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1Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia's Dismal Swamp, nor Rome's accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the
2millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this
3earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him,
4that mortal man cannot be true--not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of
5Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon's, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. "All is vanity."
6ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon's wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and
7walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor
8devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore
9jolly;--not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous
10Solomon. But even Solomon, he says, "the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain" (i.e., even
11while living) "in the congregation of the dead." Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee;
12as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill
13eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible
14in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his
15lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar. Had you
16descended from the Pequod's try-works to the Pequod's forecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single
17moment you would have almost thought you were standing in some illuminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors.
18There they lay in their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a score of lamps flashing upon his
19hooded eyes. In merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of queens. To dress in the dark, and eat in
20the dark, and stumble in darkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he seeks the food of light,
21so 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
22ship's black hull still houses an illumination. See with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of
23lamps--often but old bottles and vials, though--to the copper cooler at the try-works, and replenishes them there, as
24mugs of ale at a vat. He burns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore, unvitiated state; a fluid
25unknown to solar, lunar, or astral contrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He goes and hunts
26for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and genuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own
27supper of game.
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