“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.
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.
