METHOD OF WITALE CATCHING. 113 
cruise not a single fish is caught—a result equally unfortunate 
for the ship owner and the crew, who look to a share of the 
profits for their pay. 
How much the whale fishery depends upon chance is shown 
by the following facts. In the year 1718 the Dutch Greenland 
fleet, consisting of 108 ships, captured 1291 fish, worth at least 
650,000/., while in the year 1710, 137 ships took no more than 
62. Various meteorological circumstances—the prevalence of 
particular winds, the character of the summer or preceding 
winter—are probably the causes of the extraordinary failure and 
success of the fishery in different years. The Pacific is as fal- 
lacious as the Arctic seas. Thus Dumont d’Urville met in the 
Bay of Talcahuano with several whalers, one of whom had 
rapidly filled half his ship, while the others had cruised more 
than a year without having harpooned a single fish. In such 
cases the captains have the greatest trouble in preventing their 
men from deserting, who, being disappointed in their hopes, 
naturally enough look out for a better chance elsewhere. 
The method of whale catching has been so often and so 
minutely described, that it is doubtless familiar to the reader. 
As soon as a whale is in sight, boats are got out with all speed, 
and row or sail as silently and quietly as possible towards the 
monster. One of the crew—the man of unflinching eye and 
nervous arm—stands upright, harpoon in hand, ready to hurl 
the murderous spear into the animal’s side, as soon as the 
proper moment shall have come. When struck the whale dives 
down perpendicularly with fearful velocity, or goes off hori- 
zoutally with lightning speed, at a short distance from the 
surface, dragging after him the line to which the barbed instru- 
ment of his agony is fixed. But soon the necessity of respiration 
forces him to rise again above the waters, when a second 
harpoon, followed by a third or fourth at every reappearance, 
plunges into his flank. Maddened with pain and terror, he 
lashes the crimsoned waters into foam, but all his efforts to cast 
off the darts that lacerate his flesh are vain, and his gaping 
wounds, though not “as deep as wells, nor as wide as church- 
doors,” are still large enough to let out sufficient blood even 
to exhaust a whale. His movements become more and more 
languid and slow, his gasping and snorting more and more 
oppressed, a few convulsive heavings agitate the mighty mass, 
