The Lamp

Had you descended from the Pequod’s try-works to the Pequod’s forecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single moment you would have almost thought you were standing in some illuminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors. There they lay in their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a score of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.

If you had gone down from the Pequod’s try-works to the forecastle, you would have found the off-duty watch sleeping. For a moment, you might almost have thought you were standing in a brightly lit shrine to canonized kings and counselors. The sailors lay in their triangular oak berths, each one as silent as a carved figure. A score of lamps flashed on their hooded eyes.

In merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of queens. To dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in darkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he seeks the food of light, so he lives in light. He makes his berth an Aladdin’s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night the ship’s black hull still houses an illumination.

On merchant ships, oil for sailors is scarcer than the milk of queens. A sailor usually dresses and eats in the dark, then stumbles through the darkness to his bed. But just as the whaler seeks the fuel for light, he lives in light. He makes his bunk an Aladdin’s lamp and lies down in it. So even on the darkest night, the ship’s black hull is lit from within.

See with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of lamps—often but old bottles and vials, though—to the copper cooler at the try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat. He burns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore, unvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral contrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He goes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and genuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own supper of game.

See how freely the whaleman carries his handful of lamps to the copper cooler at the try-works. Often, though, his lamps are just old bottles and vials. He fills them there as freely as someone fills mugs of ale from a vat. He also burns the purest oil, unprocessed and therefore unspoiled. No sun, moon, or star lamp on shore uses such a fluid. It is as sweet as butter made from early spring grass in April. He hunts for his own oil to be sure it is fresh and genuine. In the same way, a traveler on the prairie hunts game for his own supper.