很多年以前，那時我的錢包癟癟的，陸地上看來沒什麽好混得了，幹脆下海吧，去在我們這個世界上占絶對面積的大海裏逛逛吧！
這已是我惟一的去處了。
每當我心煩氣躁、肝火直升腦門時；每當我心憂緒亂、眼前一片11月的愁雲慘霧時；每當我身不由己，跟着不相幹的送葬隊伍走嚮墓地時；每當我忍無可忍，馬上就要在街上像脫繮的野馬一樣橫衝直撞時，我都得趕緊去出海！
衹有出海可以阻止我對自己舉起槍！
我沒有伽圖那一邊吟誦詩歌一邊拔劍自刎的勇氣，衹能悄悄地走上船去。
怎麽樣，朋友，你有類似的感情經歷嗎？我始終相信，不論是誰，在某一個特定的時刻，他都會對海洋産生類似的情緒的。
噢，我的姓名！其實這無關緊要，好了，你就叫我以實瑪利吧。
我們現在看到的就是曼哈頓島，它的四周布滿了商業味兒十足的碼頭，城裏的每一條街道幾乎都能引導你走嚮碼頭、走嚮海邊。
炮臺前的防浪堤迎擊着海浪，觀海的人們遠遠地散着步。
我們不妨找一個安息日的下午，在那種如詩如夢的陽光下，去城裏轉上一圈。可你首先看到的還是海邊上那一群群對着大海伫立凝望的人。
他們或站或坐、或倚柱或靠墻，遙望着自中國而來的船衹的船舷，入迷地欣賞着開進開出的大小船舶。
這些平常生活在櫃臺、凳子、寫字檯和墻壁之間的人，他們怎麽都跑到海邊來了？難道田疇原野、一馬平川的陸地都消失了？
看，又來了一大群人，他們直奔海邊，要跳海嗎？
噢，真有意思，他們要盡可能地靠近大海，他們要走到陸地的邊緣。這些來自內陸的人們，站滿了海邊，綿延十幾海裏。
我甚至懷疑，是不是船上的指南針的磁力把他們吸來的啊！
肯定有什麽類似磁力的神奇力量！就是在陸地上，我們不也是有這樣的經驗嗎！沿着隨便一條路走下去，早晚會走到河邊、湖畔、溪流之側。
你可以實驗一下，隨便找一個哪怕完全心不在焉的人，讓他信馬由繮地走動起來，他準會走到有水的地方。
如果這個人在思索着什麽形而上學的東西，那結果就更是如此了。如果你在沙漠中迷失了方向，身邊又恰巧有一位哲學教授，那你就不必驚慌了，因為思索是與水有着天然的聯繫的。
一位出色的風景畫傢為牧羊人畫了一幅畫兒，有白雲有原野、有森林有羊群、有裊裊的炊煙和在山巒間起伏的小路，可是，如果這位牧羊人不註視着他眼前的一條河，那麽這幅畫兒就會失去任何活力的。
如果六月的草原沒有一滴水，如果尼亞加拉瀑布流下來的衹是些沒有生命的黃沙，那麽，你還會去那魂牽夢繞的草原、瀑布嗎？
沒有了水，就沒有了一切。
有位徒步旅行的窮詩人，在意外地得到了一點錢以後，猶豫了，是買一件襯衣？還是去海邊遠足一趟？
每一位身強力壯的小夥子幾乎都想出海去闖一闖；而每一位上了船的人，在知道望不見陸地了的時候，心裏都會咯噔一下。
古代波斯人以海為神，希臘人更把海看作神的親兄弟，而那位在水邊顧影自憐的美男子那西薩斯，終於投身水底。
每一個人都會在水中留下永遠抓尋不到的影子，它喻示着我們人類的什麽奧妙嗎？
我身上這種與水的天然聯繫，每每在我走投無路、愁腸百結時它都會解救我，引我到海上去。
我到海上，不是做旅客的，因為那需要鼓鼓的錢包，我是作不起那又暈船又失眠的旅客的。
當然，我更當不起船夫、大副甚至廚師了，儘管論資格我算得上老水手了。
這些風光的職位，還是讓那些喜歡風光的人幹吧，我能把自己看好已經不錯了，管不了什麽桅啊帆啊的，當然更管不了那些操縱這傢什的人了。
不當廚師，那倒純粹是因為沒有興趣。這並不妨礙我對廚師的作品感興趣。面對一隻烤好的雞，牛油塗得均勻、鬍椒撒得周到的雞，我會第一個叫好的。
古埃及人對烤朱鷺、燒河馬之類的東西就很有好感，他們的金字塔裏，現在還可以見到這些東西的木乃伊。
我在船上衹是一個普普通通的水手。
我像衹螞蚱一樣，一會兒蹦到桅桿頂上、一會兒又跳進水手艙裏，他們呼來喚去地使喚我，很傷了些我的自尊心，一開始很讓人不痛快。
如果你出身名門望族，像什麽範·倫斯勒傢族、倫道夫傢族、哈狄卡紐特族，如果你那不得不伸入柏油筒裏的手，不久前還曾在教室裏威嚴地揮舞，那你就更覺得不痛快了。
這樣的反差實在讓人有點難以接受，得有點苦行學派的頑強才能挺過來，一旦挺過來了，所有的不舒服、不痛快也就煙消雲散了。
想想吧，那個大塊頭的船長吆喝我去打掃地板，我打掃就是了，算得了什麽羞辱？在《聖經》面前，這不算什麽。
人們總是在互相擁擠，你打我、我打你，誰也脫不了被別人奴役的命運——從形而下和形而上兩個角度看均是如此。
所以，人們在互相推擠之後，還是要互相撫摸一下創口，安分下來的。
況且，我在船上不是旅客，我是水手，我是要掙他們的錢的啊！你沒聽說過給旅客錢的事吧，旅客得往外掏錢。
往外掏錢和往裏掙錢是完全不同的兩回事。我想，掏錢是那兩個偷果子吃的賊給我們帶來的最大的不幸；而掙錢，那是這世上有數的幾件大好事之一了。
想想我們接受別人給你的錢時你那溫文爾雅、彬彬有禮的優雅姿態吧，對於大傢公認的這種萬惡之源的東西，我們接受起來是那麽喜不自勝，甘心情願地讓自己淪落在萬劫不復的地步去。
大海上的勞動和大海上的空氣，於我們的身心是絶對有益的。海上行船，頂風永遠比順風多，所以船頭上的水手永遠比船尾的船長、大副們先呼吸到新鮮空氣！
對於這一點，他們一點也不知道，還以為是自己先呼吸到的呢！在很多事情上，都是如此，老百姓經常領導他們的領袖，而那些領袖們卻渾然不知。
以前我都是在商船上當水手的，這回卻鬼使神差地上了捕鯨船。命運之神在冥冥中左右着我，這是他老人傢在很早很早以前就安排好了的，它是現在正上演的兩出大戲之間的一出小戲，節目單大約可以這樣寫：
美國總統競選
以實瑪利出海捕鯨
阿富汗斯坦大戰
命運之神也真逗，讓別人去扮演那些雍容華貴、頤指氣使、輕鬆愉快、悲壯英勇的角色，卻讓我去演這麽個捕鯨的小人物。
沒辦法，回想上船以前種種偶然與必然的大事小情，我當時還以為自己作出上這條船的决定是經過縝密思考的呢！
引我上船的最大原因是那條著名的大鯨魚。它如山的身體在波濤中滑行的神秘形象激起了我強烈的好奇心。關於它的種種驚險怪奇的傳說深深地吸引了我，讓我這個一嚮對不可知的東西充滿了天然的興趣的人心癢難熬。
冒險和探奇是埋在我心裏的種子，一有土壤與水分，它們就會迅速地發芽、生長，讓我不顧一切地嚮那未知之物奔馳而去。
我投身大海，迎面遇上成雙成對的大小鯨魚，與我嬉戲玩耍，掀動我靈魂深處那神秘的影子，讓它活起來。動起來，成為一座鋪天蓋地大的猙獰的巨獸。
對於這些航行，我真是求之不得啊！
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 glasses! 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 bakehouses the pyramids.
No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, 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.
這已是我惟一的去處了。
每當我心煩氣躁、肝火直升腦門時；每當我心憂緒亂、眼前一片11月的愁雲慘霧時；每當我身不由己，跟着不相幹的送葬隊伍走嚮墓地時；每當我忍無可忍，馬上就要在街上像脫繮的野馬一樣橫衝直撞時，我都得趕緊去出海！
衹有出海可以阻止我對自己舉起槍！
我沒有伽圖那一邊吟誦詩歌一邊拔劍自刎的勇氣，衹能悄悄地走上船去。
怎麽樣，朋友，你有類似的感情經歷嗎？我始終相信，不論是誰，在某一個特定的時刻，他都會對海洋産生類似的情緒的。
噢，我的姓名！其實這無關緊要，好了，你就叫我以實瑪利吧。
我們現在看到的就是曼哈頓島，它的四周布滿了商業味兒十足的碼頭，城裏的每一條街道幾乎都能引導你走嚮碼頭、走嚮海邊。
炮臺前的防浪堤迎擊着海浪，觀海的人們遠遠地散着步。
我們不妨找一個安息日的下午，在那種如詩如夢的陽光下，去城裏轉上一圈。可你首先看到的還是海邊上那一群群對着大海伫立凝望的人。
他們或站或坐、或倚柱或靠墻，遙望着自中國而來的船衹的船舷，入迷地欣賞着開進開出的大小船舶。
這些平常生活在櫃臺、凳子、寫字檯和墻壁之間的人，他們怎麽都跑到海邊來了？難道田疇原野、一馬平川的陸地都消失了？
看，又來了一大群人，他們直奔海邊，要跳海嗎？
噢，真有意思，他們要盡可能地靠近大海，他們要走到陸地的邊緣。這些來自內陸的人們，站滿了海邊，綿延十幾海裏。
我甚至懷疑，是不是船上的指南針的磁力把他們吸來的啊！
肯定有什麽類似磁力的神奇力量！就是在陸地上，我們不也是有這樣的經驗嗎！沿着隨便一條路走下去，早晚會走到河邊、湖畔、溪流之側。
你可以實驗一下，隨便找一個哪怕完全心不在焉的人，讓他信馬由繮地走動起來，他準會走到有水的地方。
如果這個人在思索着什麽形而上學的東西，那結果就更是如此了。如果你在沙漠中迷失了方向，身邊又恰巧有一位哲學教授，那你就不必驚慌了，因為思索是與水有着天然的聯繫的。
一位出色的風景畫傢為牧羊人畫了一幅畫兒，有白雲有原野、有森林有羊群、有裊裊的炊煙和在山巒間起伏的小路，可是，如果這位牧羊人不註視着他眼前的一條河，那麽這幅畫兒就會失去任何活力的。
如果六月的草原沒有一滴水，如果尼亞加拉瀑布流下來的衹是些沒有生命的黃沙，那麽，你還會去那魂牽夢繞的草原、瀑布嗎？
沒有了水，就沒有了一切。
有位徒步旅行的窮詩人，在意外地得到了一點錢以後，猶豫了，是買一件襯衣？還是去海邊遠足一趟？
每一位身強力壯的小夥子幾乎都想出海去闖一闖；而每一位上了船的人，在知道望不見陸地了的時候，心裏都會咯噔一下。
古代波斯人以海為神，希臘人更把海看作神的親兄弟，而那位在水邊顧影自憐的美男子那西薩斯，終於投身水底。
每一個人都會在水中留下永遠抓尋不到的影子，它喻示着我們人類的什麽奧妙嗎？
我身上這種與水的天然聯繫，每每在我走投無路、愁腸百結時它都會解救我，引我到海上去。
我到海上，不是做旅客的，因為那需要鼓鼓的錢包，我是作不起那又暈船又失眠的旅客的。
當然，我更當不起船夫、大副甚至廚師了，儘管論資格我算得上老水手了。
這些風光的職位，還是讓那些喜歡風光的人幹吧，我能把自己看好已經不錯了，管不了什麽桅啊帆啊的，當然更管不了那些操縱這傢什的人了。
不當廚師，那倒純粹是因為沒有興趣。這並不妨礙我對廚師的作品感興趣。面對一隻烤好的雞，牛油塗得均勻、鬍椒撒得周到的雞，我會第一個叫好的。
古埃及人對烤朱鷺、燒河馬之類的東西就很有好感，他們的金字塔裏，現在還可以見到這些東西的木乃伊。
我在船上衹是一個普普通通的水手。
我像衹螞蚱一樣，一會兒蹦到桅桿頂上、一會兒又跳進水手艙裏，他們呼來喚去地使喚我，很傷了些我的自尊心，一開始很讓人不痛快。
如果你出身名門望族，像什麽範·倫斯勒傢族、倫道夫傢族、哈狄卡紐特族，如果你那不得不伸入柏油筒裏的手，不久前還曾在教室裏威嚴地揮舞，那你就更覺得不痛快了。
這樣的反差實在讓人有點難以接受，得有點苦行學派的頑強才能挺過來，一旦挺過來了，所有的不舒服、不痛快也就煙消雲散了。
想想吧，那個大塊頭的船長吆喝我去打掃地板，我打掃就是了，算得了什麽羞辱？在《聖經》面前，這不算什麽。
人們總是在互相擁擠，你打我、我打你，誰也脫不了被別人奴役的命運——從形而下和形而上兩個角度看均是如此。
所以，人們在互相推擠之後，還是要互相撫摸一下創口，安分下來的。
況且，我在船上不是旅客，我是水手，我是要掙他們的錢的啊！你沒聽說過給旅客錢的事吧，旅客得往外掏錢。
往外掏錢和往裏掙錢是完全不同的兩回事。我想，掏錢是那兩個偷果子吃的賊給我們帶來的最大的不幸；而掙錢，那是這世上有數的幾件大好事之一了。
想想我們接受別人給你的錢時你那溫文爾雅、彬彬有禮的優雅姿態吧，對於大傢公認的這種萬惡之源的東西，我們接受起來是那麽喜不自勝，甘心情願地讓自己淪落在萬劫不復的地步去。
大海上的勞動和大海上的空氣，於我們的身心是絶對有益的。海上行船，頂風永遠比順風多，所以船頭上的水手永遠比船尾的船長、大副們先呼吸到新鮮空氣！
對於這一點，他們一點也不知道，還以為是自己先呼吸到的呢！在很多事情上，都是如此，老百姓經常領導他們的領袖，而那些領袖們卻渾然不知。
以前我都是在商船上當水手的，這回卻鬼使神差地上了捕鯨船。命運之神在冥冥中左右着我，這是他老人傢在很早很早以前就安排好了的，它是現在正上演的兩出大戲之間的一出小戲，節目單大約可以這樣寫：
美國總統競選
以實瑪利出海捕鯨
阿富汗斯坦大戰
命運之神也真逗，讓別人去扮演那些雍容華貴、頤指氣使、輕鬆愉快、悲壯英勇的角色，卻讓我去演這麽個捕鯨的小人物。
沒辦法，回想上船以前種種偶然與必然的大事小情，我當時還以為自己作出上這條船的决定是經過縝密思考的呢！
引我上船的最大原因是那條著名的大鯨魚。它如山的身體在波濤中滑行的神秘形象激起了我強烈的好奇心。關於它的種種驚險怪奇的傳說深深地吸引了我，讓我這個一嚮對不可知的東西充滿了天然的興趣的人心癢難熬。
冒險和探奇是埋在我心裏的種子，一有土壤與水分，它們就會迅速地發芽、生長，讓我不顧一切地嚮那未知之物奔馳而去。
我投身大海，迎面遇上成雙成對的大小鯨魚，與我嬉戲玩耍，掀動我靈魂深處那神秘的影子，讓它活起來。動起來，成為一座鋪天蓋地大的猙獰的巨獸。
對於這些航行，我真是求之不得啊！
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 glasses! 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 bakehouses the pyramids.
No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, 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.
幾件衣服充作行囊，我便動了身。
遠離曼哈頓，奔到新貝德福，沒趕上開往南塔開特的郵船，衹得等下星期一了。
這是一個星期六，12月的一個星期六，看來註定要無聊地度過一個周末了。
一般去合恩角都這樣走，從新貝德福上船。可我一定要從那捕鯨船最早的出發地南塔開特出發，儘管新貝德福已經很繁華，但它畢竟不是人們把第一隻北美洲的死鯨拖上岸的地方。那些紅種人士着，當年就是從南塔開特乘獨木舟去海上捕鯨魚的；還有那最早的捕鯨單桅帆船，船上載着鵝卵石——這就是他們捕鯨的武器——也是從南塔開特出發的。
可如今要在新貝德福呆上兩天，確切說是一天兩夜，才能去南塔開特。吃飯睡覺問題怎麽解决？
在這寒風刺骨的夜晚，我伫立在冷冷清清的街頭，舉目無親、走投無路的感覺襲上心頭。
摸摸兜裏的那幾個小錢，我心裏默念着：以實瑪利啊，不論命運把你引嚮哪裏，你可都要先問問價錢啊！
街道上結着厚厚的冰，冷硬堅滑，映着一個又一個店面裏射出來的燈光。噢，這是“標槍客店”，這是“劍魚客店”，杯盞之聲伴着歡聲笑語灑嚮窗外，我毫不猶豫地嚮前走着，他們太快活了，也太能花錢了。
以實瑪利啊，你還得嚮前走，你的那雙破鞋可邁不進那高門檻，嚮那些不那麽輝煌燦爛的地方走走吧，那地方的旅店雖然不是最好，但肯定是最便宜。
街道兩側暗了下來，偶或有那麽一兩點燭光，鬼火般在黑暗中閃爍。遠遠地，我看見一座矮房子，房門大敞，一絲微光泄了出來。好像在很隨意地歡迎着客人的到來。
我幾乎是理直氣壯地走了進去，一堆垃圾毫不客氣地絆了我一個跟鬥，紛飛的灰塵差點憋死我！
好啊，這裏不是“標槍客店”、不是“劍魚客店”，卻是個“陷阱客店”。
一陣刺耳的喧嘩引得我爬起來以後迅速推開了第二道門，啊，一排黑臉齊刷刷地轉嚮了我，另一位黑面孔的朋友正在講臺上拍打着一本書，讓他的聽衆們集中精力。這是個黑人教堂。我退了出來，繼續嚮前。
在離碼頭很近的地方，一塊白晃晃的招牌在蒙蒙的霧氣裏時隱時現，我緊走幾步，在天空中一聲什麽怪鳥兒的嘎嘎怪叫中，我看清了牌子上的字：“鯨魚客店——彼德·科芬。”科芬！（棺材的音譯）鯨魚！
將這二者相連，棺材和鯨魚，我感到後脊梁一陣冰涼。
不過，據說南塔開特姓這個姓的人不少，那麽這個彼德是從南塔開特來的嘍！當然，更主要的是，從它破敗的外觀看，這傢客店一定十分便宜，說不定還有味道不錯的土咖啡呢！我邁步走了進去。
這是座像得了半身不遂病的破房子，北風呼嘯之中，一副搖搖欲墜的樣子。
不過，你如果在屋子裏面而不是在屋子外面，兩腳搭在爐子上，悠閑地喝着咖啡，那麽這呼嘯的風聲就純粹是一支催眠麯了。
古代一位著名的作傢曾經說過：“要判定這狂風冷雨的好壞，那要看下判斷的人的位置：是隔着滿是冰花兒的玻璃嚮外看，還是不隔着什麽東西，裏外一樣冷地嚮外看。惟一的玻璃安裝工就是死神！”
這段話清晰地浮現在我眼前，我覺得我自己就是這座房子，兩衹眼睛便是兩扇窗戶。
按照那位古代作傢的話進行改良已經來不及了，宇宙的結構已經完工了，一切都無以改變了。怎麽辦？可憐的拉撒路衹好在冷風中瑟縮顫抖了，顫抖得身上僅有的幾條破布片也掉在了地上。而就在此時，那位身着紫袍的老財主則志得意滿地叫道：“哈，冰天雪地狂風怒吼的景緻多麽怡人啊！星空燦爛、北極光斑斕，讓那些談論一年到頭四季如春的什麽鬼氣候的傢夥們見鬼去吧，我要用炭火創造一個夏天！”
拉撒路卻無法對着一樣斑斕的北極光舉起他凍青了的雙手，他也許在遙想着赤道上的美麗吧！
他多麽想和赤道並排躺在一起啊！也許他沒想那麽遠，衹想就近找個火堆鑽進去呢！
老財主在由冰塊圍繞的溫暖如春的宮殿中對屋外的拉撒路的快要凍死，並無任何感覺。他悠閑地踱着步，可並沒喝酒。因為他是禁酒協會的會長，他不喝酒，衹喝孤兒們的眼淚。
算了，這麽多感慨有什麽用呢？反正要去捕鯨了，這樣的事兒還多着呢，先進屋去看看吧。
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 monopolizing 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 "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.
遠離曼哈頓，奔到新貝德福，沒趕上開往南塔開特的郵船，衹得等下星期一了。
這是一個星期六，12月的一個星期六，看來註定要無聊地度過一個周末了。
一般去合恩角都這樣走，從新貝德福上船。可我一定要從那捕鯨船最早的出發地南塔開特出發，儘管新貝德福已經很繁華，但它畢竟不是人們把第一隻北美洲的死鯨拖上岸的地方。那些紅種人士着，當年就是從南塔開特乘獨木舟去海上捕鯨魚的；還有那最早的捕鯨單桅帆船，船上載着鵝卵石——這就是他們捕鯨的武器——也是從南塔開特出發的。
可如今要在新貝德福呆上兩天，確切說是一天兩夜，才能去南塔開特。吃飯睡覺問題怎麽解决？
在這寒風刺骨的夜晚，我伫立在冷冷清清的街頭，舉目無親、走投無路的感覺襲上心頭。
摸摸兜裏的那幾個小錢，我心裏默念着：以實瑪利啊，不論命運把你引嚮哪裏，你可都要先問問價錢啊！
街道上結着厚厚的冰，冷硬堅滑，映着一個又一個店面裏射出來的燈光。噢，這是“標槍客店”，這是“劍魚客店”，杯盞之聲伴着歡聲笑語灑嚮窗外，我毫不猶豫地嚮前走着，他們太快活了，也太能花錢了。
以實瑪利啊，你還得嚮前走，你的那雙破鞋可邁不進那高門檻，嚮那些不那麽輝煌燦爛的地方走走吧，那地方的旅店雖然不是最好，但肯定是最便宜。
街道兩側暗了下來，偶或有那麽一兩點燭光，鬼火般在黑暗中閃爍。遠遠地，我看見一座矮房子，房門大敞，一絲微光泄了出來。好像在很隨意地歡迎着客人的到來。
我幾乎是理直氣壯地走了進去，一堆垃圾毫不客氣地絆了我一個跟鬥，紛飛的灰塵差點憋死我！
好啊，這裏不是“標槍客店”、不是“劍魚客店”，卻是個“陷阱客店”。
一陣刺耳的喧嘩引得我爬起來以後迅速推開了第二道門，啊，一排黑臉齊刷刷地轉嚮了我，另一位黑面孔的朋友正在講臺上拍打着一本書，讓他的聽衆們集中精力。這是個黑人教堂。我退了出來，繼續嚮前。
在離碼頭很近的地方，一塊白晃晃的招牌在蒙蒙的霧氣裏時隱時現，我緊走幾步，在天空中一聲什麽怪鳥兒的嘎嘎怪叫中，我看清了牌子上的字：“鯨魚客店——彼德·科芬。”科芬！（棺材的音譯）鯨魚！
將這二者相連，棺材和鯨魚，我感到後脊梁一陣冰涼。
不過，據說南塔開特姓這個姓的人不少，那麽這個彼德是從南塔開特來的嘍！當然，更主要的是，從它破敗的外觀看，這傢客店一定十分便宜，說不定還有味道不錯的土咖啡呢！我邁步走了進去。
這是座像得了半身不遂病的破房子，北風呼嘯之中，一副搖搖欲墜的樣子。
不過，你如果在屋子裏面而不是在屋子外面，兩腳搭在爐子上，悠閑地喝着咖啡，那麽這呼嘯的風聲就純粹是一支催眠麯了。
古代一位著名的作傢曾經說過：“要判定這狂風冷雨的好壞，那要看下判斷的人的位置：是隔着滿是冰花兒的玻璃嚮外看，還是不隔着什麽東西，裏外一樣冷地嚮外看。惟一的玻璃安裝工就是死神！”
這段話清晰地浮現在我眼前，我覺得我自己就是這座房子，兩衹眼睛便是兩扇窗戶。
按照那位古代作傢的話進行改良已經來不及了，宇宙的結構已經完工了，一切都無以改變了。怎麽辦？可憐的拉撒路衹好在冷風中瑟縮顫抖了，顫抖得身上僅有的幾條破布片也掉在了地上。而就在此時，那位身着紫袍的老財主則志得意滿地叫道：“哈，冰天雪地狂風怒吼的景緻多麽怡人啊！星空燦爛、北極光斑斕，讓那些談論一年到頭四季如春的什麽鬼氣候的傢夥們見鬼去吧，我要用炭火創造一個夏天！”
拉撒路卻無法對着一樣斑斕的北極光舉起他凍青了的雙手，他也許在遙想着赤道上的美麗吧！
他多麽想和赤道並排躺在一起啊！也許他沒想那麽遠，衹想就近找個火堆鑽進去呢！
老財主在由冰塊圍繞的溫暖如春的宮殿中對屋外的拉撒路的快要凍死，並無任何感覺。他悠閑地踱着步，可並沒喝酒。因為他是禁酒協會的會長，他不喝酒，衹喝孤兒們的眼淚。
算了，這麽多感慨有什麽用呢？反正要去捕鯨了，這樣的事兒還多着呢，先進屋去看看吧。
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 monopolizing 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 "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.