With a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest;and emptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there. Many spare hours he spent,in carving the lid with all manner of grotesque figures and drawings;and it seemed that hereby he was striving, in his rude way,to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on his body.And this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who,by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth,and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth;so that Queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume;but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own live heart beat against them;and these mysteries were therefore destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon they were inscribed,and so be unsolved to the last. And this thought it must have been which suggested to Ahab that wild exclamation of his,when one morning turning away from surveying poor Queequeg—“Oh, devilish tantalization of the gods!”
CHAPTER 111. The Pacific.
When gliding by the Bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great South Sea;were it not for other things, I could have greeted my dear Pacific with uncounted thanks,for now the long supplication of my youth was answered;that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a thousand leagues of blue.
There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea,whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath;like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John.And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures,wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents,the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here,millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries;all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still;tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld,must ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of the world,the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms.The same waves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns,but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men,and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham;while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown Archipelagoes,and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine Pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about;makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth.Lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.
But few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab’s brain,as standing like an iron statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging,with one nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles (in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking),and with the other consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea;that sea in which the hated White Whale must even then be swimming.Launched at length upon these almost final waters,and gliding towards the Japanese cruising-ground, the old man’s purpose intensified itself.His firm lips met like the lips of a vice;the Delta of his forehead’s veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep,his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, “Stern all!the White Whale spouts thick blood!”
CHAPTER 112. The Blacksmith.
Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes,and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, Perth,the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again,after concluding his contributory work for Ahab’s leg, but still retained it on deck,fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen,and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing,or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture.Often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades,pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled.Nevertheless, this old man’s was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur,no impatience, no petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn;bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself,and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart. And so it was.—Most miserable!
A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait,had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners.And to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in;and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.
Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter’s midnight,on the road running between two country towns,the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him,and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn. The issue was,the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part,at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long,and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life’s drama.
He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty,had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow’s technicals called ruin.He had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden;embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children;every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove. But one night,under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement,a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything.And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family’s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror!Upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now,for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons,the blacksmith’s shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it;so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness,but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband’s hammer;whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her,not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor’s iron lullaby,the blacksmith’s infants were rocked to slumber.
Oh, woe on woe!Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely?Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him,then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable,legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency.But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother,on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family,and left the worse than useless old man standing,till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.
Why tell the whole?The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between;and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window,with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell;the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold;the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither;and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape;his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!
Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this;but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried;it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery,the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men,who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide,does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable,taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics,the thousand mermaids sing to them—“Come hither, broken-hearted;here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither!bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world,is more oblivious than death. Come hither!put up _thy_ gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!”
Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve,the blacksmith’s soul responded, Aye, I come!And so Perth went a-whaling.
CHAPTER 113. The Forge.
With matted beard, and swathed in a bristling shark-skin apron, about mid-day,Perth was standing between his forge and anvil, the latter placed upon an iron-wood log,with one hand holding a pike-head in the coals, and with the other at his forge’s lungs,when Captain Ahab came along, carrying in his hand a small rusty-looking leathern bag.While yet a little distance from the forge, moody Ahab paused; till at last, Perth,withdrawing his iron from the fire, began hammering it upon the anvil—the red mass sending off the sparks in thick hovering flights, some of which flew close to Ahab.
“Are these thy Mother Carey’s chickens, Perth?they are always flying in thy wake; birds of good omen, too, but not to all;—look here, they burn;but thou—thou liv’st among them without a scorch.”
“Because I am scorched all over, Captain Ahab,” answered Perth, resting for a moment on his hammer;“I am past scorching; not easily can’st thou scorch a scar.”
“Well, well; no more. Thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woeful to me.In no Paradise myself, I am impatient of all misery in others that is not mad.Thou should’st go mad, blacksmith; say, why dost thou not go mad?How can’st thou endure without being mad?Do the heavens yet hate thee, that thou can’st not go mad?—What wert thou making there?”
“Welding an old pike-head, sir; there were seams and dents in it.”
“And can’st thou make it all smooth again, blacksmith, after such hard usage as it had?”
“I think so, sir.”
“And I suppose thou can’st smoothe almost any seams and dents; never mind how hard the metal, blacksmith?”
“Aye, sir, I think I can; all seams and dents but one.”
“Look ye here, then,” cried Ahab, passionately advancing,and leaning with both hands on Perth’s shoulders;“look ye here—_here_—can ye smoothe out a seam like this, blacksmith,” sweeping one hand across his ribbed brow; “if thou could’st, blacksmith,glad enough would I lay my head upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes. Answer!Can’st thou smoothe this seam?”
“Oh!that is the one, sir!Said I not all seams and dents but one?”
“Aye, blacksmith, it is the one; aye, man, it is unsmoothable;for though thou only see’st it here in my flesh,it has worked down into the bone of my skull—_that_ is all wrinkles!But, away with child’s play; no more gaffs and pikes to-day. Look ye here!” jingling the leathern bag, as if it were full of gold coins. “I, too, want a harpoon made;one that a thousand yoke of fiends could not part, Perth;something that will stick in a whale like his own fin-bone. There’s the stuff,” flinging the pouch upon the anvil. “Look ye, blacksmith,these are the gathered nail-stubbs of the steel shoes of racing horses.”
“Horse-shoe stubbs, sir?Why, Captain Ahab, thou hast here, then, the best and stubbornest stuff we blacksmiths ever work.”
“I know it, old man; these stubbs will weld together like glue from the melted bones of murderers. Quick!forge me the harpoon. And forge me first, twelve rods for its shank; then wind, and twist,and hammer these twelve together like the yarns and strands of a tow-line. Quick!I’ll blow the fire.”
When at last the twelve rods were made, Ahab tried them, one by one, by spiralling them,with his own hand, round a long, heavy iron bolt. “A flaw!” rejecting the last one. “Work that over again, Perth.”
This done, Perth was about to begin welding the twelve into one, when Ahab stayed his hand,and said he would weld his own iron. As, then, with regular, gasping hems,he hammered on the anvil, Perth passing to him the glowing rods, one after the other,and the hard pressed forge shooting up its intense straight flame, the Parsee passed silently,and bowing over his head towards the fire, seemed invoking some curse or some blessing on the toil. But, as Ahab looked up, he slid aside.
“What’s that bunch of lucifers dodging about there for?” muttered Stubb, looking on from the forecastle. “That Parsee smells fire like a fusee;and smells of it himself, like a hot musket’s powder-pan.”
At last the shank, in one complete rod, received its final heat; and as Perth, to temper it,plunged it all hissing into the cask of water near by,the scalding steam shot up into Ahab’s bent face.
“Would’st thou brand me, Perth?” wincing for a moment with the pain; “have I been but forging my own branding-iron, then?”
“Pray God, not that; yet I fear something, Captain Ahab. Is not this harpoon for the White Whale?”
“For the white fiend!But now for the barbs; thou must make them thyself, man. Here are my razors—the best of steel; here,and make the barbs sharp as the needle-sleet of the Icy Sea.”
For a moment, the old blacksmith eyed the razors as though he would fain not use them.
“Take them, man, I have no need for them; for I now neither shave, sup, nor pray till—but here—to work!”
Fashioned at last into an arrowy shape, and welded by Perth to the shank,the steel soon pointed the end of the iron;and as the blacksmith was about giving the barbs their final heat, prior to tempering them,he cried to Ahab to place the water-cask near.
“No, no—no water for that; I want it of the true death-temper. Ahoy, there!Tashtego, Queequeg, Daggoo!What say ye, pagans!Will ye give me as much blood as will cover this barb?” holding it high up. A cluster of dark nods replied, Yes.Three punctures were made in the heathen flesh, and the White Whale’s barbs were then tempered.
“Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli!” deliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the baptismal blood.
Now, mustering the spare poles from below, and selecting one of hickory,with the bark still investing it, Ahab fitted the end to the socket of the iron.A coil of new tow-line was then unwound, and some fathoms of it taken to the windlass,and stretched to a great tension. Pressing his foot upon it,till the rope hummed like a harp-string, then eagerly bending over it, and seeing no strandings, Ahab exclaimed, “Good!and now for the seizings.”
At one extremity the rope was unstranded,and the separate spread yarns were all braided and woven round the socket of the harpoon;the pole was then driven hard up into the socket;from the lower end the rope was traced half-way along the pole’s length, and firmly secured so,with intertwistings of twine. This done, pole, iron,and rope—like the Three Fates—remained inseparable, and Ahab moodily stalked away with the weapon;the sound of his ivory leg, and the sound of the hickory pole,both hollowly ringing along every plank. But ere he entered his cabin, light, unnatural,half-bantering, yet most piteous sound was heard. Oh, Pip!thy wretched laugh, thy idle but unresting eye;all thy strange mummeries not unmeaningly blended with the black tragedy of the melancholy ship, and mocked it!
CHAPTER 114. The Gilder.
Penetrating further and further into the heart of the Japanese cruising ground,the Pequod was soon all astir in the fishery. Often, in mild, pleasant weather, for twelve,fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on the stretch, they were engaged in the boats,steadily pulling, or sailing, or paddling after the whales,or for an interlude of sixty or seventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising;though with but small success for their pains.
At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells;seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves,that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude,when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin,one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember,that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident,land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth;and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward,not through high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie:as when the western emigrants’ horses only show their erected ears,while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.
The long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these there steals the hush, the hum;you almost swear that play-wearied children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time,when the flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most mystic mood;so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate, and form one seamless whole.
Nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as temporary an effect on Ahab.But if these secret golden keys did seem to open in him his own secret golden treasuries,yet did his breath upon them prove but tarnishing.
Oh, grassy glades!oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye,—though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life,—in ye, men yet may roll,like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments,feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last.But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms,a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life;we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:—through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless faith,adolescence’ doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief,resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of If. But once gone through,we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally.Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more?In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary?Where is the foundling’s father hidden?Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them:the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.
And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat’s side into that same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:—
“Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s eye!—Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact;let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.”
And Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same golden light:—
“I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that he has always been jolly!”
CHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.
And jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down before the wind,some few weeks after Ahab’s harpoon had been welded.
It was a Nantucket ship, the Bachelor, which had just wedged in her last cask of oil,and bolted down her bursting hatches; and now, in glad holiday apparel, was joyously,though somewhat vain-gloriously, sailing round among the widely-separated ships on the ground, previous to pointing her prow for home.
The three men at her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red bunting at their hats;from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended, bottom down;and hanging captive from the bowsprit was seen the long lower jaw of the last whale they had slain.Signals, ensigns, and jacks of all colours were flying from her rigging, on every side.Sideways lashed in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm; above which,in her top-mast cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of the same precious fluid;and nailed to her main truck was a brazen lamp.
As was afterwards learned, the Bachelor had met with the most surprising success;all the more wonderful, for that while cruising in the same seas numerous other vessels had gone entire months without securing a single fish.Not only had barrels of beef and bread been given away to make room for the far more valuable sperm,but additional supplemental casks had been bartered for, from the ships she had met;and these were stowed along the deck, and in the captain’s and officers’ state-rooms.Even the cabin table itself had been knocked into kindling-wood;and the cabin mess dined off the broad head of an oil-butt,lashed down to the floor for a centrepiece. In the forecastle,the sailors had actually caulked and pitched their chests, and filled them;it was humorously added, that the cook had clapped a head on his largest boiler, and filled it;that the steward had plugged his spare coffee-pot and filled it;that the harpooneers had headed the sockets of their irons and filled them;that indeed everything was filled with sperm, except the captain’s pantaloons pockets,and those he reserved to thrust his hands into,in self-complacent testimony of his entire satisfaction.
As this glad ship of good luck bore down upon the moody Pequod,the barbarian sound of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing still nearer,a crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge try-pots, which,covered with the parchment-like _poke_ or stomach skin of the black fish,gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the clenched hands of the crew. On the quarter-deck,the mates and harpooneers were dancing with the olive-hued girls who had eloped with them from the Polynesian Isles;while suspended in an ornamented boat, firmly secured aloft between the foremast and mainmast,three Long Island negroes, with glittering fiddle-bows of whale ivory,were presiding over the hilarious jig. Meanwhile,others of the ship’s company were tumultuously busy at the masonry of the try-works,from which the huge pots had been removed.You would have almost thought they were pulling down the cursed Bastille,such wild cries they raised, as the now useless brick and mortar were being hurled into the sea.
Lord and master over all this scene, the captain stood erect on the ship’s elevated quarter-deck,so that the whole rejoicing drama was full before him,and seemed merely contrived for his own individual diversion.
And Ahab, he too was standing on his quarter-deck, shaggy and black, with a stubborn gloom;and as the two ships crossed each other’s wakes—one all jubilations for things passed,the other all forebodings as to things to come—their two captains in themselves impersonated the whole striking contrast of the scene.
“Come aboard, come aboard!” cried the gay Bachelor’s commander, lifting a glass and a bottle in the air.
“Hast seen the White Whale?” gritted Ahab in reply.
“No; only heard of him; but don’t believe in him at all,” said the other good-humoredly. “Come aboard!”
“Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on. Hast lost any men?”
“Not enough to speak of—two islanders, that’s all;—but come aboard, old hearty, come along.I’ll soon take that black from your brow. Come along, will ye (merry’s the play); a full ship and homeward-bound.”
“How wondrous familiar is a fool!” muttered Ahab; then aloud, “Thou art a full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then,call me an empty ship, and outward-bound. So go thy ways, and I will mine. Forward there!Set all sail, and keep her to the wind!”
And thus, while the one ship went cheerily before the breeze,the other stubbornly fought against it; and so the two vessels parted;the crew of the Pequod looking with grave, lingering glances towards the receding Bachelor;but the Bachelor’s men never heeding their gaze for the lively revelry they were in. And as Ahab,leaning over the taffrail, eyed the homeward-bound craft,he took from his pocket a small vial of sand, and then looking from the ship to the vial,seemed thereby bringing two remote associations together,for that vial was filled with Nantucket soundings.
CHAPTER 116. The Dying Whale.
Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favourites sail close by us, we,though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze,and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed it with the Pequod.For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor, whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.
It was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the crimson fight were done:and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, sun and whale both stilly died together; then,such a sweetness and such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy air,that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent valleys of the Manilla isles,the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.
Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned off from the whale,sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat.For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head,and so expiring—that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening,somehow to Ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.
“He turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly,his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too worships fire;most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—Oh that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights. Look!here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe;in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets;where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to,as stars that shine upon the Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see!no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.
“Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas;thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering Typhoon,and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head,and then gone round again, without a lesson to me.
“Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power!Oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain!In vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun,that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou, darker half,rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here;I am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.
“Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest.Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!”
CHAPTER 117. The Whale Watch.
The four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to windward; one, less distant,to leeward; one ahead; one astern. These last three were brought alongside ere nightfall;but the windward one could not be reached till morning;and the boat that had killed it lay by its side all night; and that boat was Ahab’s.
The waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale’s spout-hole;and the lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon the black, glossy back,and far out upon the midnight waves, which gently chafed the whale’s broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.
Ahab and all his boat’s crew seemed asleep but the Parsee; who crouching in the bow,sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played round the whale,and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails.A sound like the moaning in squadrons over Asphaltites of unforgiven ghosts of Gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.
Started from his slumbers, Ahab, face to face, saw the Parsee;and hooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a flooded world. “I have dreamed it again,” said he.
“Of the hearses?Have I not said, old man, that neither hearse nor coffin can be thine?”
“And who are hearsed that die on the sea?”
“But I said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage,two hearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by mortal hands;and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in America.”
“Aye, aye!a strange sight that, Parsee:—a hearse and its plumes floating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers. Ha!Such a sight we shall not soon see.”
“Believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man.”
“And what was that saying about thyself?”
“Though it come to the last, I shall still go before thee thy pilot.”