{"id":"01KG8AP37YBWSWAYM052EJDXJX","cid":"bafkreig5ag554goxahssm6ipci22vo4dda764kfj354s6xdmyde2552i4a","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1098,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:49:30.764Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 2","source_file":"01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6","start_line":1036,"text":"first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket\r\ndid those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes\r\nto give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did\r\nthat first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with\r\nimported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in\r\norder to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the\r\nbowsprit?\r\n\r\nNow having a night, a day, and still another night following before me\r\nin New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a\r\nmatter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a\r\nvery dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold\r\nand cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had\r\nsounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So,\r\nwherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of\r\na dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the\r\nnorth with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you\r\nmay conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to\r\ninquire the price, and don’t be too particular.\r\n\r\nWith halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The\r\nCrossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further\r\non, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came\r\nsuch fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and\r\nice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay\r\nten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me,\r\nwhen I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from\r\nhard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most\r\nmiserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one\r\nmoment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of\r\nthe tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t\r\nyou hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are\r\nstopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets\r\nthat took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not\r\nthe cheeriest inns.\r\n\r\nSuch dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand,\r\nand here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At\r\nthis hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of\r\nthe town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light\r\nproceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood\r\ninvitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the\r\nuses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble\r\nover an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying\r\nparticles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city,\r\nGomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then\r\nmust needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and\r\nhearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior\r\ndoor.\r\n\r\nIt seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black\r\nfaces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of\r\nDoom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the\r\npreacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping\r\nand wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing\r\nout, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’\r\n\r\nMoving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the\r\ndocks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a\r\nswinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly\r\nrepresenting a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words\r\nunderneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 2"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AK7FP6P1V67V3ATJHHZ83","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AP37YK7GYYHH1SZA4475M","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AP37Y8D81XY7G5H53PFKH","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:49:31.390Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:49:39.078Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}