{"id":"01KJNXJQTP6Q31VMGHXND5RJME","cid":"bafkreifaaq3ccoswnwckfa2apagas4c5dvedo2gjirmmgyqunge5fa36ye","type":"text_chunk","properties":{"char_end":100728,"char_start":92800,"chunk_index":13,"chunk_total":178,"estimated_tokens":1982,"source_file_key":"moby-dick","text":"seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array,\r\ncontrasting climates, zone by zone.\r\n\r\n“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we\r\nwent to breakfast.\r\n\r\nThey say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease\r\nin manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though:\r\nLedyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch\r\none; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But\r\nperhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as\r\nLedyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in\r\nthe negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s\r\nperformances—this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode\r\nof attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort\r\nof thing is to be had anywhere.\r\n\r\nThese reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that\r\nafter we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some\r\ngood stories about whaling; to my no small surprise, nearly every man\r\nmaintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked\r\nembarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the\r\nslightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas—entire\r\nstrangers to them—and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here\r\nthey sat at a social breakfast table—all of the same calling, all of\r\nkindred tastes—looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they\r\nhad never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green\r\nMountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior\r\nwhalemen!\r\n\r\nBut as for Queequeg—why, Queequeg sat there among them—at the head of\r\nthe table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I\r\ncannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have\r\ncordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him,\r\nand using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it,\r\nto the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks\r\ntowards him. But _that_ was certainly very coolly done by him, and\r\nevery one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly\r\nis to do it genteelly.\r\n\r\nWe will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed\r\ncoffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to\r\nbeefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew\r\nlike the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was\r\nsitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat\r\non, when I sallied out for a stroll.\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 6. The Street.\r\n\r\nIf I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish\r\nan individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a\r\ncivilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first\r\ndaylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.\r\n\r\nIn thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will\r\nfrequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign\r\nparts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners\r\nwill sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not\r\nunknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live\r\nYankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water\r\nStreet and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only\r\nsailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street\r\ncorners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy\r\nflesh. It makes a stranger stare.\r\n\r\nBut, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians,\r\nand Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft\r\nwhich unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still\r\nmore curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town\r\nscores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain\r\nand glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames;\r\nfellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and\r\nsnatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence\r\nthey came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old.\r\nLook there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat\r\nand swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and sheath-knife.\r\nHere comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.\r\n\r\nNo town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one—I mean a\r\ndownright bumpkin dandy—a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his\r\ntwo acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a\r\ncountry dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished\r\nreputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the\r\ncomical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his\r\nsea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his\r\ncanvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those\r\nstraps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps,\r\nbuttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.\r\n\r\nBut think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,\r\nand bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a\r\nqueer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would\r\nthis day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of\r\nLabrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten\r\none, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to\r\nlive in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not\r\nlike Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run\r\nwith milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs.\r\nYet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more\r\npatrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New\r\nBedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of\r\na country?\r\n\r\nGo and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty\r\nmansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave\r\nhouses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian\r\noceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the\r\nbottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?\r\n\r\nIn New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their\r\ndaughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.\r\nYou must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say,\r\nthey have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly\r\nburn their lengths in spermaceti candles.\r\n\r\nIn summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples—long\r\navenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful\r\nand bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by\r\ntheir tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is\r\nart; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright\r\nterraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at\r\ncreation’s final day.\r\n\r\nAnd the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But\r\nroses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks\r\nis perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that\r\nbloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young\r\ngirls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off\r\nshore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of\r\nthe Puritanic sands.\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 7. The Chapel.\r\n\r\nIn this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are\r\nthe moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who\r\nfail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.\r\n\r\nReturning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this\r\nspecial errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving\r\nsleet and mist."},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KJNXEDHZCC8DR4EPSQD0QP4P","peer_label":"moby-dick","peer_type":"text","predicate":"derived_from"},{"peer":"01KJNXECF9R1EZKS5Z7J8A8ZSB","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"}],"ver":1,"created_at":"2026-03-02T00:01:15.606Z","ts":"2026-03-02T00:01:15.606Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KJ6WPT018SDDANE6N7Q8E428"}}