Moby Dicke CHAPTER 2. 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 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 monopolising 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 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.


  1. says

    Shorter Chapter 2: I packed my shitte and went to New Bedford looking for some fucken cocketails and a bed before heading out to sea, passed a few places thatte looked too expensive, stumbled into a black church and had some racist thoughts, and finally encountered a joint thatte looked shittey enough from the outside to be affordable.

  2. says

    When you said you were going to blog Moby Dick, I didn’t realize that you were going to cut-and-paste each chapter!

    I want more analysis and a lot less plagiarism.

    Now, I have to find a copy of the book so I can catch up. . .

  3. says

    How is this plagiarism? The idea is to post each chapter–which is in the public domain, and is clearly attributed to the original work by Melville–so that readers can join in with reading, analyzing, and commenting without having to find the book.

  4. gingerest? says

    Dude, you have skipped a major LITERARY MOTIF in your summary. To wit, Nantucket fucken RAWKS and is the heart of whaling, a heavily foreshadowed metaphor for man’s struggle against himself and against the violence inherent to the natural world. We will be hearing more about Nantucket, if I recall right.

    So, suggested edit: “I packed my shitte up and headed out to Nantucket, which RULES. Sadly, my ass got stuck in New Bedford – which DROOLS – for the night. So I went looking for some fucken drinks etc.”

  5. Isis the Scientist says

    Email me when the metaphorical sex chapter with all the whales comes up. I like that one.

  6. Matt_L says

    Oh jeeze, you already started and I’m still grading finals!

    I dig the New Testament Intertextuality in this chapter. Four years of Catholic High School really pays off with this. (That and I get some of the clues in the NYTimes crossword puzzles). I totally forgot about Paul being shipwrecked.

    I wonder how many shipwreck references M is going to cram into this thing before he gets to the end?

  7. says

    I’m sorry I accused you of plagiarism–that was clearly inaccurate. Cut-and-paste was accurate, however.

    But because you suggested that you would be a Melville scholar in another lifetime, I thought that you would offer more than the text of the book itself and a summary of each chapter to give us something to talk about or chew over. That would be more interesting for me–I’ve already got a copy of the book.

    Matt: provide examples, and be specific! (I’m asking because I didn’t get any NT intertextuality & want to learn.)

  8. Matt_L says

    Sure Historiann! I might be using intertextual in the wrong way, but when I was reading the part when Ishmael walked up to the Spouter, I was stumped by the constant references to Euroclydon and Dives. So I did a quick google search and pulled up the relevant wikipedia articles that said Euroclydon was another name for the Gregale and that Dives was actually a Latin word for rich man, not a proper name. They also had the cites for Paul’s shipwreck in Acts 27:14 and the parable of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19-31). I couldn’t find the copy of the King James I usually have kicking around the office (Its in here somewhere, probably buried under some exams…) so I looked those up on the interwebs as well… a lazy man’s intertextuality to be sure…

    But what is cool is the way Melvile mashed the two stories together. So that the same wind which shipwrecks Paul is the one that causes Lazarus to freeze and the Rich Man (Dives) to rejoice in his own good fortune. Then the Rich Man is wrapped in red twice, first as a burial shroud and second in the flames of Hades. I don’t get his tangent about Lazarus in the Moluccas except that he would be warmer there than in New Bedford.

  9. Matt_L says

    Oh yeah and the Paul-Lazarus references are kind of interesting with Ismael stumbling on the black church a few paragraphs earlier. Especially since the preacher’s sermon was about the torments of hell… what a way to spend a Saturday night.

  10. says

    I thought that you would offer more than the text of the book itself and a summary of each chapter to give us something to talk about or chew over.

    I’m just a dumshitte scientist who wants to learn from you humanities peeps!

  11. says

    He really does have an ability to make you feel the cold, the wind, the streets. I can practically smell the shit-hole town.

    Lots of preachers and religion in this book. I’d forgotten about the black church, esp since it gets buried by the church seen a few chapters hence.

  12. Kmlydon says

    Looking things up doesn’t weaken your points about intertextuality at all; very interesting. This chapter, like the whole book, is far more about intertextuality, and about a new American literary language, than it is about story.

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