There you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea,
with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship indolently rolls;
the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor.
For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness
invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling
accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements;
you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks;
are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner--
for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks,
and your bill of fare is immutable.
In one of those southern whalesmen, on a long three or four years'
voyage, as often happens, the sum of the various hours you
spend at the mast-head would amount to several entire months.
And it is much to be deplored that the place to which you devote
so considerable a portion of the whole term of your natural life,
should be so sadly destitute of anything approaching to a
cosy inhabitiveness, or adapted to breed a comfortable localness
of feeling, such as pertains to a bed, a hammock, a hearse,
a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other of those small
and snug contrivances in which men temporarily isolate themselves.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267