But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers,
cannibals, and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all.
Still New Bedford is a queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen,
that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling
condition as the coast of Labrador. As it is, parts of her
back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony.
The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in,
in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough:
but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine.
The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time
do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this,
nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses;
parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came
they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?
Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty
mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave houses
and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans.
One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom
of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?
In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their
daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.
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