On the Horizon

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago, never mind exactly how long, I had little or no money in my pocket. Nothing on land particularly interested me, so I decided to sail around a little and see the watery part of the world. Going to sea is my way of chasing away the blues and getting my blood flowing. Sometimes I find myself growing grim around the mouth, or feeling as if my soul is stuck in a damp, drizzly November. I find myself stopping without meaning to in front of coffin shops and joining the end of every funeral procession I meet. Worst of all, my low spirits sometimes get the better of me. Then it takes a strong moral principle to stop me from deliberately stepping into the street and knocking people’s hats off, one by one. When that happens, I know it is high time to get to sea as soon as I can. Going to sea is my substitute for shooting myself. Cato throws himself on his sword with a philosophical flourish. I quietly board a ship. There is nothing surprising about this. If they only knew it, almost all men, to some degree, feel much the same way I do about the ocean at one time or another.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

There is your island city of the Manhattoes, ringed by wharves like Indian islands by coral reefs. Commerce surrounds it with her surf. On either side, the streets lead you toward the water. At the southernmost tip of downtown is the battery. Waves wash over its noble pier, and breezes cool it. Just a few hours earlier, those breezes were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of people gazing at the water there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

Walk around the city on a dreamy Sunday afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, then past Whitehall and northward. What do you see? Thousands upon thousands of mortal men stand all around the city like silent sentinels, lost in thoughts of the ocean. Some lean against the pilings. Some sit at the ends of piers. Some look over the sides of ships from China. Some are high up in the rigging, as if trying to get an even better glimpse of the sea. But all these men are landsmen. On weekdays, they are shut up inside buildings, tied to counters, nailed to benches, fastened to desks. How can this be? Have the green fields disappeared? What are the men doing here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

But look! Here come more crowds, walking straight toward the water, seemingly ready to dive in. Strange! Nothing will satisfy them but the very edge of the land. Lingering in the shade and shelter of those warehouses will not do. No. They must get as close to the water as they can without falling in. And there they stand, stretching for miles, for leagues. All of them are from inland. They come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, from north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all come together. Tell me, does the magnetic power of the compass needles on all those ships draw them there?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

Once again, imagine you are in the country, in a high region of lakes. Take almost any path you like. Nine times out of ten, it will lead you down into a valley and leave you beside a pool in a stream. There is magic in this. Take the most absent-minded man, lost in his deepest thoughts. Stand him on his feet and set him walking. He will surely lead you to water, if there is any in the whole region. If you are ever thirsty in the great American desert, try this experiment. That is, if your caravan happens to have a professor of metaphysics with it. Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are forever wedded.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

But here is an artist. He wants to paint the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the main element he uses? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were inside. Here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle. Sleepy smoke rises from that cottage over there. A winding path leads deep into distant woods, reaching overlapping mountain ridges bathed in hillside blue. The picture lies as if in a trance. A pine tree showers its sighs like leaves on the shepherd’s head. Yet all of this would be in vain unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed on the magic stream before him. Visit the Prairies in June, when you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies for miles upon miles. What is the one charm missing? Water. There is not a drop of water there! If Niagara were only a waterfall of sand, would you travel a thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee pause when he suddenly received two handfuls of silver? He wondered whether to buy a coat, which he badly needed, or spend the money on a walking trip to Rockaway Beach. Why does almost every strong, healthy boy with a strong, healthy soul go crazy to go to sea at some point? Why, on your first voyage as a passenger, did you feel a mystical thrill when you were first told that you and your ship were out of sight of land? Why did the ancient Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give the sea its own god, a brother of Jove himself? Surely all this is not without meaning. The story of Narcissus has an even deeper meaning. He could not grasp the gentle image in the fountain that tormented him. Because of this, he plunged into the water and drowned. But we see that same image in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the phantom of life, which we cannot grasp. That is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

Now, I say I usually go to sea whenever my eyes begin to grow dull and I become too aware of my lungs. But I do not mean that I ever go as a passenger. To travel as a passenger, you need a purse, and a purse is just a rag unless it has something in it. Besides, passengers get seasick, become quarrelsome, and cannot sleep at night. Generally, they do not enjoy themselves much. No, I never go as a passenger. And though I am something of a sailor, I never go to sea as a Commodore, Captain, or Cook. I leave the glory and distinction of those positions to people who like them. As for me, I hate all honorable, respectable work, trials, and troubles of every kind. It is all I can do to take care of myself, let alone ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and the like. As for going as a cook, I admit there is considerable glory in that, since a cook is a kind of officer aboard ship. Still, I have never much liked broiling birds. Once a bird is broiled, properly buttered, and wisely seasoned with salt and pepper, though, no one speaks of it more respectfully than I do. I might even say reverently. The ancient Egyptians doted so worshipfully on broiled ibis and roasted river horse that you can see their mummies in the pyramids, those huge ovens.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

No, when I go to sea, I go as an ordinary sailor. I work before the mast, sleep down in the forecastle, and climb aloft to the royal masthead. It is true that they order me around some. They make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. At first, being treated this way is unpleasant enough. It hurts your sense of honor, especially if you come from an old established family on land, like the Van Rensselaers, Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. It is worse still if, just before dipping your hand in the tar pot, you were lording it over others as a country schoolmaster, making even the tallest boys stand in awe of you. Going from schoolmaster to sailor is a sharp change, I assure you. It takes a strong dose of Seneca and the Stoics to help you grin and bear it. But even this feeling wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

So what if some grumpy old sea captain orders me to get a broom and sweep the decks? How much does that humiliation matter when weighed against the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks any less of me because I promptly and respectfully obey the old grouch? Who isn’t a slave? Tell me that. So, however the old sea captains may order me around, or thump and punch me, I know it’s all right. Everyone else is treated much the same way, either physically or spiritually. So the blows go around to everyone, and we should all rub one another’s shoulder blades and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,—what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

I always go to sea as a sailor, too, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble. As far as I have ever heard, they never pay passengers a penny. On the contrary, passengers have to pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. Paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable burden the two orchard thieves passed down to us. But being paid, what can compare with it? It is truly marvelous how gracefully a man receives money. After all, we so firmly believe that money is the root of all earthly ills. We also believe that a wealthy man can never enter heaven. Ah! How cheerfully we condemn ourselves to hell!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor because of the healthy exercise and fresh air on the forecastle deck. In this world, headwinds are far more common than winds from behind. That is, they are if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim. So, for the most part, the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his air secondhand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first, but he does not. In much the same way, ordinary people lead their leaders in many other things, while the leaders hardly suspect it. But why did I decide to go on a whaling voyage after repeatedly smelling the sea as a merchant sailor? The invisible police officer of the Fates can answer that better than anyone else. He watches me constantly, follows me secretly, and influences me in some unaccountable way. And no doubt my whaling voyage was part of the grand program of Providence, drawn up long ago. It came as a brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I imagine this part of the bill must have gone something like this:

“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

“Major Contested Election for President of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY A MAN NAMED ISHMAEL. “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

I cannot say exactly why those stage managers, the Fates, assigned me the shabby part of a whaling voyage. Others were given magnificent roles in grand tragedies, short and easy roles in refined comedies, and jolly roles in farces. Though I cannot say exactly why I was given my part, I can now recall all the circumstances. And I think I can see a little of the forces and motives that led me to play it. They were cleverly presented to me in various disguises. They also coaxed me into believing that my choice came from my own unbiased free will and sound judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would they let me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

The strongest of these motives was the overwhelming thought of the great whale himself. Such an ominous and mysterious monster stirred all my curiosity. Then there were the wild, distant seas where he rolled his island-sized bulk, and the inescapable, nameless dangers of the whale. These things, along with all the wonders of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped draw me toward my choice. Perhaps other men would not have been tempted by such things. But I am tormented by an endless itch for faraway places. I love to sail forbidden seas and land on savage coasts. I do not overlook what is good, but I am quick to notice a horror. I could still be friendly with it, if it would let me. After all, it is wise to be on friendly terms with everyone who lives where you are staying.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

For these reasons, I welcomed the whaling voyage. The great floodgates of a world of wonders swung open. Wild imaginings drew me toward my purpose. Endless processions of whales floated two by two into my inmost soul. Among them all was one grand hooded phantom, like a snow-covered hill in the air.