Typee by Herman Melville (the two towers ebook .TXT) đ
While at Pittsfield, Mr. Melville was induced to enter the lecture field. From 1857 to 1860 he filled many engagements in the lyceums, chiefly speaking of his adventures in the South Seas. He lectured in cities as widely apart as Montreal, Chicago, Baltimore, and San Francisco, sailing to the last-named place in 1860, by way of Cape Horn, on the Meteor, com
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With âMoby Dick; or, the Whaleâ (1851), Melville reached the topmost notch of his fame. The book represents, to a certain extent, the conflict between the authorâs earlier and later methods of composition, but the gigantic conception of the âWhite Whale,â as Hawthorne expressed it, permeates the whole work, and lifts it bodily into the highest domain of romance. âMoby Dickâ contains an immense amount of information concerning the habits of the whale and the methods of its capture, but this is characteristically introduced in a way not to interfere with the narrative. The chapter entitled âStubb Kills a Whaleâ ranks with the choicest examples of descriptive literature.
âMoby Dickâ appeared, and Melville enjoyed to the full the enhanced reputation it brought him. He did not, however, take warning from âMardi,â but allowed himself to plunge more deeply into the sea of philosophy and fantasy.
âPierre; or, the Ambiguitiesâ (1852) was published, and there ensued a long series of hostile criticisms, ending with a severe, though impartial, article by Fitz-James OâBrien in Putnamâs Monthly. About the same time the whole stock of the authorâs books was destroyed by fire, keeping them out of print at a critical moment; and public interest, which until then had been on the increase, gradually began to diminish.
After this Mr. Melville contributed several short stories to Putnamâs Monthly and Harperâs Magazine. Those in the former periodical were collected in a volume as Piazza Tales (1856); and of these âBenito Cerenoâ and âThe Bell Towerâ are equal to his best previous efforts.
âIsrael Potter: His Fifty Years of Exileâ (1855), first printed as a serial in Putnamâs, is an historical romance of the American Revolution, based on the heroâs own account of his adventures, as given in a little volume picked up by Mr. Melville at a book-stall. The story is well told, but the book is hardly worthy of the author of âTypee.â âThe Confidence Manâ (1857), his last serious effort in prose fiction, does not seem to require criticism.
Mr. Melvilleâs pen had rested for nearly ten years, when it was again taken up to celebrate the events of the Civil War. âBattle Pieces and Aspects of the Warâ appeared in 1866. Most of these poems originated, according to the author, in an impulse imparted by the fall of Richmond; but they have as subjects all the chief incidents of the struggle. The best of them are âThe Stone Fleet,â âIn the Prison Pen,â âThe College Colonel,â âThe March to the Sea,â âRunning the Batteries,â and âSheridan at Cedar Creek.â Some of these had a wide circulation in the press, and were preserved in various anthologies. âClarel, a Poem and Pilgrimage in the Holy Landâ (1876), is a long mystical poem requiring, as some one has said, a dictionary, a cyclopaedia, and a copy of the Bible for its elucidation. In the two privately printed volumes, the arrangement of which occupied Mr. Melville during his last illness, there are several fine lyrics. The titles of these books are, âJohn Marr and Other Sailorsâ (1888), and âTimoleonâ (1891).
There is no question that Mr. Melvilleâs absorption in philosophical studies was quite as responsible as the failure of his later books for his cessation from literary productiveness. That he sometimes realised the situation will be seen by a passage in âMoby Dickâ:â
âDidnât I tell you so?â said Flask. âYes, youâll soon see this right whaleâs head hoisted up opposite that parmacettiâs.â
âIn good time Flaskâs saying proved true. As before, the Pequod steeply leaned over towards the sperm whaleâs head, now, by the counterpoise of both heads, she regained her own keel, though sorely strained, you may well believe. So, when on one side you hoist in Lockeâs head, you go over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kantâs and you come back again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds forever keep trimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunderheads overboard, and then you will float right and light.â
Mr. Melville would have been more than mortal if he had been indifferent to his loss of popularity. Yet he seemed contented to preserve an entirely independent attitude, and to trust to the verdict of the future. The smallest amount of activity would have kept him before the public; but his reserve would not permit this. That reinstatement of his reputation cannot be doubted.
In the editing of this reissue of âMelvilleâs Works,â I have been much indebted to the scholarly aid of Dr. Titus Munson Coan, whose familiarity with the languages of the Pacific has enabled me to harmonise the spelling of foreign words in âTypeeâ and âOmoo,â though without changing the phonetic method of printing adopted by Mr. Melville. Dr. Coan has also been most helpful with suggestions in other directions. Finally, the delicate fancy of La Fargehas supplemented the immortal pen-portrait of the Typee maiden with a speaking impersonation of her beauty.
New York, June, 1892.
TYPEE
CHAPTER ONE
THE SEAâLONGINGS FOR SHOREâA LAND-SICK SHIPâDESTINATION OF THE VOYAGERSâTHE MARQUESASâADVENTURE OF A MISSIONARYâS WIFE AMONG THE SAVAGESâCHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTE OF THE QUEEN OF NUKUHEVA
Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of sight of land; cruising after the sperm-whale beneath the scorching sun of the Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling Pacificâthe sky above, the sea around, and nothing else! Weeks and weeks ago our fresh provisions were all exhausted. There is not a sweet potato left; not a single yam. Those glorious bunches of bananas, which once decorated our stern and quarter-deck, have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious oranges which hung suspended from our tops and staysâthey, too, are gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us but salt-horse and sea-biscuit. Oh! ye state-room sailors, who make so much ado about a fourteen-daysâ passage across the Atlantic; who so pathetically relate the privations and hardships of the sea, where, after a day of breakfasting, lunching, dining off five courses, chatting, playing whist, and drinking champagne-punch, it was your hard lot to be shut up in little cabinets of mahogany and maple, and sleep for ten hours, with nothing to disturb you but âthose good-for-nothing tars, shouting and tramping overheadâ,âwhat would ye say to our six months out of sight of land?
Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grassâfor a snuff at the fragrance of a handful of the loamy earth! Is there nothing fresh around us? Is there no green thing to be seen? Yes, the inside of our bulwarks is painted green; but what a vile and sickly hue it is, as if nothing bearing even the semblance of verdure could flourish this weary way from land. Even the bark that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been gnawed off and devoured by the captainâs pig; and so long ago, too, that the pig himself has in turn been devoured.
There is but one solitary tenant in the chicken-coop, once a gay and dapper young cock, bearing him so bravely among the coy hens.
But look at him now; there he stands, moping all the day long on that everlasting one leg of his. He turns with disgust from the mouldy corn before him, and the brackish water in his little trough. He mourns no doubt his lost companions, literally snatched from him one by one, and never seen again. But his days of mourning will be few for Mungo, our black cook, told me yesterday that the word had at last gone forth, and poor Pedroâs fate was sealed. His attenuated body will be laid out upon the captainâs table next Sunday, and long before night will be buried with all the usual ceremonies beneath that worthy individualâs vest. Who would believe that there could be any one so cruel as to long for the decapitation of the luckless Pedro; yet the sailors pray every minute, selfish fellows, that the miserable fowl may be brought to his end. They say the captain will never point the ship for the land so long as he has in anticipation a mess of fresh meat. This unhappy bird can alone furnish it; and when he is once devoured, the captain will come to his senses. I wish thee no harm, Pedro; but as thou art doomed, sooner or later, to meet the fate of all thy race; and if putting a period to thy existence is to be the signal for our deliverance, whyâtruth to speakâI wish thy throat cut this very moment; for, oh! how I wish to see the living earth again! The old ship herself longs to look out upon the land from her hawse-holes once more, and Jack Lewis said right the other day when the captain found fault with his steering.
âWhy dâye see, Captain Vangs,â says bold Jack, âIâm as good a helmsman as ever put hand to spoke; but none of us can steer the old lady now. We canât keep her full and bye, sir; watch her ever so close, she will fall off and then, sir, when I put the helm down so gently, and try like to coax her to the work, she wonât take it kindly, but will fall round off again; and itâs all because she knows the land is under the lee, sir, and she wonât go any more to windward.â Aye, and why should she, Jack? didnât every one of her stout timbers grow on shore, and hasnât she sensibilities; as well as we?
Poor old ship! Her very looks denote her desires! how deplorably she appears! The paint on her sides, burnt up by the scorching sun, is puffed out and cracked. See the weeds she trails along with her, and what an unsightly bunch of those horrid barnacles has formed about her stern-piece; and every time she rises on a sea, she shows her copper torn away, or hanging in jagged strips.
Poor old ship! I say again: for six months she has been rolling and pitching about, never for one moment at rest. But courage, old lass, I hope to see thee soon within a biscuitâs toss of the merry land, riding snugly at anchor in some green cove, and sheltered from the boisterous winds.
âHurra, my lads! Itâs a settled thing; next week we shape our course to the Marquesas!â The Marquesas! What strange visions of outlandish things does the very name spirit up! Naked hourisâcannibal banquetsâgroves of cocoanutâcoral reefsâtattooed chiefsâand bamboo temples; sunny valleys planted with bread-fruit-treesâcarved canoes dancing on the flashing blue watersâsavage woodlands guarded by horrible idolsâHEATHENISH RITES AND HUMAN SACRIFICES.
Such were the strangely jumbled anticipations that haunted me during our passage from the cruising ground. I felt an irresistible curiosity to see those islands which the olden voyagers had so glowingly described.
The group for which we were now steering (although among the earliest of European discoveries in the South Seas, having been first visited in the year 1595) still continues to be tenanted by beings as strange and barbarous as ever. The missionaries sent on a heavenly errand, had sailed by their lovely shores, and had abandoned them to their idols of wood and stone. How interesting the circumstances under which they were discovered! In the watery path of Mendanna, cruising in quest of some region of gold, these isles had sprung up like a scene of enchantment, and for a moment the Spaniard believed his bright dream was realized.
In honour of the Marquess de Mendoza, then viceroy of Peruâunder whose auspices the navigator sailedâhe bestowed upon them the name which denoted the rank of his patron, and gave to the world on his return a vague and magnificent account of their beauty. But these islands, undisturbed for years, relapsed into their previous obscurity; and it is only recently that anything has been known concerning them. Once in the course of a half century, to be
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