He was a long, earnest man,
and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure
hot latitudes, his flesh being hard as twice-baked biscuit.
Transported to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like
bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general
drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which his
state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen;
those summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness.
But this, his thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token
of wasting anxieties and cares, than it seemed the indication
of any bodily blight. It was merely the condensation of the man.
He was by no means ill-looking; quite the contrary.
His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and closely wrapped
up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength,
like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared
to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always, as now;
for be it Polar snow or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer,
his interior vitality was warranted to do well in all climates.
Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see there the yet lingering
images of those thousand-fold perils he had calmly confronted
through life.
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