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Herman Melvillec
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ñayne Josephson
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Herman Melville
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Wayne Josephson
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{harlottesville VA 22901

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deadable {lassics gently edits great works of literature, retaining the original
authors' voices, and making them less frustrating for students and more
enjoyable for modern readers.c
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în Moby Dick, Herman Melville·s 1851 masterpiece, îshmael, a crewman aboard
the whaling ship a
, narrates {aptain Ahab·s obsessive, doomed quest to
destroy the great white whale that took his leg.

A tremendously ambitious novel, Moby-Dick became the first great American

epic and myth, a tale of life at sea and the conflict between man and his fate.
Brilliant, humorous, and bleak, Melville espouses his philosophy of life, death,
religion, and moral values.
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{opyright 2010 by deadable {lassics
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without written permission from the publisher.
î BN: 978-0-615-32444-9
Library of {ongress {ontrol Number: 2009937410
deadable {lassics
{harlottesville, VA 22901

www.deadable{lassics.com

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{all me îshmael.
ome years ago, having no money in my purse and nothing to interest me
on the shore, î thought î would sail around a little and see the watery part of
the world.
ît is my way of driving off the gloom. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul, or when î find myself following every funeral î see, and
especially when î feel like stepping into the street and knocking people·s hats
off, then î know it is high time to get to sea as soon as î can.
înstead of putting a pistol to my head, î quietly take to the ship. There is
nothing surprising in this. îf men would only admit it, they would have nearly
the same feelings toward the ocean as î.
There is the city of Manhattan, surrounded by water. îts extreme downtown
is the Battery, washed by waves and cooled by breezes. Look at the crowds of
water-gazers there.
Walk around the city on a dreamy unday afternoon. What do you see?
Posted like silent sentinels, all around the town, stand thousands of men fixed in
dreams about the ocean. They are leaning against the posts, seated on the piers,
standing on the decks of ships from {hina, some high aloft in the rigging, as if
trying to get a better peep of the sea.
But these are all landsmen--weekdays pent up in plaster rooms, tied to
counters, nailed to benches, fastened to desks. Why is this? Are the green fields
gone? What are they doing here?
But look! Here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water. trange!
Nothing will content them but to get just as near the water as they possibly can
without falling in. Here they all unite. Tell me, do the magnetic needles of the
compasses of all those ships attract them there?
ay you are in the country, in a land of lakes. Take almost any path you
please, and ten to one it carries you down to a stream. There is magic in it. Take
the most absent-minded man, stand him up, set his feet going, and he will

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infallibly lead you to water, if there is water nearby. hould you ever be thirsty in
the great American desert, try meditating, for everyone knows that meditation
and water are wedded forever.
Here is an artist. He desires to paint the dreamiest, most enchanting
romantic landscape in all of New Hampshire. What is the chief element he
employs? There stand his trees, his meadow, his cattle, his cottage, his
mountains--yet all are in vain, unless his eyes are fixed on a stream.
Go visit the Prairies in June, when for mile after mile you wade knee-deep
through Tiger lilies--what is the one charm lacking? Water. There is not a drop
of water there!
Were Niagara a waterfall of sand, would you travel a thousand miles to see
it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls
of silver, deliberate whether to buy a coat, which he sadly needed, or take a road
trip to dockaway Beach on Long îsland?
Why is almost every robust, healthy boy, with a robust, healthy soul, crazy to
go to sea? Why, upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you feel a mystical
vibration when told that your ship was now out of sight of land? Why did the
old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate god?
urely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper is the meaning of
that story of Narcissus, who saw his image in the fountain, plunged into it, and
was drowned. But we see that same image in all rivers and oceans--it is the
perplexing ghost of life, and this is the key to it all.
Now when î go to sea, it is never as a passenger. To go as a passenger, you
need a purse, and a purse is just a rag unless you have money in it. Besides,
passengers get seasick, grow quarrelsome, don·t sleep at night or enjoy
themselves much.
Nor do î go as a {ommodore, a {aptain, or a {ook. î give the glory of such
offices to those who like them. î hate all honorable, respectable work. ît is all î
can do to take care of myself, without taking care of a whole ship. As for
cooking, somehow î never fancied broiling fowls--though once broiled and
buttered, no one will speak more respectfully of a fowl than î will.
When î go to sea, î go as a simple sailor. True, they order me about and
make me jump from mast to mast like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at
first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. ît touches one·s sense of honor,
particularly if you come from an old established family.
And most of all, if you go from being a schoolmaster, where the tallest
boys stand in awe of you, to putting your hand into a tar-pot. The transition
from schoolmaster to sailor is a drastic one, î assure you. But even this wears
off in time.
What of it, if some old hunk of a sea captain orders me to get a broom and

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sweep down the decks? After all, who ain·t a slave? Tell me that. o, however the
old captains thump and punch me, it·s all right--everybody is served one way or
another in much the same way, so the universal thump is passed round, and all
hands should rub each other·s shoulders and be content.
Again, î always go to sea as a sailor, because they pay me for my trouble--
passengers are never paid a single penny. And there is all the difference in the
world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is the most
uncomfortable burden one can bear. But | 
--what can compare with it?
The act of a man receiving money is really marvelous, considering it is the root
of all evil, and there is no way a rich man can enter heaven. Ah! How cheerfully
we deliver ourselves to hell!
Finally, î always go to sea as a sailor because of the wholesome exercise and
pure air. The {aptain at the wheel of the ship gets his atmosphere secondhand
from the sailors on the bow deck. He thinks he breathes it first, but not so. în
much the same way, the common people lead their leaders.
But why did î, after many voyages as a merchant sailor, decide to go on a
whaling voyage? This, the invisible hand of Fate can better answer than î.
{ertainly this was part of God·s grand plan. î am sure that my whaling voyage
was a brief intermission between God·s more important performances--
something like this:
´Grand Election for President of the United tates.µ
´Whaling Voyage by one îshmael.µ
´Bloody Battle in Afghanistan.µ
î do not know why the stage managers--the Fates--put me down for this
shabby whaling voyage, when others were destined for magnificent roles in great
events.
But now î think î can understand it, besides the delusion that it was my own
free will and astute judgment--it was the overwhelming idea of the great whale
himself.
uch a pompous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity, along
with the wild and distant seas where he rolled his bulk, and the nameless perils
of the whale. Other men, perhaps, would not have been tempted. But î am
tormented by an everlasting itch to sail forbidden seas and land on barbarous
coasts.
One other thing. Not knowing where our ship shall end up on its long
voyage, î know it is always wise to always be on friendly terms with all the
inmates of the vessel.
The whaling voyage, then, was welcome. The great floodgates of wonder
swung open and, in my wild imaginings, the whales floated into my inmost soul,
like a white island in the ocean.

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î stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag--a suitcase made from an old
rug--tucked it under my arm and, leaving Manhattan, î duly arrived in New
Bedford, Massachusetts, on my way to {ape Horn and the Pacific. ît was a
aturday night in December. î was disappointed upon learning that the boat for
Nantucket had already sailed, and no more boats would sail till Monday.
Most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling first stop at
New Bedford, and then embark on their voyage. But my mind was made up to
sail on none other than a Nantucket ship, because there was something fine and
energetic about that famous old island which pleased me.
Besides, though New Bedford has gradually been monopolizing the
business of whaling, Nantucket was the great original--the place where the first
dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
aboriginal îndians first paddle out in canoes to chase the Leviathan? And where
that first adventurous little boat threw cobblestones at the whales, till they were
near enough to risk a harpoon?
Now with the weekend in New Bedford before î could leave, î was
concerned where î was to eat and sleep. ît was a very dark and dismal night,
bitingly cold and cheerless. î knew no one in the place.
With anxious fingers, î had found only a few pieces of silver in my pocket.
o wherever you go, îshmael, said î to myself, be sure to inquire the price, and
don·t be too particular.
î paced the streets and passed the sign of ´The {rossed Harpoonsµ, but it
looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright windows of
the ´ word-Fish înnµ, there came such glowing rays, that it seemed to have
melted the ten inches of packed snow and ice in front. Too expensive and jolly,
again thought î.
But go on, îshmael. o, on î went. î now by instinct followed the streets
that took me toward the water, for there were certainly the cheapest, if not the
cheeriest inns.

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uch dreary streets! But presently î saw a smoky light coming from a low,
wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. ît was the sign of ´The
Trapµ. Hearing a loud voice within, î opened a second, interior door. 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. ît was a black church, and the preacher·s
text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and
teeth-gnashing there. Ha, îshmael, muttered î, backing out.
Moving on, î came at last to a dim light near the docks, and heard a forlorn
creaking sign painted with a white whale and a jet of misty spray, and the words:
´The pouter înn--Peter {offinµ.
{offin? pouter? dather ominous connection, thought î. But {offin is a
common name in Nantucket, they say, and î suppose this Peter here is from
there. The light looked so dim that the place looked quiet enough. The
dilapidated little wooden house looked as if it had been carted here from some
burnt down ruins, and the sign had a poverty-stricken creak to it. î thought that
here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best coffee made from
roasted green peas.
ît was a queer sort of place--one side leaning over sadly. ît stood on a sharp,
bleak corner, where the howling wind blew. What a pity they didn·t stop up the
chinks and crannies to keep the wind out. But it·s too late to make any
improvements now. The universe is finished.
But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is
plenty of blubber yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and
see what sort of place this ´ pouterµ may be.

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The entry of the pouter-înn resembled some condemned old ship. On one
side hung a very large oil painting, covered with smoke--it was a {ape Horn
ship in a hurricane, and an exasperated whale, in mid-air, was about to impale
himself upon the three masts of the ship.
On the opposite wall hung an array of monstrous clubs and spears. ome
had glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of
human hair. You shuddered as you wondered what monstrous cannibal and
savage could ever have used these hacking, horrifying implements.
Mixed with these were rusty old whaling harpoons, all broken and
deformed. ome were famous. Fifty years ago, a Nathan wain killed fifteen
whales between sunrise and sunset with one long lance. And another harpoon,
which looked like a corkscrew now, had been flung into the tail of a whale.
Years later, when it was slain, the harpoon had traveled forty feet through its
body and was found imbedded in the hump.
{rossing this dusky entry, you enter a still-duskier public room. On one side
stood a long table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities
gathered from the remote nooks of the wide world.
On the other side of the room stands a dark-looking bar--a rude attempt at
a whale·s head. There stands the vast arched bone of the whale·s jaw, so wide a
coach could drive under it. în the bar are shabby shelves with old decanters,
bottles, and flasks. And in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed
Jonah, bustles a little, withered old bartender, also named Jonah, who sells the
sailors deliriums and death.
The glasses into which he pours his poison are cylinders on the outside, but
inside the green glasses taper deceitfully down to a cheating bottom. Fill to this
mark, your charge is a penny; to the next mark, a penny more; and so on to the
full glass--the {ape Horn measure--which you may gulp down for a shilling.
Upon entering the place, î found a number of young seamen gathered
about a table. î sought the landlord, and telling him î desired a room, was told

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that his house was full.
´But,µ he added, tapping his forehead, ´you have no objection to sharing a
harpooneer·s blanket, have you? î suppose you are going a-whaling, so you·d
better get used to that sort of thing.µ
î told him that î never liked to sleep two in a bed and, if î ever did, it would
depend upon who the harpooneer might be and, if he was not decidedly
objectionable, î would put up with half of any decent man·s blanket.
´î thought so. All right, take a seat. upper? You want supper? ît·ll be ready
directly.µ
î sat down on an old wooden bench, carved all over. At one end, an old
sailor was still carving it with his jackknife, trying to create a ship under full sail,
but he didn·t make much headway, î thought.
At last, some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in the next
room. ît was cold as îceland--no fire at all--the landlord said he couldn·t afford
it. Nothing but two dismal candles. We were happy to button up our jackets and
drink our cups of scalding tea with our half-frozen fingers.
But the meal was most substantial--not only meat and potatoes, but
dumplings. Good heavens! Dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green
coat yelled at these dumplings in a most threatening manner. The landlord,
being offended, said, ´My boy, you·ll have a nightmare--a dead certainty.µ
´Landlord,µ î whispered, ´that ain·t the harpooneer, is it?µ
´Oh, no,µ said he, looking diabolically funny, ´the harpooneer is a dark-
skinned chap. He never eats dumplings--he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes
¶em rare.µ
´The devil he does,µ says î. ´Where is he?µ
´He·ll be here before long,µ was the answer.
î could not help it, but î began to feel suspicious of this dark-skinned
harpooneer. î made up my mind that if we should sleep together, he must get
into bed before î did.
upper over, the company went back to the bar room and, not knowing
what else to do with myself, î decided to spend the rest of the evening as an
onlooker.
oon, loud noises were heard outside. The landlord cried, ´That·s the crew
of the Grampus. î saw her coming in this morning; a three years· voyage, and a
ship full of whale oil. Hurrah, boys, now we·ll have the latest news from the Figi
îslands.µ
A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open,
and in rolled a wild set of mariners. Enveloped in their shaggy coats, with their
heads muffled in woolen scarves, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed
like an eruption of bears from Labrador.

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They had just gotten off their boat, and this was the first house they
entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight line for the bar, where the
wrinkled little old Jonah poured them drinks all round. One complained of a
bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a thick potion of gin and
molasses, which he swore was a cure for all colds.
The liquor soon mounted into their heads and they began jumping about
most noisily. î observed, however, that one of them held back, somewhat aloof.
This man interested me at once; and since the sea gods had ordained that he
should soon become my shipmate, î will venture a little description of him.
He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and brawn î have
seldom seen in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white
teeth dazzling by contrast. în the deep shadows of his eyes floated bad
memories. His voice announced that he was a outherner, perhaps from
Virginia.
He soon slipped away unobserved, and î saw no more of him till he became
my comrade on the sea. în a few minutes, however, he was missed by his
shipmates, and they raised a cry of, ´Bulkington! Bulkington! Where·s
Bulkington?µ and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.
ît was now about nine o·clock and the room was now quiet. î began to
congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me. No man prefers
to sleep two in a bed. People like to be private when they are sleeping. And
when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a
strange town, and that stranger is a harpooneer, then your objections multiply.
Nor was there any earthly reason why î should sleep two in a bed, for
sailors do not sleep two in a bed at sea. To be sure, they all sleep together in one
apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own
blanket, and sleep in your own skin.
The more î pondered over this harpooneer, the more î hated the thought
of sleeping with him. ît was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his clothes
would not be the tidiest. î began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late--
suppose he should tumble in upon me at midnight?
´Landlord! î·ve changed my mind about that harpooneer. î won·t sleep with
him. î·ll try the bench here.µ
´Just as you please; but it·s a rough board here,µ he said, feeling the knots.
He took a carpenter·s plane and began planing away at my bed, while grinning
like an ape. The shavings flew right and left, and î told him for heaven·s sake to
quit--the bed was soft enough to suit me.
î now measured the bench and found it was a foot too short. î added a
chair, but it was a foot too narrow. î placed the bench a few inches away from
the wall for my back to settle down in. But there was such a draft of cold air

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from the window, that this would never do.
The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought î, but stop--couldn·t î bolt the
bedroom door from the inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the
most violent knockings? But on second thought, î dismissed it. Who could tell
but what the next morning, as soon as î popped out of the room, the
harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!
î began to think that î might be having unnecessary prejudices against this
unknown harpooneer. î·ll wait awhile, thinks î; he must be dropping in before
long. î·ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good
bedfellows after all--there·s no telling.
But though the other boarders kept coming in and going to bed, yet no sign
of my harpooneer.
´Landlord!µ said î, ´what sort of a chap is he--does he always keep such late
hours?µ ît was now hard upon midnight.
The landlord chuckled. ´No,µ he answered, ´generally he·s an early bird--
early to bed and early to rise--yea, he·s the bird what catches the worm. But
tonight he went out peddlin·, and î don·t know what keeps him so late, unless he
can·t sell his head.µ
´{an·t sell his head? What sort of a bamboozling story is this?µ î asked,
getting into a towering rage.
´That·s right,µ he said, ´and î told him he couldn·t sell it here--the market·s
overstocked.µ
´With what?µ shouted î.
´With heads, to be sure. Ain·t there too many heads in the world?µ
´Landlord,µ said î, ´î demand you tell me whether î shall be safe to spend
the night with this harpooneer. îf this man is stark mad, î·ve no intention of
sleeping with a madman.µ
´Be easy,µ said the landlord, ´he just arrived from the outh eas, where he
bought up a lot of embalmed New Zealand heads--great curios, you know--and
he·s sold all of them but one.µ
This account cleared up the mystery, but what could î think of a
harpooneer who stayed out on a aturday night, clean into the holy abbath,
engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idol
worshippers?
´Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.µ
´He pays regular,µ was the rejoinder. ´But come, it·s a nice bed. î·ll give you
a glimpse.µ
He lighted a candle, and then looked at the clock in the corner and said,
´ît·s unday now. You won·t see that harpooneer tonight; he·ll sleep somewhere
else.µ

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Up the stairs we went, and î was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam,
with an enormous bed, almost big enough for four harpooneers.
´There,µ said the landlord, placing the candle on an old sea chest that did
double duty as a washstand. ´Make yourself comfortable now, and good night
to you.µ Then he disappeared.
Folding back the counterpane--also called a bedspread--î saw that the bed,
while not the most elegant, was tolerably good. î glanced round the room and,
besides the bed and table, could see no other furniture but a shelf, the four
walls, and a cardboard cover over the fireplace, depicting a man striking a whale.
On the floor was a tied-up hammock and a large seaman·s bag, no doubt
containing the harpooneer·s wardrobe. On the shelf was a parcel of fish hooks.
A tall harpoon leaned against the head of the bed.
But what was this on the chest? î picked it up, felt it, smelt it, and tried every
way possible to decide what it was. ît appeared to be a large doormat, decorated
on the edges with what resembled porcupine quills. There was a slit in the
middle of this mat.
But how could any sober harpooneer get into a doormat and parade the
streets of any {hristian town? î tried it on, and it weighed me down, being quite
shaggy and thick, and it felt a little damp. î looked at myself in a small mirror
on the wall, and î never saw such a sight in my life. î tore it off in such a hurry
that î gave myself a kink in the neck.
î sat down on the side of the bed and began thinking about this head-
peddling harpooneer and his doormat. Then î got up and took off my jacket
and stood in the middle of the room, thinking. î then took off my coat, and
thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now,
half-undressed as î was, and since the landlord said the harpooneer would not
come home that night, î jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, blew out the
lamp light, and tumbled into bed.
Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn cobs or broken plates, there is
no telling, but î rolled around and could not sleep for a long time. At last î slid
off into a light doze, and was pretty near the land of Nod, when î heard heavy
footsteps in the hallway, and saw a glimmer of light under the door.
Lord save me, î thought. That must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-
peddler. But î lay perfectly still and decided not to say a word till spoken to.
The stranger entered the room, holding a candle in one hand, and that New
Zealand head in the other. Without looking toward the bed, he placed his candle
on the floor in one corner, and then began untying the knotted cord of his
seaman·s bag.
î was all eagerness to see his face. Then, he turned round, and--good
heavens! What a sight! uch a face! ît was a dark purplish-yellow color, with

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large black squares here and there. Yes, it·s just as î thought, he·s been in a fight,
got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just back from the surgeon.
But as he turned his face toward the light, î saw that the black squares on
his cheeks were not bandages, but tattoos. Then î remembered a story of a
whaleman who fell among the cannibals and had been tattooed by them. î
concluded that this harpooneer must have met with a similar adventure.
And î thought, so what, after all! ît·s only his outside--a man can be honest
in any sort of skin. But then, what about his unearthly complexion? ît might be
nothing but a tropical tan--but î never heard of the hot sun tanning a white
man into a purplish-yellow one. However, î had never been in the outh eas,
and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin.
After the harpooneer opened his bag, he pulled out a tomahawk and a
sealskin wallet with the hair still on it. Placing these on top of the old chest, he
crammed his New Zealand head into his bag. He now took off his new beaver
hat, when î nearly screamed with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head--
nothing but a small scalp knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish
head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had the stranger not
stood between me and the door, î would have bolted out of the room quicker
than î ever swallowed a dinner.
î thought of slipping out the window, but it was on the second floor. î am
no coward, but î could not comprehend what to make of this head-peddling
purple rascal. îgnorance is the parent of fear, and being completely confused
about the stranger, î confess î was as much afraid of him as if he was the devil
himself.
Meanwhile, he continued undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms.
As î live, they were checkered with the same tattooed squares as his face--and
his back, too. Then î saw that his legs were also marked.
ît was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage that landed
in this {hristian country. î quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads, too--
perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine--heavens!
Look at that tomahawk!
But there was no time for shuddering, for now he did something that
completely convinced me he was a heathen. Going to his heavy overcoat, which
he had hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets and produced a curious little
deformed image with a hunch on its back, exactly the color of a three days· old
{ongo baby.
demembering the embalmed head, at first î almost thought that this was a
real baby, preserved in a similar manner. But seeing that it glistened like polished
ebony, î concluded that it must be a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be.
Now the savage goes up to the empty fireplace and, removing the cover,

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sets up this little hunchbacked image, like a bowling tenpin, between the
andirons. The chimney was very sooty, so î thought this fireplace made a very
appropriate little shrine for his {ongo idol.
Next he takes a double handful of wood shavings from his coat pocket and
places them carefully before the idol. Then laying a little biscuit on top, he
brought the lamp over and ignited the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. After
many attempts to snatch the biscuit from the fire, and badly scorching his
fingers, at last he succeeded in grabbing the biscuit. Then, blowing off the heat
and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little idol.
But the little wooden devil did not seem to want it--he never moved his lips.
All the while, the stranger let out guttural noises, singing some pagan psalm or
other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At
last, extinguishing the fire, he grabbed the idol and carelessly bagged it in his
coat pocket.
All these queer proceedings increased my discomfort. Picking up his
tomahawk from the table, he held it to the lamp. With his mouth at the handle,
he ignited it, puffing out great clouds of tobacco smoke. Then he extinguished
the lamp.
The next moment this wild cannibal--tomahawk between his teeth--sprang
into bed with me. î sang out--î could not help it now. With a sudden grunt of
surprise, he began feeling me. He stammered something î could not understand,
and then î rolled against the wall and begged him to keep quiet, and let me get
up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses told me that he did not
understand what î meant.
´Whoee devil you?µ he said at last. ´You no speakee, dammee, or î killee.µ
And so saying, the lighted tomahawk began waving around me in the dark.
´Landlord, for God·s sake, Peter {offin!µ shouted î. ´Landlord! Police!
{offin! Angels! ave me!µ
´ peakee! Tell me whoee be, or dammee, î killee!µ again growled the
cannibal, while his horrid waving of the tomahawk scattered hot tobacco ashes
about me till î thought my sheet would set on fire. But thank heaven, at that
moment the landlord came into the room, light in hand. î leapt from the bed
and ran up to him.
´Don·t be afraid now,µ said {offin, grinning again, ´Queequeg here
wouldn·t harm a hair of your head.µ
´ top your grinning,µ shouted î, ´and why didn·t you tell me that this
infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?µ
´î thought you knew it. Didn·t î say he was peddlin· heads around town?
But lie down and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here--you sabbee me, î sabbee
you--this man sleepee with you--you sabbee?µ

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´Me sabbee plenty,µ grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting
up in bed.
´You gettee in,µ Queequeg added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and
throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in a kind and charitable way.
î stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattoos, he was on the whole a
clean, good-looking cannibal.
What·s all this fuss î have been making, thought î to myself? The man·s a
human being just as î am. He has just as much reason to fear me, as î have to be
afraid of him. Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken {hristian.
´Landlord,µ said î, ´tell him to stash his tomahawk or pipe, or whatever you
call it, here. Tell him to stop smoking, and î will turn in with him. î don·t fancy
having a man smoking in bed with me. ît·s dangerous. Besides, î ain·t insured.µ
This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely
motioned to me to get into bed, rolling over to one side, as much as to say, ´î
won·t touch a leg of ye.µ
´Good night, landlord,µ said î. ´You may go.µ
î turned in, and never slept better in my life.

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Upon waking the next morning about daylight, î found Queequeg·s arm
thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost
thought î was his wife. The counterpane was a patchwork quilt, full of odd little
multicolored squares and triangles. And this arm of his, tattooed all over, looked
like a strip of that same quilt. ît was only by the weight and pressure of his arm
that î could tell Queequeg was hugging me.
ît was a strange feeling. Let me try to explain. When î was a child, î
remember something similar that happened to me. î had pulled a prank--trying
to crawl up the chimney, as î had seen the little chimney sweep do a few days
previous--and my stepmother, who was always whipping me or sending me to
bed supperless, dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off
to bed, though it was only two o·clock in the afternoon.
Upstairs î went, to my little room on the third floor, undressed myself as
slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the
sheets.
î lay there dismally calculating that î must lie there for sixteen entire hours
in bed! The small of my back ached to think of it. And it was bright daylight,
too. î felt worse and worse. At last î got up, dressed, softly went downstairs in
my stocking feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her
feet, begging her as a particular favor to give me a good spanking--anything but
condemning me to lie in bed for such an unbearable length of time. But she was
the most thorough of stepmothers, and back î had to go to my room.
For several hours î lay there wide awake. At last, î must have fallen into a
troubled nightmare of a sleep. lowly waking from it, half-dreaming, î opened
my eyes, and the room was now wrapped in darkness.
înstantly î felt a shock running through my body--my arm was lying on the
counterpane, and a supernatural hand seemed to be placed on top of my arm. î
could not see or hear anything--the nameless, silent phantom, to which the hand
belonged, seemed to be seated close by my bedside.

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For what seemed like ages, î lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not
daring to drag away my hand; yet thinking that if î could move it just one single
inch, the horrid spell would be broken.
î did not know how this feeling at last slid away from me, but waking in the
morning, î remembered it all and shuddered. For days and weeks and months
afterward, î puzzled over this mystery. Nay, to this very hour, î often puzzle
myself with it.
Now, on waking up and seeing Queequeg·s pagan hand thrown round me,
my sensations were very similar to that childhood memory. But finally the past
night·s events slowly came back to me, and then î lay there in this comic
predicament.
Although î tried to move his arm--unlock his bridegroom·s clasp. But
sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though nothing but death
should do us part. î now tried to rouse him--´Queequeg!µ--but his only answer
was a snore.
î then rolled over, and my neck suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing
aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk by the savage·s side. Truly a
pretty pickle, thought î--here in bed in a strange house in the broad daylight
with a cannibal and a tomahawk!
´Queequeg! în the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!µ At length, by
much wriggling and loud disapproval about the unattractiveness of his hugging
a fellow male in that matrimonial style, î succeeded in producing a grunt.
Presently, he removed his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland
dog just out of the water, and sat up stiff in bed, looking at me and rubbing his
eyes as if he did not quite remember how î came to be there, though a dim
dawning slowly came over him.
He then jumped onto the floor, and by certain signs and sounds let me
know that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress
afterwards, leaving the room to myself. Thinks î, this is a very civilized gesture.
But the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you
will. ît is marvelous how truly polite they are.
î pay this compliment to Queequeg because he treated me with so much
thoughtfulness, while î was guilty of great rudeness--staring at him from the
bed and watching him dress. But you don·t see a man like Queequeg every day,
and so he was well worth my curiosity.
He began by donning his beaver hat, and then, minus his trousers, he picked
up his boots and crawled under the bed to put them on, with much gasping and
straining. î never heard of a man needing privacy when putting on his boots.
But Queequeg, you see, was a creature in the transition stage--neither caterpillar
nor butterfly. îf he had not been at all civilized, he probably would not wear

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boots at all.
At last, he emerged. eeing that there were no curtains in the window, and
that the street offered a commanding view of Queequeq in nothing but his hat
and boots, î begged him, as well as î could, to get into his pantaloons as soon as
possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself.
At that time in the morning, any {hristian would have washed his face. But
Queequeg, to my amazement, cleaned only his chest, arms, and hands. He then
donned his vest and lathered his face with the soap. He then takes the harpoon
from the corner, removed the sheath from the head and, striding up to the bit
of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of
his cheeks. Later î learned what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made of, and
how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.
He was soon finished, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped
in his large jacket, sporting his harpoon like a marshal·s baton.

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î quickly followed Queequeg out of the room and, descending into the bar-
room, met the grinning landlord very pleasantly. î had no malice toward him,
though he had quite a lot of fun with me regarding my bedfellow. However, a
good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce. o if a man can be a
good joke for somebody, let him be used that way.
The bar-room was now full of boarders from the previous night. They were
nearly all whalemen--chief mates, second and third mates, sea carpenters and
barrel makers, sea blacksmiths, harpooneers and ship keepers--a brown and
brawny group with dense beards, a shaggy set all wearing sailors· jackets.
You could tell how long each one had been ashore. This fellow·s healthy
cheeks are like sunburned pears, and cannot have landed more than three days
ago. That man next to him looks a few shades lighter. A third one, with a lightly
bleached tropic tan, has been several weeks ashore. But Queequeg? His various
tints showed many climates, zone by zone.
´Grub, ho!µ now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to
breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world become quite at ease in the
company of others. Not always, though--a traveler who crosses iberia by dog
sled or walks alone through the heart of Africa may not attain high social
polish. till, for the most part, one may find good company anywhere that
seamen gather.
î mention this because, after we were all seated at the table, î was preparing
to hear some good stories about whaling. But to my surprise, nearly every man
was dead silent. Not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set
of seadogs, many of whom, without the slightest bashfulness, had boarded
great whales on the high seas, entire strangers to the leviathans, and fought
them dead without blinking.
Yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table, all of the same calling, all of
kindred tastes, looking round sheepishly at each other. A curious sight, these

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timid warrior whalemen!
But as for Queequeg, he sat there among them, at the head of the table, as
cool as an icicle. {ertainly, î cannot say much for his breeding. He brought his
harpoon into breakfast with him and, reaching over the table to the jeopardy of
many heads, grabbed the rare beefsteaks with it. But it was certainly very coolly
done, and everyone knows that to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.
Queequeg avoided the coffee and hot rolls and gave his undivided attention
to the rare beefsteaks. When breakfast was over, he went into the public room
with everyone else, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and sat there quietly digesting
and smoking with his beaver hat on, while î set out for a stroll.

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îf î had been astonished at seeing such an outlandish man as Queequeg

among the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon left me
after taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.
Any large seaport will offer the queerest looking people from foreign lands.
Even on Broadway, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes bump into the
frightened ladies; and in Bombay, live American Yankees have often scared the
natives. But New Bedford beats them all. Here, actual cannibals stand chatting
at street corners. ît causes a stranger to stare.
But there are more curious, certainly more comical, sights in New Bedford.
Every week in this town, scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men
arrive--mostly young and strong, fellows who have felled forests, and now seek
to drop the axe and snatch the whale harpoon. Many are as green as the Green
Mountains where they came from.
Back home, a country bumpkin dandy will mow his two acres in August
with gloves on, for fear of tanning his hands. Now, when he decides to join the
great whale fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching
the seaport. în designing his sea outfit, he orders bell buttons for his vest, and
suspenders for his canvas trousers. Ah, poor hay-seed! How bitterly will those
straps burst in the first howling gale.
But do not think that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,
and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. till, New Bedford is a queer
place. Had it not been for us whalemen, it would today resemble the desolate
coast of Labrador.
în all of New England, this town is perhaps the most expensive place to
live. ît is a land of oil, true enough--whale oil. Nowhere in all America will you
find more patrician-like houses, and parks and gardens more opulent, than in
New Bedford. Where did they came from?
Gaze upon the lofty mansions· iron gates, which resemble harpoons, and
your question will be answered. These large houses and flower gardens all came

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from the Atlantic, Pacific, and îndian oceans--harpooned and dragged up here
from the bottom of the sea.
They say that in New Bedford, fathers give whales to their daughters as
dowries, and give their nieces a few porpoises each. You must go to New
Bedford to see a brilliant wedding, where whale oil candles burn all night. The
town has long avenues of green and gold maples in summer, and beautiful
chestnut trees in August, with bright flowers blooming from the barren rocks.
The women of New Bedford bloom like their own red roses--but roses only
bloom in summer, whereas these ladies· cheeks bloom all year long. You cannot
match this anywhere, except in alem, where their sailor sweethearts can inhale
their aroma from miles offshore.

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în New Bedford stands a Whaleman·s {hapel; very few fishermen who are
soon to leave for the îndian Ocean or Pacific fail to make a unday visit to this
spot.
deturning from my morning stroll, î came to this special place. The sky had
changed from clear, sunny, and cold to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself
in my shaggy woolen jacket, î fought my way against the stubborn storm.
Entering, î found a small scattered group of sailors, wives and widows. A
muffled silence was only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each
silent worshipper sat apart from the other, as if each grief could not be shared.
The chaplain had not yet arrived. These silent islands of men and women
eyed several marble tablets, with black borders, set into the wall on either side
of the pulpit. Three of these tablets read something like the following:
´ acred to the Memory of John Talbot, Who, at the age of eighteen, was
lost overboard near the îsle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836.
This Tablet is erected to his Memory by his ister.µ
´ acred to the Memory of dobert Long, Willis Ellery, Nathan {oleman,
Walter {anny, eth Macy, and amuel Gleig, Forming one of the boat·s crews
of the hip Eliza, Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, offshore from Peru
in the Pacific, December 31st, 1839. This Marble is here placed by their
surviving hipmates.µ
´ acred to the Memory of the late {aptain Ezekiel Hardy, Who in the bow
of his boat was killed by a perm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d,
1833. This Tablet is erected to his Memory by his Widow.µ
haking off the ice from my hat and jacket, î sat near the door. Turning
sideways, î was surprised to see Queequeg near me. He had a wondering gaze
of curiosity on his face. This savage was the only person who noticed me,
because he was the only one who could not read, and therefore was not gazing
at those frigid inscriptions on the wall.
î knew not whether any of those present were relatives of the seamen

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commemorated on the wall. But several women wore the faces and mourning
clothes of unceasing grief and unhealing hearts, so î felt sure that those bleak
tablets were causing their old wounds to bleed afresh.
Oh! You, whose dead are buried in the ground do not know our despair!
Our loved ones· names are carved into marble gravestones with black borders--
but the graves are empty, without any ashes! They perished in nameless places in
the ocean and there is nothing to be resurrected to heaven!
Why is it that a universal proverb says the dead tell no tales--though they
have more secrets than the treacherous ship graveyards off the coast of
England? Why do the Life însurance {ompanies make Death payments? Why
do we refuse to be happy about those whom we claim are living in heavenly
bliss? Why do all the living strive to hush all the dead? Why does the rumor of a
noise in a tomb terrify a whole city? All these things are not without their
meanings.
On the eve of a Nantucket voyage, î scarcely need to describe my feelings
regarding those marble tablets, as î read the fate of the whalemen who had
gone before me.
Yes, îshmael, the same fate may be yours.
But somehow î grew merry again. Wonderful incentives to board ship, a
fine chance for promotion--aye, a crashed boat will give me a promotion to
heaven. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling--a quick chaotic shove of
a man into Eternity. But what then?
î think we have badly mistaken this matter of Life and Death. î think that
what they call my shadow here on earth is really my true substance. î think my
body is just the dregs of my soul. în fact, î say, ´Take my body, it is not me.µ
And therefore, three cheers for Nantucket--go ahead and crash my boat and
crash my body, for God cannot crash my soul.

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