THE WHITE WHALE 7 
nels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of 
silver. “So, wherever you go, Ishmael,” said I to myself as I stood 
in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing 
the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south — 
“wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my 
dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.” 
With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The 
Crossed Harpoons” — but it looked too expensive and jolly there. 
Farther on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” 
there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed 
snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed 
frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement, — rather weary 
for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because 
from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most 
miserable plight. “Too expensive and jolly, again,” thought I, paus- 
ing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the 
sounds of the tinkling glasses within. “But go on, Ishmael,” said I 
at last ; “don’t you hear ? get away from before the door ; your patched 
boots are stopping the way.” So on I went. I now by instinct fol- 
lowed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were 
the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns. 
Such dreary streets ! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, 
and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about a tomb. At 
this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the 
town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light 
proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood in- 
vitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses 
of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over 
an ashbox in the porch. “Ha !” thought I, “ha,” as the flying particles 
almost choked me, “are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomor- 
rah ? But ‘The Crossed Harpoons,’ and ‘The Sword-Fish’ ? — this, then, 
must needs be the sign of ‘The Trap.’ ” However, I picked myself 
up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, 
interior door. 
It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred 
black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black 
Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church ; 
