Now this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as
an article of commerce, that in 1791 a certain Nantucket-born Captain
Coffin was examined at the bar of the English House of Commons on that
subject. For at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day,
the precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem
to the learned. Though the word ambergris is but the French compound for
grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct. For amber,
though at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far
inland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea.
Besides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance, used
for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris is
soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely used in
perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and pomatum.
The Turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to Mecca, for the same
purpose that frankincense is carried to St. Peter's in Rome. Some wine
merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.
Who would
think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should regale
themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a sick
whale! Yet so it is. By some, ambergris is supposed to be the cause, and
by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale. How to cure such a
dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering three or four
boat loads of Brandreth's pills, and then running out of harm's way, as
laborers do in blasting rocks.
I have forgotten to say that there
were found in this ambergris, certain hard, round, bony plates, which at
first Stubb thought might be sailors' trowsers buttons; but it
afterwards turned out that they were nothing, more than pieces of small
squid bones embalmed in that manner.
Now that the incorruption of
this most fragrant ambergris should be found in the heart of such decay;
is this nothing? Bethink thee of that saying of St. Paul in
Corinthians, about corruption and incorruption; how that we are sown in
dishonor, but raised in glory. And likewise call to mind that saying of
Paracelsus about what it is that maketh the best musk. Also forget not
the strange fact that of all things of ill-savor, Cologne-water, in its
rudimental manufacturing stages, is the worst.
I should like to
conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but cannot, owing to my
anxiety to repel a charge often made against whalemen, and which, in the
estimation of some already biased minds, might be considered as
indirectly substantiated by what has been said of the Frenchman's two
whales. Elsewhere in this volume the slanderous aspersion has been
disproved, that the vocation of whaling is throughout a slatternly,
untidy business. But there is another thing to rebut. They hint that all
whales always smell bad. Now how did this odious stigma originate?
I
opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the
Greenland whaling ships in London, more than two centuries ago. Because
those whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea as
the Southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh blubber
in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks, and
carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those Icy
Seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed,
forbidding any other course. The consequence is, that upon breaking into
the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the Greenland
dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising from
excavating an old city graveyard, for the foundations of a Lying-in
Hospital.
I partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against
whalers may be likewise imputed to the existence on the coast of
Greenland, in former times, of a Dutch village called Schmerenburgh or
Smeerenberg, which latter name is the one used by the learned Fogo Von
Slack, in his great work on Smells, a text-book on that subject. As its
name imports (smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in
order to afford a place for the blubber of the Dutch whale fleet to be
tried out, without being taken home to Holland for that purpose. It was a
collection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works
were in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor. But
all this is quite different with a South Sea Sperm Whaler; which in a
voyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with
oil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boding
out; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless.
The truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a
species are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be
recognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a Jew in
the company, by the nose. Nor indeed can the whale possibly be
otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high
health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it is
true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm Whale's
flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented lady
rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the Sperm
Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be to
that famous elephant, with jeweled tusks, and redolent with myrrh, which
was led out of an Indian town to do honor to Alexander the Great?
So, an entire chapter on the perfume of whales. Again, this is one of Melville's digressions, which take up a majority of the entire novel. Yes, whales were the source of perfumes back in the day. And yes, the source of ambergris is a little disgusting. However, I would venture to say that many beautiful things in the world have very unbeautiful sources. As the old saying goes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
First, I must apologize for my prolonged absence. I have had an eventful week of . . . well . . . events. A tribute to poet Judith Minty on Wednesday night, for which I wrote a brand new poem. A poetry workshop last night. In between, I've been doing publicity and making arrangements for a Keweenaw Flood Relief event that I've organized for next Wednesday night. That has included arranging readers and donations, doing interviews, trying to set up something with the local television station, and contacting a caterer. Like I said, an eventful week.
But I did have many moments of beauty in the midst of all this chaos. The Judith Minty tribute was beautiful and funny and moving. I loved hearing the stories from friends and acquaintances. And I loved hearing Minty's poems read aloud by so many different voices, including a singer/songwriter who put a couple of them in musical settings. So inspiring.
That was the first beautiful thing in a week of chaos.
At this event, I also had a very unexpected compliment come my way. I was speaking with the chair of the English Department before things got rolling, and she said, "I want you to know how impressed I've been with the work you've done as Poet Laureate. How you've used the position to focus on charities and different causes. That's been really wonderful."
I don't deal with praise well. Don't think what I do is all that unique or special. I do what my mother taught me when I was very young: I try to use the gifts that I've been given to do some good in the world. Plain and simple. So, given a position like Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, I view it as a wonderful vehicle not only to demystify poetry for the public, but also to focus a little more attention on things like homelessness and hunger and, next Wednesday, flood relief.
I thanked my boss for the compliment and said something like, "It's something that I feel very strongly about."
That was the second beautiful thing in a week of chaos.
Last night, I was given the opportunity to lead my monthly poetry workshop. These workshops have become one of the highlights of my time as Poet Laureate. At the university, I'm not given many opportunities to talk about and teach poetry. That's saved for the full-timers. So, being able to share my passion for poetry with a group of like-minded people is very fulfilling. It recharges my poetic batteries.
And that was the third beautiful thing in a week of chaos.
Next week promises more chaos. A poetry workshop, open mic, and the Flood Relief event. However, I know there will also be moments of beauty, as well. And that makes it all worthwhile.
Saint Marty is thankful this evening for chaos.
