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Hii i got this flower for you
signed the father
@ Don't read this cuz it actually works. You will be kissed on the nearest possible Friday by the one you love of your life. Tomorrow will be the best day of your life. However if you will die now that you started reading this, you can't stop. This is scary. Post this on five profiles in 134 minutes. When done press 6 and your lovers name will appear in big letters. This is so scary cuz it actually works
Mounttop—the captain);—as I was saying, I jumped into
Mounttop’s boat, which, d’ye see, was gunwale and
gunwale with mine, then; and snatching the first harpoon,
let this old great-grandfather have it. But, Lord, look you,
sir—hearts and souls alive, man—the next instant, in a jiff,
I was blind as a bat—both eyes out—all befogged and
bedeadened with black foam—the whale’s tail looming
straight up out of it, perpendicular in the air, like a marble
steeple. No use sterning all, then; but as I was groping at
midday, with a blinding sun, all crown-jewels; as I was
groping, I say, after the second iron, to toss it overboard—
two, leaving each half in splinters; and, flukes first, the
white hump backed through the wreck, as though it was
all chips. We all struck out. To escape his terrible flailings,
I seized hold of my harpoon-pole sticking in him, and for
a moment clung to that like a sucking fish. But a combing
sea dashed me off, and at the same instant, the fish, taking
one good dart forwards, went down like a flash; and the
barb of that cursed second iron towing along near me
caught me here’ (clapping his hand just below his
shoulder); ‘yes, caught me just here, I say, and bore me
down to Hell’s flames, I was thinking; when, when, all of
the flesh—clear along the whole length of my arm—came
out nigh my wrist, and up I floated;—and that gentleman
there will tell you the rest (by the way, captain—Dr.
Bunger, ship’s surgeon: Bunger, my lad,—the captain).
Now, Bunger boy, spin your part of the yarn.’
The professional gentleman thus familiarly pointed out,
had been all the time standing near them, with nothing
specific visible, to denote his gentlemanly rank on board.
His face was an exceedingly round but sober one; he was
dressed in a faded blue woollen frock or shirt, and patched
between a marlingspike he held in one hand, and a pillbox
held in the other, occasionally casting a critical glance
at the ivory limbs of the two crippled captains. But, at his
superior’s introduction of him to Ahab, he politely bowed,
and straightway went on to do his captain’s bidding.
‘It was a shocking bad wound,’ began the whalesurgeon;
‘and, taking my advice, Captain Boomer here,
stood our old Sammy—‘
‘Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship,’ interrupted
the one-armed captain, addressing Ahab; ‘go on, boy.’
‘Stood our old Sammy off to the northward, to get out
of the blazing hot weather there on the Line. But it was
severe with him in the matter of diet—‘
‘Oh, very severe!’ chimed in the patient himself; then
suddenly altering his voice, ‘Drinking hot rum toddies
with me every night, till he couldn’t see to put on the
bandages; and sending me to bed, half seas over, about
three o’clock in the morning. Oh, ye stars! he sat up with
me indeed, and was very severe in my diet. Oh! a great
watcher, and very dietetically severe, is Dr. Bunger.
(Bunger, you dog, laugh out! why don’t ye? You know
you’re a precious jolly rascal.) But, heave ahead, boy, I’d
rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other man.’
respected sir’—said the imperturbable godly-looking
Bunger, slightly bowing to Ahab—‘is apt to be facetious at
times; he spins us many clever things of that sort. But I
may as well say—en passant, as the French remark—that I
myself—that is to say, Jack Bunger, late of the reverend
clergy—am a strict total abstinence man; I never drink—‘
‘Water!’ cried the captain; ‘he never drinks it; it’s a sort
of fits to him; fresh water throws him into the
hydrophobia; but go on—go on with the arm story.’
‘Yes, I may as well,’ said the surgeon, coolly. ‘I was
about observing, sir, before Captain Boomer’s facetious
the wound kept getting worse and worse; the truth was,
sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw; more
than two feet and several inches long. I measured it with
the lead line. In short, it grew black; I knew what was
threatened, and off it came. But I had no hand in shipping
that ivory arm there; that thing is against all rule’—
pointing at it with the marlingspike—‘that is the captain’s
work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he
had that club-hammer there put to the end, to knock
once. He flies into diabolical passions sometimes. Do ye
see this dent, sir’—removing his hat, and brushing aside
his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull, but
which bore not the slightest scarry trace, or any token of
ever having been a wound—‘Well, the captain there will
tell you how that came here; he knows.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said the captain, ‘but his mother did; he
was born with it. Oh, you solemn rogue, you—you
Bunger! was there ever such another Bunger in the watery
world? Bunger, when you die, you ought to die in pickle,
you dog; you should be preserved to future ages, you
rascal.’
who thus far had been impatiently listening to this by-play
between the two Englishmen.
‘Oh!’ cried the one-armed captain, ‘oh, yes! Well; after
he sounded, we didn’t see him again for some time; in
fact, as I before hinted, I didn’t then know what whale it
was that had served me such a trick, till some time
afterwards, when coming back to the Line, we heard
about Moby ♥♥♥♥—as some call him—and then I knew it
was he.’
‘Did’st thou cross his wake again?’
‘But could not fasten?’
‘Didn’t want to try to: ain’t one limb enough? What
should I do without this other arm? And I’m thinking
Moby ♥♥♥♥ doesn’t bite so much as he swallows.’
‘Well, then,’ interrupted Bunger, ‘give him your left
arm for bait to get the right. Do you know, gentlemen’—
very gravely and mathematically bowing to each Captain
in succession—‘Do you know, gentlemen, that the
digestive organs of the whale are so inscrutably
constructed by Divine Providence, that it is quite
impossible for him to completely digest even a man’s arm?
And he knows it too. So that what you take for the White
means to swallow a single limb; he only thinks to terrify
by feints. But sometimes he is like the old juggling fellow,
formerly a patient of mine in Ceylon, that making believe
swallow jack-knives, once upon a time let one drop into
him in good earnest, and there it stayed for a twelvemonth
or more; when I gave him an emetic, and he heaved it up
in small tacks, d’ye see. No possible way for him to digest
that jack-knife, and fully incorporate it into his general
bodily system. Yes, Captain Boomer, if you are quick
enough about it, and have a mind to pawn one arm for
the sake of the privilege of giving decent burial to the
other, why in that case the arm is yours; only let the whale
‘No, thank ye, Bunger,’ said the English Captain, ‘he’s
welcome to the arm he has, since I can’t help it, and didn’t
know him then; but not to another one. No more White
Whales for me; I’ve lowered for him once, and that has
satisfied me. There would be great glory in killing him, I
know that; and there is a ship-load of precious sperm in
him, but, hark ye, he’s best let alone; don’t you think so,
Captain?’—glancing at the ivory leg.
‘He is. But he will still be hunted, for all that. What is
best let alone, that accursed thing is not always what least
allures. He’s all a magnet! How long since thou saw’st him
last? Which way heading?’
‘Bless my soul, and curse the foul fiend’s,’ cried
Bunger, stoopingly walking round Ahab, and like a dog,
strangely snuffing; ‘this man’s blood—bring the
thermometer!—it’s at the boiling point!—his pulse makes
and drawing near to Ahab’s arm.
‘Avast!’ roared Ahab, dashing him against the
bulwarks—‘Man the boat! Which way heading?’
‘Good God!’ cried the English Captain, to whom the
question was put. ‘What’s the matter? He was heading
east, I think.—Is your Captain crazy?’ whispering
Fedallah.
But Fedallah, putting a finger on his lip, slid over the
bulwarks to take the boat’s steering oar, and Ahab,
swinging the cutting-tackle towards him, commanded the
ship’s sailors to stand by to lower.
In a moment he was standing in the boat’s stern, and
the Manilla men were springing to their oars. In vain the
English Captain hailed him. With back to the stranger
ship, and face set like a flint to his own, Ahab stood
upright till alongside of the Pequod.
The Decanter.
Ere the English ship fades from sight, be it set down
here, that she hailed from London, and was named after
original of the famous whaling house of Enderby & Sons;
a house which in my poor whaleman’s opinion, comes not
far behind the united royal houses of the Tudors and
Bourbons, in point of real historical interest. How long,
prior to the year of our Lord 1775, this great whaling
house was in existence, my numerous fish-documents do
not make plain; but in that year (1775) it fitted out the
first English ships that ever regularly hunted the Sperm
Whale; though for some score of years previous (ever
since 1726) our valiant Coffins and Maceys of Nantucket
and the Vineyard had in large fleets pursued that
Leviathan, but only in the North and South Atlantic: not
elsewhere. Be it distinctly recorded here, that the
Nantucketers were the first among mankind to harpoon
with civilized steel the great Sperm Whale; and that for
half a century they were the only people of the whole
globe who so harpooned him.
express purpose, and at the sole charge of the vigorous
Enderbys, boldly rounded Cape Horn, and was the first
among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any sort in the
great South Sea. The voyage was a skilful and lucky one;
and returning to her berth with her hold full of the
precious sperm, the Amelia’s example was soon followed
by other ships, English and American, and thus the vast
Sperm Whale grounds of the Pacific were thrown open.
But not content with this good deed, the indefatigable
house again bestirred itself: Samuel and all his Sons—how
immediate auspices, and partly, I think, at their expense,
the British government was induced to send the sloop-ofwar
Rattler on a whaling voyage of discovery into the
South Sea. Commanded by a naval Post-Captain, the
Rattler made a rattling voyage of it, and did some service;
how much does not appear. But this is not all. In 1819,
the same house fitted out a discovery whale ship of their
own, to go on a tasting cruise to the remote waters of
Japan. That ship—well called the ‘Syren’—made a noble
experimental cruise; and it was thus that the great Japanese
Whaling Ground first became generally known. The
Coffin, a Nantucketer.
All honour to the Enderbies, therefore, whose house, I
think, exists to the present day; though doubtless the
original Samuel must long ago have slipped his cable for
the great South Sea of the other world.
The ship named after him was worthy of the honour,
being a very fast sailer and a noble craft every way. I
boarded her once at midnight somewhere off the
Patagonian coast, and drank good flip down in the
forecastle. It was a fine gam we had, and they were all
trumps—every soul on board. A short life to them, and a
old Ahab touched her planks with his ivory heel—it minds
me of the noble, solid, Saxon hospitality of that ship; and
may my parson forget me, and the devil remember me, if I
ever lose sight of it. Flip? Did I say we had flip? Yes, and
we flipped it at the rate of ten gallons the hour; and when
the squall came (for it’s squally off there by Patagonia), and
all hands—visitors and all—were called to reef topsails, we
were so top-heavy that we had to swing each other aloft
in bowlines; and we ignorantly furled the skirts of our
jackets into the sails, so that we hung there, reefed fast in
the howling gale, a warning example to all drunken tars.
we scrambled down, so sober, that we had to pass the flip
again, though the savage salt spray bursting down the
forecastle scuttle, rather too much diluted and pickled it to
my taste.
The beef was fine—tough, but with body in it. They
said it was bull-beef; others, that it was dromedary beef;
but I do not know, for certain, how that was. They had
dumplings too; small, but substantial, symmetrically
globular, and indestructible dumplings. I fancied that you
were swallowed. If you stooped over too far forward, you
risked their pitching out of you like billiard-balls. The
bread—but that couldn’t be helped; besides, it was an antiscorbutic;
in short, the bread contained the only fresh fare
they had. But the forecastle was not very light, and it was
very easy to step over into a dark corner when you ate it.
But all in all, taking her from truck to helm, considering
the dimensions of the cook’s boilers, including his own
live parchment boilers; fore and aft, I say, the Samuel
Enderby was a jolly ship; of good fare and plenty; fine flip
and strong; crack fellows all, and capital from boot heels to
hat-band.
some other English whalers I know of—not all though—
were such famous, hospitable ships; that passed round the
beef, and the bread, and the can, and the joke; and were
not soon weary of eating, and drinking, and laughing? I
will tell you. The abounding good cheer of these English
whalers is matter for historical research. Nor have I been at
all sparing of historical whale research, when it has seemed
needed.
The English were preceded in the whale fishery by the
Hollanders, Zealanders, and Danes; from whom they
derived many terms still extant in the fishery; and what is
drink. For, as a general thing, the English merchant-ship
scrimps her crew; but not so the English whaler. Hence, in
the English, this thing of whaling good cheer is not
normal and natural, but incidental and particular; and,
therefore, must have some special origin, which is here
pointed out, and will be still further elucidated.
During my researches in the Leviathanic histories, I
stumbled upon an ancient Dutch volume, which, by the
musty whaling smell of it, I knew must be about whalers.
The title was, ‘Dan Coopman,’ wherefore I concluded
that this must be the invaluable memoirs of some
carry its cooper. I was reinforced in this opinion by seeing
that it was the production of one ‘Fitz Swackhammer.’
But my friend Dr. Snodhead, a very learned man,
professor of Low Dutch and High German in the college
of Santa Claus and St. Pott’s, to whom I handed the work
for translation, giving him a box of sperm candles for his
trouble—this same Dr. Snodhead, so soon as he spied the
book, assured me that ‘Dan Coopman’ did not mean ‘The
Cooper,’ but ‘The Merchant.’ In short, this ancient and
Holland; and, among other subjects, contained a very
interesting account of its whale fishery. And in this chapter
it was, headed, ‘Smeer,’ or ‘Fat,’ that I found a long
detailed list of the outfits for the larders and cellars of 180
sail of Dutch whalemen; from which list, as translated by
Dr. Snodhead, I transcribe the following:
400,000 lbs. of beef. 60,000 lbs. Friesland pork.
150,000 lbs. of stock fish. 550,000 lbs. of biscuit. 72,000
lbs. of soft bread. 2,800 firkins of butter. 20,000 lbs. Texel
& Leyden cheese. 144,000 lbs. cheese (probably an inferior
article). 550 ankers of Geneva. 10,800 barrels of beer.
Most statistical tables are parchingly dry in the reading;
not so in the present case, however, where the reader is
gin and good cheer.
At the time, I devoted three days to the studious
digesting of all this beer, beef, and bread, during which
many profound thoughts were incidentally suggested to
me, capable of a transcendental and Platonic application;
and, furthermore, I compiled supplementary tables of my
own, touching the probable quantity of stock-fish, etc.,
consumed by every Low Dutch harpooneer in that ancient
Greenland and Spitzbergen whale fishery. In the first
place, the amount of butter, and Texel and Leyden cheese
consumed, seems amazing. I impute it, though, to their
unctuous by the nature of their vocation, and especially by
their pursuing their game in those frigid Polar Seas, on the
very coasts of that Esquimaux country where the convivial
natives pledge each other in bumpers of train oil.
The quantity of beer, too, is very large, 10,800 barrels.
Now, as those polar fisheries could only be prosecuted in
the short summer of that climate, so that the whole cruise
of one of these Dutch whalemen, including the short
voyage to and from the Spitzbergen sea, did not much
exceed three months, say, and reckoning 30 men to each
of their fleet of 180 sail, we have 5,400 Low Dutch
barrels of beer per man, for a twelve weeks’ allowance,
exclusive of his fair proportion of that 550 ankers of gin.
Now, whether these gin and beer harpooneers, so fuddled
as one might fancy them to have been, were the right sort
of men to stand up in a boat’s head, and take good aim at
flying whales; this would seem somewhat improbable. Yet
they did aim at them, and hit them too. But this was very
far North, be it remembered, where beer agrees well with
the constitution; upon the Equator, in our southern
fishery, beer would be apt to make the harpooneer sleepy
at the mast-head and boozy in his boat; and grievous loss