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Chapter 57. Of whales and paint, in teeth, in wood, in sheet iron, in stone, in mountain,

in stars. On Tower Hill, as you go down to the London docks, you may have seen a crippled

beggar, or keger, as the sailors say, holding a painted board before him, representing the

tragic scene in which he lost his leg. There are three whales and three boats, and one

of the boats, presumed to contain the missing leg in all its original integrity, is being

crunched by the jaws of the foremost whale. Any time these ten years, they tell me,

has that man held up that picture and exhibited that stump to an incredulous world. But the

time of his justification has now come. His three whales are as good whales, as wherever

published in Warping at any rate, and his stump is unquestionable as stump, as any you

will find in the Western clearings. But, though forever mounted on that stump, never

stump speech does the poor whaleman make, but with his downcast eyes, stands rooffully

contemplating his own amputation. Throughout the Pacific, and also a nantucket

and new bedfurt, Anseg Harper, you will come across lively sketches of whales and whaling scenes,

graven by the fishermen themselves on sperm whale teeth, or ladies' busks, brought out of

the right whalebone, another scrimm shander articles, as the whaleman, called the numerous

little ingenious contrivances, they elaborately carve out of the rough material, in their

...