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 colored and coloring
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? ..
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!”
The Chart
