Ushant!"

"My beard is my own, sir!" said the old man, lowly.

"Will you take it off?"

"It is mine, sir?" said the old man, tremulously.

"Rig the gratings?" roared the Captain. "Master-at-arms, strip him!
quarter-masters, seize him up! boatswain's mates, do your duty!"

While these executioners were employed, the Captain's excitement had a
little time to abate; and when, at last, old Ushant was tied up by the
arms and legs and his venerable back was exposed--that back which had
bowed at the guns of the frigate Constitution when she captured the
Guerriere--the Captain seemed to relent.

"You are a very old man," he said, "and I am sorry to flog you; but my
orders must be obeyed. I will give you one more chance; will you have
that beard taken off?"

"Captain Claret," said the old man, turning round painfully in his
bonds, "you may flog me if you will; but, sir, in this one thing I
_cannot_ obey you."

"Lay on! I'll see his backbone!" roared the Captain in a sudden fury.

"By Heaven!" thrillingly whispered Jack Chase, who stood by, "it's only
a halter; I'll strike him!"

"Better not," said a top-mate; "it's death, or worse punishment,
remember."

"There goes the lash!" cried Jack. "Look at the old man! By G---d, I
can't stand it! Let me go, men!" and with moist eyes Jack forced his
way to one side.

"You, boatswain's mate," cried the Captain, "you are favouring that
man! Lay on soundly, sir, or I'll have your own _cat_ laid soundly on
you."

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve lashes were laid on the back of that heroic old man. He only
bowed over his head, and stood as the Dying Gladiator lies.

"Cut him down," said the Captain.

"And now go and cut your own throat," hoarsely whispered an old
sheet-anchor-man, a mess-mate of Ushant's.

When the master-at-arms advanced with the prisoner's shirt, Ushant
waved him off with the dignified air of a Brahim, saying, "Do you
think, master-at-arms, that I am hurt? I will put on my own garment. I
am never the worse for it, man; and 'tis no dishonour when he who would
dishonour you, only dishonours himself."

"What says he?" cried the Captain; "what says that tarry old
philosopher with the smoking back? Tell it to me, sir, if you dare!
Sentry, take that man back to the brig. Stop! John Ushant, you have
been Captain of the Forecastle; I break you. And now you go into the
brig, there to remain till you consent to have that beard taken off."

"My beard is my own," said the old man, quietly. "Sen-try, I am ready."

And back he went into durance between the guns; but after lying some
four or five days in irons, an order came to remove them; but he was
still kept confined.

Books were allowed him, and he spent much time in reading. But he also
spent many hours in braiding his beard, and interweaving with it strips
of red bunting, as if he desired to dress out and adorn the thing which
had triumphed over all opposition.

He remained a prisoner till we arrived in America; but the very moment
he heard the chain rattle out of the hawse-hole, and the ship swing to
her anchor, he started to his feet, dashed the sentry aside, and
gaining the deck, exclaimed, "At home, with my beard!"

His term of service having some months previous expired, and the ship
being now in harbour, he was beyond the reach of naval law, and the
officers durst not molest him. But without unduly availing himself of
these circumstances, the old man merely got his bag and hammock
together, hired a boat, and throwing himself into the stern, was rowed
ashore, amid the unsuppressible cheers of all hands. It was a glorious
conquest over the Conqueror himself, as well worthy to be celebrated as
the Battle of the Nile.

Though, as I afterward learned, Ushant was earnestly entreated to put
the case into some lawyer's hands, he firmly declined, saying, "I have
won the battle, my friends, and I do not care for the prize-money." But
even had he complied with these entreaties, from precedents in similar
cases, it is almost certain that not a sou's worth of satisfaction
would have been received.

I know not in what frigate you sail now, old Ushant; but Heaven protect
your storied old beard, in whatever Typhoon it may blow. And if ever it
must be shorn, old man, may it fare like the royal beard of Henry I.,
of England, and be clipped by the right reverend hand of some
Archbishop of Sees.

As for Captain Claret, let it not be supposed that it is here sought to
impale him before the world as a cruel, black-hearted man. Such he was
not. Nor was he, upon the whole, regarded by his crew with anything
like the feelings which man-of-war's-men sometimes cherish toward
signally tyrannical commanders. In truth, the majority of the
Neversink's crew--in previous cruises habituated to flagrant
misusage--deemed Captain Claret a lenient officer. In many things he
certainly refrained from oppressing them. It has been related what
privileges he accorded to the seamen respecting the free playing of
checkers--a thing almost unheard of in most American men-of-war. In the
matter of overseeing the men's clothing, also, he was remarkably
indulgent, compared with the conduct of other Navy captains, who, by
sumptuary regulations, oblige their sailors to run up large bills with
the Purser for clothes. In a word, of whatever acts Captain Claret
might have been guilty in the Neversink, perhaps none of them proceeded
from any personal, organic hard-heartedness. What he was, the usages of
the Navy had made him. Had he been a mere landsman--a merchant, say--he
would no doubt have been considered a kind-hearted man.

There may be some who shall read of this Bartholomew Massacre of beards
who will yet marvel, perhaps, that the loss of a few hairs, more or
less, should provoke such hostility from the sailors, lash them into so
frothing a rage; indeed, come near breeding a mutiny.

But these circumstances are not without precedent. Not to speak of the
riots, attended with the loss of life, which once occurred in Madrid,
in resistance to an arbitrary edict of the king's, seeking to suppress
the cloaks of the Cavaliers; and, not to make mention of other
instances that might be quoted, it needs only to point out the rage of
the Saxons in the time of William the Conqueror, when that despot
commanded the hair on their upper lips to be shaven off--the hereditary
mustaches which whole generations had sported. The multitude of the
dispirited vanquished were obliged to acquiesce; but many Saxon
Franklins and gentlemen of spirit, choosing rather to lose their
castles than their mustaches, voluntarily deserted their firesides, and
went into exile. All this is indignantly related by the stout Saxon
friar, Matthew Paris, in his _Historia Major_, beginning with the
Norman Conquest.

And that our man-of-war's-men were right in desiring to perpetuate
their beards, as martial appurtenances, must seem very plain, when it
is considered that, as the beard is the token of manhood, so, in some
shape or other, has it ever been held the true badge of a warrior.
Bonaparte's grenadiers were stout whiskerandoes; and perhaps, in a
charge, those fierce whiskers of theirs did as much to appall the foe
as the sheen of their bayonets. Most all fighting creatures sport
either whiskers or beards; it seems a law of Dame Nature. Witness the
boar, the tiger, the cougar, man, the leopard, the ram, the cat--all
warriors, and all whiskerandoes. Whereas, the peace-loving tribes have
mostly enameled chins.




CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

FLOGGING THROUGH THE FLEET.


The flogging of an old man like Ushant, most landsmen will probably
regard with abhorrence. But though, from peculiar circumstances, his
case occasioned a good deal of indignation among the people of the
Neversink, yet, upon its own proper grounds, they did not denounce it.
Man-of-war's-men are so habituated to what landsmen would deem
excessive cruelties, that they are almost reconciled to inferior
severities.

And here, though the subject of punishment in the Navy has been
canvassed in previous chapters, and though the thing is every way a
most unpleasant and grievous one to enlarge upon, and though I
painfully nerve myself to it while I write, a feeling of duty compels
me to enter upon a branch of the subject till now undiscussed. I would
not be like the man, who, seeing an outcast perishing by the roadside,
turned about to his friend, saying, "Let us cross the way; my soul so
sickens at this sight, that I cannot endure it."

There are certain enormities in this man-of-war world that often secure
impunity by their very excessiveness. Some ignorant people will refrain
from permanently removing the cause of a deadly malaria, for fear of
the temporary spread of its offensiveness. Let us not be of such. The
more repugnant and repelling, the greater the evil. Leaving our women
and children behind, let us freely enter this Golgotha.

Years ago there was a punishment inflicted in the English, and I
believe in the American Navy, called _keel-hauling_--a phrase still
employed by man-of-war's-men when they would express some signal
vengeance upon a personal foe. The practice still remains in the French
national marine, though it is by no means resorted to so frequently as
in times past. It consists of attaching tackles to the two extremities
of the main-yard, and passing the rope under the ship's bottom. To one
end of this rope the culprit is secured; his own shipmates are then
made to run him up and down, first on this side, then on that--now
scraping the ship's hull under water--anon, hoisted, stunned and
breathless, into the air.

But though this barbarity is now abolished from the English and
American navies, there still remains another practice which, if
anything, is even worse than _keel-hauling_. This remnant of the Middle
Ages is known in the Navy as "_flogging through the fleet_." It is
never inflicted except by authority of a court-martial upon some
trespasser deemed guilty of a flagrant offence. Never, that I know of,
has it been inflicted by an American man-of-war on the home station.
The reason, probably, is, that the officers well know that such a
spectacle would raise a mob in any American seaport.

By XLI. of the Articles of War, a court-martial shall not "for any one
offence not capital," inflict a punishment beyond one hundred lashes.
In cases "not capital" this law may be, and has been, quoted in
judicial justification of the infliction of more than one hundred
lashes. Indeed, it would cover a thousand. Thus: One act of a sailor
may be construed into the commission of ten different transgressions,
for each of which he may be legally condemned to a hundred lashes, to
be inflicted without intermission. It will be perceived, that in any
case deemed "capital," a sailor under the above Article, may legally be
flogged to the death.

But neither by the Articles of War, nor by any other enactment of
Congress, is there any direct warrant for the extraordinary cruelty of
the mode in which punishment is inflicted, in cases of flogging through
the fleet. But as in numerous other instances, the incidental
aggravations of this penalty are indirectly covered by other clauses in
the Articles of War: one of which authorises the authorities of a
ship--in certain indefinite cases--to correct the guilty "_according to
the usages of the sea-service_."

One of these "usages" is the following:

All hands being called "to witness punishment" in the ship to which the
culprit belongs, the sentence of the court-martial condemning him is
read, when, with the usual solemnities, a portion of the punishment is
inflicted. In order that it shall not lose in severity by the slightest
exhaustion in the arm of the executioner, a fresh boatswain's mate is
called out at every dozen.

As the leading idea is to strike terror into the beholders, the
greatest number of lashes is inflicted on board the culprit's own ship,
in order to render him the more shocking spectacle to the crews of the
other vessels.

The first infliction being concluded, the culprit's shirt is thrown
over him; he is put into a boat--the Rogue's March being played
meanwhile--and rowed to the next ship of the squadron. All hands of
that ship are then called to man the rigging, and another portion of
the punishment is inflicted by the boatswain's mates of that ship. The
bloody shirt is again thrown over the seaman; and thus he is carried
through the fleet or squadron till the whole sentence is inflicted.

In other cases, the launch--the largest of the boats--is rigged with a
platform (like a headsman's scaffold), upon which halberds, something
like those used in the English army, are erected. They consist of two
stout poles, planted upright. Upon the platform stand a Lieutenant, a
Surgeon a Master-at-arms, and the executioners with their "cats." They
are rowed through the fleet, stopping at each ship, till the whole
sentence is inflicted, as before.

In some cases, the attending surgeon has professionally interfered
before the last lash has been given, alleging that immediate death must
ensue if the remainder should be administered without a respite. But
instead of humanely remitting the remaining lashes, in a case like
this, the man is generally consigned to his cot for ten or twelve days;
and when the surgeon officially reports him capable of undergoing the
rest of the sentence, it is forthwith inflicted. Shylock must have his
pound of flesh.

To say, that after being flogged through the fleet, the prisoner's back
is sometimes puffed up like a pillow; or to say that in other cases it
looks as if burned black before a roasting fire; or to say that you may
track him through the squadron by the blood on the bulwarks of every
ship, would only be saying what many seamen have seen.

Several weeks, sometimes whole months, elapse before the sailor is
sufficiently recovered to resume his duties. During the greater part of
that interval he lies in the sick-bay, groaning out his days and
nights; and unless he has the hide and constitution of a rhinoceros, he
never is the man he was before, but, broken and shattered to the marrow
of his bones, sinks into death before his time. Instances have occurred
where he has expired the day after the punishment. No wonder that the
Englishman, Dr. Granville--himself once a surgeon in the
Navy--declares, in his work on Russia, that the barbarian "knout"
itself is not a greater torture to undergo than the Navy
cat-o'-nine-tails.

Some years ago a fire broke out near the powder magazine in an American
national ship, one of the squadron at anchor in the Bay of Naples. The
utmost alarm prevailed. A cry went fore and aft that the ship was about
to blow up. One of the seamen sprang overboard in affright. At length
the fire was got under, and the man was picked up. He was tried before
a court-martial, found guilty of cowardice, and condemned to be flogged
through the fleet, In due time the squadron made sail for Algiers, and
in that harbour, once haunted by pirates, the punishment was
inflicted--the Bay of Naples, though washing the shores of an absolute
king, not being deemed a fit place for such an exhibition of American
naval law.

While the Neversink was in the Pacific, an American sailor, who had
deposited a vote for General Harrison for President of the United
States, was flogged through the fleet.




CHAPTER LXXXIX.

THE SOCIAL STATE IN A MAN-OF-WAR.


Bur the floggings at the gangway and the floggings through the fleet,
the stealings, highway robberies, swearings, gamblings, blasphemings,
thimble-riggings, smugglings, and tipplings of a man-of-war, which
throughout this narrative have been here and there sketched from the
life, by no means comprise the whole catalogue of evil. One single
feature is full of significance.

All large ships of war carry soldiers, called marines. In the Neversink
there was something less than fifty, two thirds of whom were Irishmen.
They were officered by a Lieutenant, an Orderly Sergeant, two
Sergeants, and two Corporals, with a drummer and fifer. The custom,
generally, is to have a marine to each gun; which rule usually
furnishes the scale for distributing the soldiers in vessels of
different force.

Our marines had no other than martial duty to perform; excepting that,
at sea, they stood watches like the sailors, and now and then lazily
assisted in pulling the ropes. But they never put foot in rigging or
hand in tar-bucket.

On the quarter-bills, these men were stationed at none of the great
guns; on the station-bills, they had no posts at the ropes. What, then,
were they for? To serve their country in time of battle? Let us see.
When a ship is running into action, her marines generally lie flat on
their faces behind the bulwarks (the sailors are sometimes ordered to
do the same), and when the vessel is fairly engaged, they are usually
drawn up in the ship's waist--like a company reviewing in the Park. At
close quarters, their muskets may pick off a seaman or two in the
rigging, but at long-gun distance they must passively stand in their
ranks and be decimated at the enemy's leisure. Only in one case in
ten--that is, when their vessel is attempted to be boarded by a large
party, are these marines of any essential service as fighting men; with
their bayonets they are then called upon to "repel!"

If comparatively so useless as soldiers, why have marines at all in the
Navy? Know, then, that what standing armies are to nations, what
turnkeys are to jails, these marines are to the seamen in all large
men-of-war. Their muskets are their keys. With those muskets they stand
guard over the fresh water; over the grog, when doled; over the
provisions, when being served out by the Master's mate; over the "brig"
or jail; at the Commodore's and Captain's cabin doors; and, in port, at
both gangways and forecastle.

Surely, the crowd of sailors, who besides having so many sea-officers
over them, are thus additionally guarded by soldiers, even when they
quench their thirst--surely these man-of-war's-men must be desperadoes
indeed; or else the naval service must be so tyrannical that the worst
is feared from their possible insubordination. Either reason holds
good, or both, according to the character of the officers and crew.

It must be evident that the man-of-war's-man casts but an evil eye on a
marine. To call a man a "horse-marine," is, among seamen, one of the
greatest terms of contempt.

But the mutual contempt, and even hatred, subsisting between these two
bodies of men--both clinging to one keel, both lodged in one
household--is held by most Navy officers as the height of the
perfection of Navy discipline. It is regarded as the button that caps
the uttermost point on their main-mast.

Thus they reason: Secure of this antagonism between the marine and the
sailor, we can always rely upon it, that if the sailor mutinies, it
needs no great incitement for the marine to thrust his bayonet through
his heart; if the marine revolts, the pike of the sailor is impatient
to charge. Checks and balances, blood against blood, _that_ is the cry
and the argument.

What applies to the relation in which the marine and sailor stand
toward each other--the mutual repulsion implied by a system of
checks--will, in degree, apply to nearly the entire interior of a
man-of-war's discipline. The whole body of this discipline is
emphatically a system of cruel cogs and wheels, systematically grinding
up in one common hopper all that might minister to the moral well-being
of the crew.

It is the same with both officers and men. If a Captain have a grudge
against a Lieutenant, or a Lieutenant against a midshipman, how easy to
torture him by official treatment, which shall not lay open the
superior officer to legal rebuke. And if a midshipman bears a grudge
against a sailor, how easy for him, by cunning practices, born of a
boyish spite, to have him degraded at the gangway. Through all the
endless ramifications of rank and station, in most men-of-war there
runs a sinister vein of bitterness, not exceeded by the fireside
hatreds in a family of stepsons ashore. It were sickening to detail all
the paltry irritabilities, jealousies, and cabals, the spiteful
detractions and animosities, that lurk far down, and cling to the very
kelson of the ship. It is unmanning to think of. The immutable
ceremonies and iron etiquette of a man-of-war; the spiked barriers
separating the various grades of rank; the delegated absolutism of
authority on all hands; the impossibility, on the part of the common
seaman, of appeal from incidental abuses, and many more things that
might be enumerated, all tend to beget in most armed ships a general
social condition which is the precise reverse of what any Christian
could desire. And though there are vessels, that in some measure
furnish exceptions to this; and though, in other ships, the thing may
be glazed over by a guarded, punctilious exterior, almost completely
hiding the truth from casual visitors, while the worst facts touching
the common sailor are systematically kept in the background, yet it is
certain that what has here been said of the domestic interior of a
man-of-war will, in a greater or less degree, apply to most vessels in
the Navy. It is not that the officers are so malevolent, nor,
altogether, that the man-of-war's-man is so vicious. Some of these
evils are unavoidably generated through the operation of the Naval
code; others are absolutely organic to a Navy establishment, and, like
other organic evils, are incurable, except when they dissolve with the
body they live in.




CHAPTER XC.

THE MANNING OF NAVIES.


"The gallows and the sea refuse nothing," is a very old sea saying;
and, among all the wondrous prints of Hogarth, there is none remaining
more true at the present day than that dramatic boat-scene, where after
consorting with harlots and gambling on tomb-stones, the Idle
Apprentice, with the villainous low forehead, is at last represented as
being pushed off to sea, with a ship and a gallows in the distance. But
Hogarth should have converted the ship's masts themselves into
Tyburn-trees, and thus, with the ocean for a background, closed the
career of his hero. It would then have had all the dramatic force of
the opera of Don Juan, who, after running his impious courses, is swept
from our sight in a tornado of devils.

For the sea is the true Tophet and bottomless pit of many workers of
iniquity; and, as the German mystics feign Gehennas within Gehennas,
even so are men-of-war familiarly known among sailors as "Floating
Hells." And as the sea, according to old Fuller, is the stable of brute
monsters, gliding hither and thither in unspeakable swarms, even so is
it the home of many moral monsters, who fitly divide its empire with
the snake, the shark, and the worm.

Nor are sailors, and man-of-war's-men especially, at all blind to a
true sense of these things. "_Purser rigged and parish damned_," is the
sailor saying in the American Navy, when the tyro first mounts the
lined frock and blue jacket, aptly manufactured for him in a State
Prison ashore.

No wonder, that lured by some _crimp_ into a service so galling, and,
perhaps, persecuted by a vindictive lieutenant, some repentant sailors
have actually jumped into the sea to escape from their fate, or set
themselves adrift on the wide ocean on the gratings without compass or
rudder.

In one case, a young man, after being nearly cut into dog's meat at the
gangway, loaded his pockets with shot and walked overboard.

Some years ago, I was in a whaling ship lying in a harbour of the
Pacific, with three French men-of-war alongside. One dark, moody night,
a suppressed cry was heard from the face of the waters, and, thinking
it was some one drowning, a boat was lowered, when two French sailors
were picked up, half dead from exhaustion, and nearly throttled by a
bundle of their clothes tied fast to their shoulders. In this manner
they had attempted their escape from their vessel. When the French
officers came in pursuit, these sailors, rallying from their
exhaustion, fought like tigers to resist being captured. Though this
story concerns a French armed ship, it is not the less applicable, in
degree, to those of other nations.

Mix with the men in an American armed ship, mark how many foreigners
there are, though it is against the law to enlist them. Nearly one
third of the petty officers of the Neversink were born east of the
Atlantic. Why is this? Because the same principle that operates in
hindering Americans from hiring themselves out as menial domestics also
restrains them, in a great measure, from voluntarily assuming a far
worse servitude in the Navy. "_Sailors wanted for the Navy_" is a
common announcement along the wharves of our sea-ports. They are always
"_wanted_." It may have been, in part, owing to this scarcity
man-of-war's men, that not many years ago, black slaves were frequently
to be found regularly enlisted with the crew of an American frigate,
their masters receiving their pay. This was in the teeth of a law of
Congress expressly prohibiting slaves in the Navy. This law,
indirectly, means black slaves, nothing being said concerning white
ones. But in view of what John Randolph of Roanoke said about the
frigate that carried him to Russia, and in view of what most armed
vessels actually are at present, the American Navy is not altogether an
inappropriate place for hereditary bondmen. Still, the circumstance of
their being found in it is of such a nature, that to some it may hardly
appear credible. The incredulity of such persons, nevertheless, must
yield to the fact, that on board of the United States ship Neversink,
during the present cruise, there was a Virginian slave regularly
shipped as a seaman, his owner receiving his wages. Guinea--such was
his name among the crew--belonged to the Purser, who was a Southern
gentleman; he was employed as his body servant. Never did I feel my
condition as a man-of-war's-man so keenly as when seeing this Guinea
freely circulating about the decks in citizen's clothes, and through
the influence of his master, almost entirely exempted from the
disciplinary degradation of the Caucasian crew. Faring sumptuously in
the ward-room; sleek and round, his ebon face fairly polished with
content: ever gay and hilarious; ever ready to laugh and joke, that
African slave was actually envied by many of the seamen. There were
times when I almost envied him myself. Lemsford once envied him
outright, "Ah, Guinea!" he sighed, "you have peaceful times; you never
opened the book I read in."

One morning, when all hands were called to witness punishment, the
Purser's slave, as usual, was observed to be hurrying down the ladders
toward the ward-room, his face wearing that peculiar, pinched blueness,
which, in the negro, answers to the paleness caused by nervous
agitation in the white. "Where are you going, Guinea?" cried the
deck-officer, a humorous gentleman, who sometimes diverted himself with
the Purser's slave, and well knew what answer he would now receive from
him. "Where are you going, Guinea?" said this officer; "turn about;
don't you hear the call, sir?" "'_Scuse_ me, massa!" said the slave,
with a low salutation; "I can't 'tand it; I can't, indeed, massa!" and,
so saying, he disappeared beyond the hatchway. He was the only person
on board, except the hospital-steward and the invalids of the sick-bay,
who was exempted from being present at the administering of the
scourge. Accustomed to light and easy duties from his birth, and so
fortunate as to meet with none but gentle masters, Guinea, though a
bondman, liable to be saddled with a mortgage, like a horse--Guinea, in
India-rubber manacles, enjoyed the liberties of the world.

Though his body-and-soul proprietor, the Purser, never in any way
individualised me while I served on board the frigate, and never did me
a good office of any kind (it was hardly in his power), yet, from his
pleasant, kind, indulgent manner toward his slave, I always imputed to
him a generous heart, and cherished an involuntary friendliness toward
him. Upon our arrival home, his treatment of Guinea, under
circumstances peculiarly calculated to stir up the resentment of a
slave-owner, still more augmented my estimation of the Purser's good
heart.

Mention has been made of the number of foreigners in the American Navy;
but it is not in the American Navy alone that foreigners bear so large
a proportion to the rest of the crew, though in no navy, perhaps, have
they ever borne so large a proportion as in our own. According to an
English estimate, the foreigners serving in the King's ships at one
time amounted to one eighth of the entire body of seamen. How it is in
the French Navy, I cannot with certainty say; but I have repeatedly
sailed with English seamen who have served in it.

One of the effects of the free introduction of foreigners into any Navy
cannot be sufficiently deplored. During the period I lived in the
Neversink, I was repeatedly struck by the lack of patriotism in many of
my shipmates. True, they were mostly foreigners who unblushingly
avowed, that were it not for the difference of pay, they would as lief
man the guns of an English ship as those of an American or Frenchman.
Nevertheless, it was evident, that as for any high-toned patriotic
feeling, there was comparatively very little--hardly any of it--evinced
by our sailors as a body. Upon reflection, this was not to be wondered
at. From their roving career, and the sundering of all domestic ties,
many sailors, all the world over, are like the "Free Companions," who
some centuries ago wandered over Europe, ready to fight the battles of
any prince who could purchase their swords. The only patriotism is born
and nurtured in a stationary home, and upon an immovable hearth-stone;
but the man-of-war's-man, though in his voyagings he weds the two Poles
and brings both Indies together, yet, let him wander where he will, he
carries his one only home along with him: that home is his hammock.
"_Born under a gun, and educated on the bowsprit_," according to a
phrase of his own, the man-of-war-man rolls round the world like a
billow, ready to mix with any sea, or be sucked down to death in the
maelstrom of any war.

Yet more. The dread of the general discipline of a man-of-war; the
special obnoxiousness of the gangway; the protracted confinement on
board ship, with so few "liberty days;" and the pittance of pay (much
less than what can always be had in the Merchant Service), these things
contrive to deter from the navies of all countries by far the majority
of their best seamen. This will be obvious, when the following
statistical facts, taken from Macpherson's Annals of Commerce, are
considered. At one period, upon the Peace Establishment, the number of
men employed in the English Navy was 25,000; at the same time, the
English Merchant Service was employing 118,952. But while the
necessities of a merchantman render it indispensable that the greater
part of her crew be able seamen, the circumstances of a man-of-war
admit of her mustering a crowd of landsmen, soldiers, and boys in her
service. By a statement of Captain Marryat's, in his pamphlet (A. D.
1822) "On the Abolition of Impressment," it appears that, at the close
of the Bonaparte wars, a full third of all the crews of his Majesty's
fleets consisted of landsmen and boys.

Far from entering with enthusiasm into the king's ships when their
country were menaced, the great body of English seamen, appalled at the
discipline of the Navy, adopted unheard-of devices to escape its
press-gangs. Some even hid themselves in caves, and lonely places
inland, fearing to run the risk of seeking a berth in an outward-bound
merchantman, that might have carried them beyond sea. In the true
narrative of "John Nichol, Mariner," published in 1822 by Blackwood in
Edinburgh, and Cadell in London, and which everywhere bears the
spontaneous impress of truth, the old sailor, in the most artless,
touching, and almost uncomplaining manner, tells of his "skulking like
a thief" for whole years in the country round about Edin-burgh, to
avoid the press-gangs, prowling through the land like bandits and
Burkers. At this time (Bonaparte's wars), according to "Steel's List,"
there were forty-five regular press-gang stations in Great Britain.[5]

----

[FOOTNOTE-5] Besides this domestic kidnapping, British frigates, in
friendly or neutral harbours, in some instances pressed into their
service foreign sailors of all nations from the public wharves. In
certain cases, where Americans were concerned, when "_protections_"
were found upon their persons, these were destroyed; and to prevent the
American consul from claiming his sailor countrymen, the press-gang
generally went on shore the night previous to the sailing of the
frigate, so that the kidnapped seamen were far out to sea before they
could be missed by their friends. These things should be known; for in
case the English government again goes to war with its fleets, and
should again resort to indiscriminate impressment to man them, it is
well that both Englishmen and Americans, that all the world be prepared
to put down an iniquity outrageous and insulting to God and man.

----


In a later instance, a large body of British seamen solemnly assembled
upon the eve of an anticipated war, and together determined, that in
case of its breaking out, they would at once flee to America, to avoid
being pressed into the service of their country--a service which
degraded her own guardians at the gangway.

At another time, long previous to this, according to an English Navy
officer, Lieutenant Tomlinson, three thousand seamen, impelled by the
same motive, fled ashore in a panic from the colliers between Yarmouth
Roads and the Nore. Elsewhere, he says, in speaking of some of the men
on board the king's ships, that "they were most miserable objects."
This remark is perfectly corroborated by other testimony referring to
another period. In alluding to the lamented scarcity of good English
seamen during the wars of 1808, etc., the author of a pamphlet on
"Naval Subjects" says, that all the best seamen, the steadiest and
best-behaved men, generally succeeded in avoiding the impress. This
writer was, or had been, himself a Captain in the British fleet.

Now it may be easily imagined who are the men, and of what moral
character they are, who, even at the present day, are willing to enlist
as full-grown adults in a service so galling to all shore-manhood as
the Navy. Hence it comes that the skulkers and scoundrels of all sorts
in a man-of-war are chiefly composed not of regular seamen, but of
these "dock-lopers" of landsmen, men who enter the Navy to draw their
grog and murder their time in the notorious idleness of a frigate. But
if so idle, why not reduce the number of a man-of-war's crew, and
reasonably keep employed the rest? It cannot be done. In the first
place, the magnitude of most of these ships requires a large number of
hands to brace the heavy yards, hoist the enormous top-sails, and weigh
the ponderous anchor. And though the occasion for the employment of so
many men comes but seldom, it is true, yet when that occasion _does_
come--and come it may at any moment--this multitude of men are
indispensable.

But besides this, and to crown all, the batteries must be manned. There
must be enough men to work all the guns at one time. And thus, in order
to have a sufficiency of mortals at hand to "sink, burn and destroy;" a
man-of-war, through her vices, hopelessly depraving the volunteer
landsmen and ordinary seamen of good habits, who occasionally
enlist--must feed at the public cost a multitude of persons, who, if
they did not find a home in the Navy, would probably fall on the
parish, or linger out their days in a prison.

Among others, these are the men into whose mouths Dibdin puts his
patriotic verses, full of sea-chivalry and romance. With an exception
in the last line, they might be sung with equal propriety by both
English and American man-of-war's-men.

     "As for me, in all weathers, all times, tides, and ends,
        Naught's a trouble from duty that springs;
      For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friends,
        And as for my life, it's the king's.

      To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
        Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer," etc.

I do not unite with a high critical authority in considering Dibdin's
ditties as "slang songs," for most of them breathe the very poetry of
the ocean. But it is remarkable that those songs--which would lead one
to think that man-of-war's-men are the most care-free, contented,
virtuous, and patriotic of mankind--were composed at a time when the
English Navy was principally manned by felons and paupers, as mentioned
in a former chapter. Still more, these songs are pervaded by a true
Mohammedan sensualism; a reckless acquiescence in fate, and an
implicit, unquestioning, dog-like devotion to whoever may be lord and
master. Dibdin was a man of genius; but no wonder Dibdin was a
government pensioner at L200 per annum.

But notwithstanding the iniquities of a man-of-war, men are to be found
in them, at times, so used to a hard life; so drilled and disciplined
to servitude, that, with an incomprehensible philosophy, they seem
cheerfully to resign themselves to their fate. They have plenty to eat;
spirits to drink; clothing to keep them warm; a hammock to sleep in;
tobacco to chew; a doctor to medicine them; a parson to pray for them;
and, to a penniless castaway, must not all this seem as a luxurious
Bill of Fare?

There was on board of the Neversink a fore-top-man by the name of
Landless, who, though his back was cross-barred, and plaided with the
ineffaceable scars of all the floggings accumulated by a reckless tar
during a ten years' service in the Navy, yet he perpetually wore a
hilarious face, and at joke and repartee was a very Joe Miller.

That man, though a sea-vagabond, was not created in vain. He enjoyed
life with the zest of everlasting adolescence; and, though cribbed in
an oaken prison, with the turnkey sentries all round him, yet he paced
the gun-deck as if it were broad as a prairie, and diversified in
landscape as the hills and valleys of the Tyrol. Nothing ever
disconcerted him; nothing could transmute his laugh into anything like
a sigh. Those glandular secretions, which in other captives sometimes
go to the formation of tears, in _him_ were expectorated from the
mouth, tinged with the golden juice of a weed, wherewith he solaced and
comforted his ignominious days.

"Rum and tobacco!" said Landless, "what more does a sailor want?"

His favourite song was "_Dibdin's True English Sailor_," beginning,

     "Jack dances and sings, and is always content,
        In his vows to his lass he'll ne'er fail her;
      His anchor's atrip when his money's all spent,
        And this is the life of a sailor."

But poor Landless danced quite as often at the gangway, under the lash,
as in the sailor dance-houses ashore.


Another of his songs, also set to the significant tune of _The King,
God bless him!_ mustered the following lines among many similar ones:

     "Oh, when safely landed in Boston or 'York,
        Oh how I will tipple and jig it;
      And toss off my glass while my rhino holds out,
        In drinking success to our frigate!"

During the many idle hours when our frigate was lying in harbour, this
man was either merrily playing at checkers, or mending his clothes, or
snoring like a trumpeter under the lee of the booms. When fast asleep,
a national salute from our batteries could hardly move him. Whether
ordered to the main-truck in a gale; or rolled by the drum to the
grog-tub; or commanded to walk up to the gratings and be lashed,
Landess always obeyed with the same invincible indifference.

His advice to a young lad, who shipped with us at Valparaiso, embodies
the pith and marrow of that philosophy which enables some
man-of-war's-men to wax jolly in the service.

"_Shippy!_" said Landless, taking the pale lad by his neckerchief, as
if he had him by the halter; "Shippy, I've seen sarvice with Uncle
Sam--I've sailed in many _Andrew Millers_. Now take my advice, and
steer clear of all trouble. D'ye see, touch your tile whenever a swob
(officer) speaks to you. And never mind how much they rope's-end you,
keep your red-rag belayed; for you must know as how they don't fancy
sea-lawyers; and when the sarving out of slops comes round, stand up to
it stiffly; it's only an oh Lord! Or two, and a few oh my Gods!--that's
all. And what then? Why, you sleeps it off in a few nights, and turn
out at last all ready for your grog."

This Landless was a favourite with the officers, among whom he went by
the name of "_Happy Jack_." And it is just such Happy Jacks as Landless
that most sea-officers profess to admire; a fellow without shame,
without a soul, so dead to the least dignity of manhood that he could
hardly be called a man. Whereas, a seaman who exhibits traits of moral
sensitiveness, whose demeanour shows some dignity within; this is the
man they, in many cases, instinctively dislike. The reason is, they
feel such a man to be a continual reproach to them, as being mentally
superior to their power. He has no business in a man-of-war; they do
not want such men. To them there is an insolence in his manly freedom,
contempt in his very carriage. He is unendurable, as an erect,
lofty-minded African would be to some slave-driving planter.

Let it not be supposed, however, that the remarks in this and the
preceding chapter apply to _all_ men-of-war. There are some vessels
blessed with patriarchal, intellectual Captains, gentlemanly and
brotherly officers, and docile and Christianised crews. The peculiar
usages of such vessels insensibly softens the tyrannical rigour of the
Articles of War; in them, scourging is unknown. To sail in such ships
is hardly to realise that you live under the martial law, or that the
evils above mentioned can anywhere exist.

And Jack Chase, old Ushant, and several more fine tars that might be
added, sufficiently attest, that in the Neversink at least, there was
more than one noble man-of-war's-man who almost redeemed all the rest.

Wherever, throughout this narrative, the American Navy, in any of its
bearings, has formed the theme of a general discussion, hardly one
syllable of admiration for what is accounted illustrious in its
achievements has been permitted to escape me. The reason is this: I
consider, that so far as what is called military renown is concerned,
the American Navy needs no eulogist but History. It were superfluous
for White-Jacket to tell the world what it knows already. The office
imposed upon me is of another cast; and, though I foresee and feel that
it may subject me to the pillory in the hard thoughts of some men, yet,
supported by what God has given me, I tranquilly abide the event,
whatever it may prove.




CHAPTER XCI.

SMOKING-CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH SCENES ON THE GUN-DECK DRAWING NEAR
HOME.


There is a fable about a painter moved by Jove to the painting of the
head of Medusa. Though the picture was true to the life, yet the poor
artist sickened at the sight of what his forced pencil had drawn. Thus,
borne through my task toward the end, my own soul now sinks at what I
myself have portrayed. But let us forget past chapters, if we may,
while we paint less repugnant things.

Metropolitan gentlemen have their club; provincial gossipers their
news-room; village quidnuncs their barber's shop; the Chinese their
opium-houses; American Indians their council-fire; and even cannibals
their _Noojona_, or Talk-Stone, where they assemble at times to discuss
the affairs of the day. Nor is there any government, however despotic,
that ventures to deny to the least of its subjects the privilege of a
sociable chat. Not the Thirty Tyrants even--the clubbed post-captains
of old Athens--could stop the wagging tongues at the street-corners.
For chat man must; and by our immortal Bill of Rights, that guarantees
to us liberty of speech, chat we Yankees will, whether on board a
frigate, or on board our own terra-firma plantations.

In men-of-war, the Galley, or Cookery, on the gun-deck, is the grand
centre of gossip and news among the sailors. Here crowds assemble to
chat away the half-hour elapsing after every meal. The reason why this
place and these hours are selected rather than others is this: in the
neighbourhood of the galley alone, and only after meals, is the
man-of-war's-man permitted to regale himself with a smoke.

A sumptuary edict, truly, that deprived White-Jacket, for one, of a
luxury to which he had long been attached. For how can the mystical
motives, the capricious impulses of a luxurious smoker go and come at
the beck of a Commodore's command? No! when I smoke, be it because of
my sovereign good pleasure I choose so to do, though at so unseasonable
an hour that I send round the town for a brasier of coals. What! smoke
by a sun-dial? Smoke on compulsion? Make a trade, a business, a vile
recurring calling of smoking? And, perhaps, when those sedative fumes
have steeped you in the grandest of reveries, and, circle over circle,
solemnly rises some immeasurable dome in your soul--far away, swelling
and heaving into the vapour you raise--as if from one Mozart's grandest
marches of a temple were rising, like Venus from the sea--at such a
time, to have your whole Parthenon tumbled about your ears by the knell
of the ship's bell announcing the expiration of the half-hour for
smoking! Whip me, ye Furies! toast me in saltpetre! smite me, some
thunderbolt! charge upon me, endless squadrons of Mamalukes! devour me,
Feejees! but preserve me from a tyranny like this!

No! though I smoked like an Indian summer ere I entered the Neversink,
so abhorrent was this sumptuary law that I altogether abandoned the
luxury rather than enslave it to a time and a place. Herein did I not
right, Ancient and Honourable Old Guard of Smokers all round the world?

But there were others of the crew not so fastidious as myself. After
every meal, they hied to the galley and solaced their souls with a
whiff.

Now a bunch of cigars, all banded together, is a type and a symbol of
the brotherly love between smokers. Likewise, for the time, in a
community of pipes is a community of hearts! Nor was it an ill thing
for the Indian Sachems to circulate their calumet tobacco-bowl--even as
our own forefathers circulated their punch-bowl--in token of peace,
charity, and good-will, friendly feelings, and sympathising souls. And
this it was that made the gossipers of the galley so loving a club, so
long as the vapoury bond united them.

It was a pleasant sight to behold them. Grouped in the recesses between
the guns, they chatted and laughed like rows of convivialists in the
boxes of some vast dining-saloon. Take a Flemish kitchen full of good
fellows from Teniers; add a fireside group from Wilkie; throw in a
naval sketch from Cruickshank; and then stick a short pipe into every
mother's son's mouth, and you have the smoking scene at the galley of
the Neversink.

Not a few were politicians; and, as there were some thoughts of a war
with England at the time, their discussions waxed warm.

"I tell you what it is, _shippies!_" cried the old captain of gun No. 1
on the forecastle, "if that 'ere President of ourn don't luff up into
the wind, by the Battle of the Nile! he'll be getting us into a grand
fleet engagement afore the Yankee nation has rammed home her
cartridges--let alone blowing the match!"

"Who talks of luffing?" roared a roystering fore-top-man. "Keep our
Yankee nation large before the wind, say I, till you come plump on the
enemy's bows, and then board him in the smoke," and with that, there
came forth a mighty blast from his pipe.

"Who says the old man at the helm of the Yankee nation can't steer his
_trick_ as well as George Washington himself?" cried a sheet-anchor-man.

"But they say he's a cold-water customer, Bill," cried another; "and
sometimes o' nights I somehow has a presentation that he's goin' to
stop our grog."

"D'ye hear there, fore and aft!" roared the boatswain's mate at the
gangway, "all hands tumble up, and 'bout ship!"

"That's the talk!" cried the captain of gun No. 1, as, in obedience to
the summons, all hands dropped their pipes and crowded toward the
ladders, "and that's what the President must do--go in stays, my lads,
and put the Yankee nation on the other tack."

But these political discussions by no means supplied the staple of
conversation for the gossiping smokers of the galley. The interior
affairs of the frigate itself formed their principal theme. Rumours
about the private life of the Commodore in his cabin; about the
Captain, in his; about the various officers in the ward-room; about the
_reefers_ in the steerage, and their madcap frolickings, and about a
thousand other matters touching the crew themselves; all these--forming
the eternally shifting, domestic by-play of a man-of-war--proved
inexhaustible topics for our quidnuncs.

The animation of these scenes was very much heightened as we drew
nearer and nearer our port; it rose to a climax when the frigate was
reported to be only twenty-four hours' sail from the land. What they
should do when they landed; how they should invest their wages; what
they should eat; what they should drink; and what lass they should
marry--these were the topics which absorbed them.

"Sink the sea!" cried a forecastle man. "Once more ashore, and you'll
never again catch old Boombolt afloat. I mean to settle down in a
sail-loft."

"Cable-tier pinchers blister all tarpaulin hats!" cried a young
after-guard's-man; "I mean to go back to the counter."

"Shipmates! take me by the arms, and swab up the lee-scuppers with me,
but I mean to steer a clam-cart before I go again to a ship's wheel.
Let the Navy go by the board--to sea again, I won't!"

"Start my soul-bolts, maties, if any more Blue Peters and sailing
signals fly at my fore!" cried the Captain of the Head. "My wages will
buy a wheelbarrow, if nothing more."

"I have taken my last dose of salts," said the Captain of the Waist,
"and after this mean to stick to fresh water. Ay, maties, ten of us
Waisters mean to club together and buy a _serving-mallet boat_, d'ye
see; and if ever we drown, it will be in the 'raging canal!' Blast the
sea, shipmates! say I."

"Profane not the holy element!" said Lemsford, the poet of the
gun-deck, leaning over a cannon. "Know ye not, man-of-war's-men! that
by the Parthian magi the ocean was held sacred? Did not Tiridates, the
Eastern monarch, take an immense land circuit to avoid desecrating the
Mediterranean, in order to reach his imperial master, Nero, and do
homage for his crown?"

"What lingo is that?" cried the Captain of the Waist.

"Who's Commodore Tiddery-eye?" cried the forecastle-man.

"Hear me out," resumed Lemsford. "Like Tiridates, I venerate the sea,
and venerate it so highly, shipmates, that evermore I shall abstain
from crossing it. In _that_ sense, Captain of the Waist, I echo your
cry."

It was, indeed, a remarkable fact, that nine men out of every ten of
the Neversink's crew had formed some plan or other to keep themselves
ashore for life, or, at least, on fresh water, after the expiration of
the present cruise. With all the experiences of that cruise accumulated
in one intense recollection of a moment; with the smell of tar in their
nostrils; out of sight of land; with a stout ship under foot, and
snuffing the ocean air; with all the things of the sea surrounding
them; in their cool, sober moments of reflection; in the silence and
solitude of the deep, during the long night-watches, when all their
holy home associations were thronging round their hearts; in the
spontaneous piety and devotion of the last hours of so long a voyage;
in the fullness and the frankness of their souls; when there was naught
to jar the well-poised equilibrium of their judgment--under all these
circumstances, at least nine tenths of a crew of five hundred
man-of-war's-men resolved for ever to turn their backs on the sea. But
do men ever hate the thing they love? Do men forswear the hearth and
the homestead? What, then, must the Navy be?

But, alas for the man-of-war's-man, who, though he may take a Hannibal
oath against the service; yet, cruise after cruise, and after
forswearing it again and again, he is driven back to the spirit-tub and
the gun-deck by his old hereditary foe, the ever-devilish god of grog.

On this point, let some of the crew of the Neversink be called to the
stand.

You, Captain of the Waist! and you, seamen of the fore-top! and you,
after-guard's-men and others! how came you here at the guns of the
North Carolina, after registering your solemn vows at the galley of the
Neversink?

They all hang their heads. I know the cause; poor fellows! perjure
yourselves not again; swear not at all hereafter.

Ay, these very tars--the foremost in denouncing the Navy; who had bound
themselves by the most tremendous oaths--these very men, not three days
after getting ashore, were rolling round the streets in penniless
drunkenness; and next day many of them were to be found on board of the
_guardo_ or receiving-ship. Thus, in part, is the Navy manned.

But what was still more surprising, and tended to impart a new and
strange insight into the character of sailors, and overthrow some
long-established ideas concerning them as a class, was this: numbers of
men who, during the cruise, had passed for exceedingly prudent, nay,
parsimonious persons, who would even refuse you a patch, or a needleful
of thread, and, from their stinginess, procured the name of
_Ravelings_--no sooner were these men fairly adrift in harbour, and
under the influence of frequent quaffings, than their
three-years'-earned wages flew right and left; they summoned whole
boarding-houses of sailors to the bar, and treated them over and over
again. Fine fellows! generous-hearted tars! Seeing this sight, I
thought to myself, Well, these generous-hearted tars on shore were the
greatest curmudgeons afloat! it's the bottle that's generous, not they!
Yet the popular conceit concerning a sailor is derived from his
behaviour ashore; whereas, ashore he is no longer a sailor, but a
landsman for the time. A man-of-war's-man is only a man-of-war's-man at
sea; and the sea is the place to learn what he is. But we have seen
that a man-of-war is but this old-fashioned world of ours afloat, full
of all manner of characters--full of strange contradictions; and though
boasting some fine fellows here and there, yet, upon the whole, charged
to the combings of her hatchways with the spirit of Belial and all
unrighteousness.




CHAPTER XCII.

THE LAST OF THE JACKET.


Already has White-Jacket chronicled the mishaps and inconveniences,
troubles and tribulations of all sorts brought upon him by that
unfortunate but indispensable garment of his. But now it befalls him to
record how this jacket, for the second and last time, came near proving
his shroud.

Of a pleasant midnight, our good frigate, now somewhere off the Capes
of Virginia, was running on bravely, when the breeze, gradually dying,
left us slowly gliding toward our still invisible port.

Headed by Jack Chase, the quarter-watch were reclining in the top,
talking about the shore delights into which they intended to plunge,
while our captain often broke in with allusions to similar
conversations when he was on board the English line-of-battle ship, the
Asia, drawing nigh to Portsmouth, in England, after the battle of
Navarino.

Suddenly an order was given to set the main-top-gallant-stun'-sail, and
the halyards not being rove, Jack Chase assigned to me that duty. Now
this reeving of the halyards of a main-top-gallant-stun'-sail is a
business that eminently demands sharpsightedness, skill, and celerity.

Consider that the end of a line, some two hundred feet long, is to be
carried aloft, in your teeth, if you please, and dragged far out on the
giddiest of yards, and after being wormed and twisted about through all
sorts of intricacies--turning abrupt corners at the abruptest of
angles--is to be dropped, clear of all obstructions, in a straight
plumb-line right down to the deck. In the course of this business,
there is a multitude of sheeve-holes and blocks, through which you must
pass it; often the rope is a very tight fit, so as to make it like
threading a fine cambric needle with rather coarse thread. Indeed, it
is a thing only deftly to be done, even by day. Judge, then, what it
must be to be threading cambric needles by night, and at sea, upward of
a hundred feet aloft in the air.

With the end of the line in one hand, I was mounting the top-mast
shrouds, when our Captain of the Top told me that I had better off
jacket; but though it was not a very cold night, I had been reclining
so long in the top, that I had become somewhat chilly, so I thought
best not to comply with the hint.

Having reeved the line through all the inferior blocks, I went out with
it to the end of the weather-top-gallant-yard-arm, and was in the act
of leaning over and passing it through the suspended jewel-block there,
when the ship gave a plunge in the sudden swells of the calm sea, and
pitching me still further over the yard, threw the heavy skirts of my
jacket right over my head, completely muffling me. Somehow I thought it
was the sail that had flapped, and, under that impression, threw up my
hands to drag it from my head, relying upon the sail itself to support
me meanwhile. Just then the ship gave another sudden jerk, and,
head-foremost, I pitched from the yard. I knew where I was, from the
rush of the air by my ears, but all else was a nightmare. A bloody film
was before my eyes, through which, ghost-like, passed and repassed my
father, mother, and sisters. An utterable nausea oppressed me; I was
conscious of gasping; there seemed no breath in my body. It was over
one hundred feet that I fell--down, down, with lungs collapsed as in
death. Ten thousand pounds of shot seemed tied to my head, as the
irresistible law of gravitation dragged me, head foremost and straight
as a die, toward the infallible centre of this terraqueous globe. All I
had seen, and read, and heard, and all I had thought and felt in my
life, seemed intensified in one fixed idea in my soul. But dense as
this idea was, it was made up of atoms. Having fallen from the
projecting yard-arm end, I was conscious of a collected satisfaction in
feeling, that I should not be dashed on the deck, but would sink into
the speechless profound of the sea.

With the bloody, blind film before my eyes, there was a still stranger
hum in my head, as if a hornet were there; and I thought to myself,
Great God! this is Death! Yet these thoughts were unmixed with alarm.
Like frost-work that flashes and shifts its scared hues in the sun, all
my braided, blended emotions were in themselves icy cold and calm.

So protracted did my fall seem, that I can even now recall the feeling
of wondering how much longer it would be, ere all was over and I
struck. Time seemed to stand still, and all the worlds seemed poised on
their poles, as I fell, soul-becalmed, through the eddying whirl and
swirl of the maelstrom air.

At first, as I have said, I must have been precipitated head-foremost;
but I was conscious, at length, of a swift, flinging motion of my
limbs, which involuntarily threw themselves out, so that at last I must
have fallen in a heap. This is more likely, from the circumstance, that
when I struck the sea, I felt as if some one had smote me slantingly
across the shoulder and along part of my right side.

As I gushed into the sea, a thunder-boom sounded in my ear; my soul
seemed flying from my mouth. The feeling of death flooded over me with
the billows. The blow from the sea must have turned me, so that I sank
almost feet foremost through a soft, seething foamy lull. Some current
seemed hurrying me away; in a trance I yielded, and sank deeper down
with a glide. Purple and pathless was the deep calm now around me,
flecked by summer lightnings in an azure afar. The horrible nausea was
gone; the bloody, blind film turned a pale green; I wondered whether I
was yet dead, or still dying. But of a sudden some fashionless form
brushed my side--some inert, coiled fish of the sea; the thrill of
being alive again tingled in my nerves, and the strong shunning of
death shocked me through.

For one instant an agonising revulsion came over me as I found myself
utterly sinking. Next moment the force of my fall was expanded; and
there I hung, vibrating in the mid-deep. What wild sounds then rang in
my ear! One was a soft moaning, as of low waves on the beach; the other
wild and heartlessly jubilant, as of the sea in the height of a
tempest. Oh soul! thou then heardest life and death: as he who stands
upon the Corinthian shore hears both the Ionian and the Aegean waves.
The life-and-death poise soon passed; and then I found myself slowly
ascending, and caught a dim glimmering of light.

Quicker and quicker I mounted; till at last I bounded up like a buoy,
and my whole head was bathed in the blessed air.

I had fallen in a line with the main-mast; I now found myself nearly
abreast of the mizzen-mast, the frigate slowly gliding by like a black
world in the water. Her vast hull loomed out of the night, showing
hundreds of seamen in the hammock-nettings, some tossing over ropes,
others madly flinging overboard the hammocks; but I was too far out
from them immediately to reach what they threw. I essayed to swim
toward the ship; but instantly I was conscious of a feeling like being
pinioned in a feather-bed, and, moving my hands, felt my jacket puffed
out above my tight girdle with water. I strove to tear it off; but it
was looped together here and there, and the strings were not then to be
sundered by hand. I whipped out my knife, that was tucked at my belt,
and ripped my jacket straight up and down, as if I were ripping open
myself. With a violent struggle I then burst out of it, and was free.
Heavily soaked, it slowly sank before my eyes.

Sink! sink! oh shroud! thought I; sink forever! accursed jacket that
thou art!

"See that white shark!" cried a horrified voice from the taffrail;
"he'll have that man down his hatchway! Quick! the _grains!_ the
_grains!_"

The next instant that barbed bunch of harpoons pierced through and
through the unfortunate jacket, and swiftly sped down with it out of
sight.

Being now astern of the frigate, I struck out boldly toward the
elevated pole of one of the life-buoys which had been cut away. Soon
after, one of the cutters picked me up. As they dragged me out of the
water into the air, the sudden transition of elements made my every
limb feel like lead, and I helplessly sunk into the bottom of the boat.

Ten minutes after, I was safe on board, and, springing aloft, was
ordered to reeve anew the stun'-sail-halyards, which, slipping through
the blocks when I had let go the end, had unrove and fallen to the deck.

The sail was soon set; and, as if purposely to salute it, a gentle
breeze soon came, and the Neversink once more glided over the water, a
soft ripple at her bows, and leaving a tranquil wake behind.




CHAPTER XCIII.

CABLE AND ANCHOR ALL CLEAR.


And now that the white jacket has sunk to the bottom of the sea, and
the blessed Capes of Virginia are believed to be broad on our
bow--though still out of sight--our five hundred souls are fondly
dreaming of home, and the iron throats of the guns round the galley
re-echo with their songs and hurras--what more remains?

Shall I tell what conflicting and almost crazy surmisings prevailed
concerning the precise harbour for which we were bound? For, according
to rumour, our Commodore had received sealed orders touching that
matter, which were not to be broken open till we gained a precise
latitude of the coast. Shall I tell how, at last, all this uncertainty
departed, and many a foolish prophecy was proved false, when our noble
frigate--her longest pennant at her main--wound her stately way into
the innermost harbour of Norfolk, like a plumed Spanish Grandee
threading the corridors of the Escurial toward the throne-room within?
Shall I tell how we kneeled upon the holy soil? How I begged a blessing
of old Ushant, and one precious hair of his beard for a keepsake? How
Lemsford, the gun-deck bard, offered up a devout ode as a prayer of
thanksgiving? How saturnine Nord, the magnifico in disguise, refusing
all companionship, stalked off into the woods, like the ghost of an old
Calif of Bagdad? How I swayed and swung the hearty hand of Jack Chase,
and nipped it to mine with a Carrick bend; yea, and kissed that noble
hand of my liege lord and captain of my top, my sea-tutor and sire?

Shall I tell how the grand Commodore and Captain drove off from the
pier-head? How the Lieutenants, in undress, sat down to their last
dinner in the ward-room, and the champagne, packed in ice, spirted and
sparkled like the Hot Springs out of a snow-drift in Iceland? How the
Chaplain went off in his cassock, without bidding the people adieu? How
shrunken Cuticle, the Surgeon, stalked over the side, the wired
skeleton carried in his wake by his cot-boy? How the Lieutenant of
Marines sheathed his sword on the poop, and, calling for wax and a
taper, sealed the end of the scabbard with his family crest and
motto--_Denique Coelum?_ How the Purser in due time mustered his
money-bags, and paid us all off on the quarter-deck--good and bad, sick
and well, all receiving their wages; though, truth to tell, some
reckless, improvident seamen, who had lived too fast during the cruise,
had little or nothing now standing on the credit side of their Purser's
accounts?

Shall I tell of the Retreat of the Five Hundred inland; not, alas! in
battle-array, as at quarters, but scattered broadcast over the land?

Shall I tell how the Neversink was at last stripped of spars, shrouds,
and sails--had her guns hoisted out--her powder-magazine, shot-lockers,
and armouries discharged--till not one vestige of a fighting thing was
left in her, from furthest stem to uttermost stern?

No! let all this go by; for our anchor still hangs from our bows,
though its eager flukes dip their points in the impatient waves. Let us
leave the ship on the sea--still with the land out of sight--still with
brooding darkness on the face of the deep. I love an indefinite,
infinite background--a vast, heaving, rolling, mysterious rear!

It is night. The meagre moon is in her last quarter--that betokens the
end of a cruise that is passing. But the stars look forth in their
everlasting brightness--and _that_ is the everlasting, glorious Future,
for ever beyond us.

We main-top-men are all aloft in the top; and round our mast we circle,
a brother-band, hand in hand, all spliced together. We have reefed the
last top-sail; trained the last gun; blown the last match; bowed to the
last blast; been tranced in the last calm. We have mustered our last
round the capstan; been rolled to grog the last time; for the last time
swung in our hammocks; for the last time turned out at the sea-gull
call of the watch. We have seen our last man scourged at the gangway;
our last man gasp out the ghost in the stifling Sick-bay; our last man
tossed to the sharks. Our last death-denouncing Article of War has been
read; and far inland, in that blessed clime whither-ward our frigate
now glides, the last wrong in our frigate will be remembered no more;
when down from our main-mast comes our Commodore's pennant, when down
sinks its shooting stars from the sky.

"By the mark, nine!" sings the hoary old leadsman, in the chains. And
thus, the mid-world Equator passed, our frigate strikes soundings at
last.

Hand in hand we top-mates stand, rocked in our Pisgah top. And over the
starry waves, and broad out into the blandly blue and boundless night,
spiced with strange sweets from the long-sought land--the whole long
cruise predestinated ours, though often in tempest-time we almost
refused to believe in that far-distant shore--straight out into that
fragrant night, ever-noble Jack Chase, matchless and unmatchable Jack
Chase stretches forth his bannered hand, and, pointing shoreward,
cries: "For the last time, hear Camoens, boys!"



     "How calm the waves, how mild the balmy gale!
      The Halcyons call, ye Lusians spread the sail!
      Appeased, old Ocean now shall rage no more;
      Haste, point our bowsprit for yon shadowy shore.
      Soon shall the transports of your natal soil
      O'erwhelm in bounding joy the thoughts of every toil."


                *     *     *     *     *



THE END.




As a man-of-war that sails through the sea, so this earth that sails
through the air. We mortals are all on board a fast-sailing,
never-sinking world-frigate, of which God was the shipwright; and she
is but one craft in a Milky-Way fleet, of which God is the Lord High
Admiral. The port we sail from is for ever astern. And though far out
of sight of land, for ages and ages we continue to sail with sealed
orders, and our last destination remains a secret to ourselves and our
officers; yet our final haven was predestinated ere we slipped from the
stocks at Creation.

Thus sailing with sealed orders, we ourselves are the repositories of
the secret packet, whose mysterious contents we long to learn. There
are no mysteries out of ourselves. But let us not give ear to the
superstitious, gun-deck gossip about whither we may be gliding, for, as
yet, not a soul on board of us knows--not even the Commodore himself;
assuredly not the Chaplain; even our Professor's scientific surmisings
are vain. On that point, the smallest cabin-boy is as wise as the
Captain. And believe not the hypochondriac dwellers below hatches, who
will tell you, with a sneer, that our world-frigate is bound to no
final harbour whatever; that our voyage will prove an endless
circumnavigation of space. Not so. For how can this world-frigate prove
our eventual abiding place, when upon our first embarkation, as infants
in arms, her violent rolling--in after life unperceived--makes every
soul of us sea-sick? Does not this show, too, that the very air we here
inhale is uncongenial, and only becomes endurable at last through
gradual habituation, and that some blessed, placid haven, however
remote at present, must be in store for us all?

Glance fore and aft our flush decks. What a swarming crew! All told,
they muster hard upon eight hundred millions of souls. Over these we
have authoritative Lieutenants, a sword-belted Officer of Marines, a
Chaplain, a Professor, a Purser, a Doctor, a Cook, a Master-at-arms.

Oppressed by illiberal laws, and partly oppressed by themselves, many
of our people are wicked, unhappy, inefficient. We have skulkers and
idlers all round, and brow-beaten waisters, who, for a pittance, do our
craft's shabby work. Nevertheless, among our people we have gallant
fore, main, and mizzen top-men aloft, who, well treated or ill, still
trim our craft to the blast.

We have a _brig_ for trespassers; a bar by our main-mast, at which they
are arraigned; a cat-o'-nine-tails and a gangway, to degrade them in
their own eyes and in ours. These are not always employed to convert
Sin to Virtue, but to divide them, and protect Virtue and legalised Sin
from unlegalised Vice.

We have a Sick-bay for the smitten and helpless, whither we hurry them
out of sight, and however they may groan beneath hatches, we hear
little of their tribulations on deck; we still sport our gay streamer
aloft. Outwardly regarded, our craft is a lie; for all that is
outwardly seen of it is the clean-swept deck, and oft-painted planks
comprised above the waterline; whereas, the vast mass of our fabric,
with all its storerooms of secrets, for ever slides along far under the
surface.

When a shipmate dies, straightway we sew him up, and overboard he goes;
our world-frigate rushes by, and never more do we behold him again;
though, sooner or later, the everlasting under-tow sweeps him toward
our own destination.

We have both a quarter-deck to our craft and a gun-deck; subterranean
shot-lockers and gunpowder magazines; and the Articles of War form our
domineering code.

Oh, shipmates and world-mates, all round! we the people suffer many
abuses. Our gun-deck is full of complaints. In vain from Lieutenants do
we appeal to the Captain; in vain--while on board our world-frigate--to
the indefinite Navy Commissioners, so far out of sight aloft. Yet the
worst of our evils we blindly inflict upon ourselves; our officers
cannot remove them, even if they would. From the last ills no being can
save another; therein each man must be his own saviour. For the rest,
whatever befall us, let us never train our murderous guns inboard; let
us not mutiny with bloody pikes in our hands. Our Lord High Admiral
will yet interpose; and though long ages should elapse, and leave our
wrongs unredressed, yet, shipmates and world-mates! let us never
forget, that,

     Whoever afflict us, whatever surround,
     Life is a voyage that's homeward-bound!



THE END
