Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

CHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag (I pushed a shirt or two into my old travelling bag made of thick patterned cloth), tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific (tucked it under my arm and set off for Cape Horn, the stormy tip of South America, and the Pacific). Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford (Leaving the fine old city of Manhattan, I arrived in due course at New Bedford) (New Bedford, the whaling port in Massachusetts). It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket (Nantucket, the island off the coast where American whaling began) had already sailed (I was very disappointed to learn that the small regular boat for Nantucket had already gone), and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday (and that there would be no way of getting there until the Monday after).

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford (Since most young men signing up for the pains and punishments of whale hunting 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 (and set out on their voyage from there, I may as well say that I had no plan of doing that). For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft (Because I had made up my mind to sail in nothing but a Nantucket ship), because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island (because there was a fine, rough and lively something about everything to do with that famous old island), which amazingly pleased me (which pleased me enormously). Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling (though New Bedford has lately been taking the whaling trade over for itself bit by bit), and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her (and though in this poor old Nantucket is now far behind), yet Nantucket was her great original (still Nantucket was the first of the two)—the Tyre of this Carthage (the mother city of this daughter one, as Tyre was to Carthage);—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded (the place where the first dead American whale was washed up). Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men (Where else but from Nantucket did those first whale hunters, the native people), first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? (first set out in canoes to hunt the sea monster?) And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth (did that first daring little single-masted boat set out), partly laden with imported cobblestones (part loaded with round paving stones brought in from elsewhere)—so goes the story (so the story goes)—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit? (to throw at the whales, so as to find out when they were close enough to risk a spear thrown from the pole at the front of the boat?)

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port (before I could sail for the port I was headed to), it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile (it became a worry where I was going to eat and sleep in the meantime). It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night (It was a very doubtful-looking, no, a very dark and miserable night), bitingly cold and cheerless (bitterly cold and joyless). I knew no one in the place (I knew nobody in the town). With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket (I had fished about anxiously in my pocket as if with a little hooked anchor), and only brought up a few pieces of silver (and brought up only a few silver coins),—So, wherever you go, Ishmael (So wherever you go, Ishmael, as the storyteller calls himself), said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag (as I stood in the middle of a bleak street with my bag on my shoulder), and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south (and comparing the dimness to the north with the blackness to the south)—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night (wherever in your wisdom you decide to stay the night), my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular (make sure you ask the price, and do not be too fussy).

With halting steps I paced the streets (With slow, stopping steps I walked the streets), and passed the sign of (and passed the sign of) “The Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there (but it looked too dear and too cheerful in there). Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” (the Sword-Fish Inn, one of the town’s drinking houses) there came such fervent rays (there came such burning light), that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house (that it seemed to have melted the packed-down snow and ice away from in front of the house), for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement (because everywhere else the frozen frost lay ten inches thick like a hard tarred road surface),—rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections (rather hard on me when I knocked my foot against the stony lumps sticking up), because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight (because from hard, unrelenting use the soles of my boots were in a wretched state). Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street (stopping for a moment to watch the wide spread of light in the street), and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within (and hear the sound of glasses chinking inside). But go on, Ishmael (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 (your mended boots are blocking the way). So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward (I now followed by instinct the streets that led me towards the water), for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns (because there, surely, were the cheapest inns, if not the most cheerful).

Such dreary streets! (Such bleak streets!) blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand (solid lumps of black, not houses, on both sides), and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb (like a candle being carried about inside a grave). At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted (that part of the town turned out to be almost empty). But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building (But soon I came to a smoky light coming out of 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 (It had an untidy look, as if it were meant for anybody to walk into); so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch (the first thing I did was trip over a box of ashes in the entrance). Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me (as the flying bits nearly choked me), are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? (are these ashes from Gomorrah, the city God burned to nothing?) But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?” (and the Sword-Fish?)—this, then must needs be the sign of (this, then, must 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 (Anyway, I picked myself up and, hearing a loud voice inside, went on and opened a second, inner door).

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet (It looked like a great council of black figures meeting in Tophet, the old name for a place of burning and hell). A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer (A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to stare); and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit (and beyond them a black angel of judgement was hammering on a book in a raised preaching stand). It was a negro church (It was a black congregation’s church); and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness (and the preacher’s subject was the blackness of the dark), and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there (and the crying and howling and grinding of teeth there). Ha, Ishmael (Ha, Ishmael), muttered I, backing out (I muttered, backing out), Wretched entertainment at the sign of (Miserable welcome at the sign of) ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks (Moving on, I came at last to a dim sort of light not far from the docks), and heard a forlorn creaking in the air (and heard a lonely creaking in the air); and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it (saw a swinging sign over the door with a white picture on it), faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray (faintly showing a tall straight spout of fine spray), and these words underneath—“The Spouter Inn: (The Spouter Inn, named for the jet of water a whale blows)—Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion (Rather a bad sign, put together like that), thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say (But it is a common surname in Nantucket, they say), and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there (and I suppose this Peter has moved here 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 the run-down little wooden house itself looked as if it had been carried here from the wreckage of some burnt part of town), and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it (and since the swinging sign had a poor, hard-up sort of creak to it), I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee (I thought this was just the place for cheap rooms and the best of weak coffee).

It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly (an old house with a pointed end wall, one side of it shaking as if with a disease, and leaning over sadly). It stood on a sharp bleak corner (It stood on a sharp bare corner), where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft (where that storm wind Euroclydon, named in the Bible, howled worse than it ever did round the ship of the apostle Paul in the tempest). Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors (is a very pleasant soft breeze to anybody indoors), with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed (with his feet on the fireside shelf warming quietly before bed). “In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer (says an old writer)—of whose works I possess the only copy extant (of whose books I own the only copy still in existence)—“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside (it makes a wonderful difference whether you look out at it from a glass window with the frost all on the outside), or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides (or whether you watch it from that window with no frame in it, where the frost is on both sides), and of which the wight Death is the only glazier (and where the creature Death is the only man who ever fits the glass).” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind (as that passage came into my head)—old black-letter, thou reasonest well (old book in heavy black type, you argue well). Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house (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 (What a shame they did not block up the cracks and the little gaps), and thrust in a little lint here and there (and push in a bit of soft fluff here and there). But it’s too late to make any improvements now (But it is too late to make any improvements now). The universe is finished; the copestone is on (The universe is finished, the last stone is on top), and the chips were carted off a million years ago (and the leftover bits were carted away a million years ago). Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow (Poor Lazarus, the beggar in the Bible story, with his teeth chattering and the edge stone of the street for a pillow), and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings (and shaking his rags loose with his own shivering), he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth (he could stop up both ears with rags and put a corn cob in his mouth), and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon (and even that would not shut out the storm wind). Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper (says old Dives, the rich man of the same Bible story, in his red silk dressing gown)—(he had a redder one afterwards (he was given a hotter, brighter one later, in the flames)) pooh, pooh! (rubbish, rubbish!) What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! (What a fine frosty night, how the star pattern of Orion shines, what a display in the northern sky!) Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories (Let them talk of their eastern summer countries with their never-ending glass hothouses); give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals (give me the luxury of making my own summer with my own coal fire).

But what thinks Lazarus? (But what does Lazarus think?) Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? (Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the great lights in the northern sky?) Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? (Would Lazarus not rather be in Sumatra than here?) Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator (Would he not far rather lie down full length along the line of the equator); yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost? (go down into hell itself just to shut out this frost?)

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives (that Lazarus should lie stuck there on the street edge outside Dives’s door), this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas (is stranger than a mountain of ice being tied up at one of the Spice Islands). Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs (Yet Dives himself lives like a Russian emperor in a palace of ice built out of frozen sighs), and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans (and being the head of a society against strong drink, he drinks nothing but the lukewarm tears of orphans).

But no more of this blubbering now (But enough of this crying and moaning now), we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come (we are off whale hunting, and there is plenty of that still to come). Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet (Let us scrape the ice off our frozen feet), and see what sort of a place this (and see what sort of place this) “Spouter” may be (may be).