In behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who should wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might tell eloquently upon his cause- such an advocate, would he not be blame-worthy?
It is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even modern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their functions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called, and there may be a castor of state. How they use the salt, precisely- who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king's head is solemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be, though, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run well, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here, concerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in common life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints his hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man who uses hairoil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can't amount to much in his totality.
But the only thing to be considered here is this- what kind of oil is used at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar oil, nor castor oil, nor bear's oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil. What then can it possibly be, but the sperm oil in its unmanufactured, unpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils?
Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and queens with coronation stuff!
It has been a week of turmoil in my household. I wish I could be like Ishmael this evening, who doesn't seem to have trouble finding the silver lining in any whale spout and fluke. Kings and queens, oiled for the throne with the "sweetest of all oils."
I am glad that it is Friday, and I don't have to interact with people that much for the next three days. I'm not sure I'd be able to maintain any semblance of positivity. Yesterday, I was absolutely drained by five o'clock. Hated everything and everyone.
Tonight, I've had a few drinks. Spent three hours cleaning my house, taking down my Christmas trees. (That's right. I said Christmas trees. Don't judge me. My home has been under construction for about two full months. I couldn't put anything away.) Then I vacuumed and swept and mopped. Then dinner with my wife and kids, accompanied by some gin and wine.
I'm looking forward to bed this evening, A long sleep. I may not be a whaler or a king, but I think that I've earned some rest.
Saint Marty is thankful for darkness and quiet.
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