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 on 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 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.
