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Now having a night, a day, and still another night, following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile.

And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobble-stones -- so goes the story -- to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan?

Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original -- the Tyre of this Carthage; -- the place where the first dead American whale was stranded...

For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing.

Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

It was on a Saturday night in December.

Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford.

CHAPTER II. The Carpet-Bag. I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific.

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...

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.

I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.

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.

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.

Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself.

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 tirades, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces -- though I cannot tell why...

I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this: "Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. "WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. "BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN."

It came as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances.