- end_line
- 3338
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.838Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3276
- text
- The men said he lived round the corner of _Forecastle-square,_ opposite
the _Liberty Pole;_ because his cook-house was right behind the
foremast, and very near the quarters occupied by themselves.
Sailors have a great fancy for naming things that way on shipboard.
When a man is hung at sea, which is always done from one of the lower
yard-arms, they say he _“takes a walk up Ladder-lane, and down
Hemp-street.”_
Mr. Thompson was a great crony of the steward’s, who, being a handsome,
dandy mulatto, that had once been a barber in West-Broadway, went by
the name of Lavender. I have mentioned the gorgeous turban he wore when
Mr. Jones and I visited the captain in the cabin. He never wore that
turban at sea, though; but sported an uncommon head of frizzled hair,
just like the large, round brush, used for washing windows, called a
_Pope’s Head._
He kept it well perfumed with Cologne water, of which he had a large
supply, the relics of his West-Broadway stock in trade. His clothes,
being mostly cast-off suits of the captain of a London liner, whom he
had sailed with upon many previous voyages, were all in the height of
the exploded fashions, and of every kind of color and cut. He had
claret-colored suits, and snuff-colored suits, and red velvet vests,
and buff and brimstone pantaloons, and several full suits of black,
which, with his dark-colored face, made him look quite clerical; like a
serious young colored gentleman of Barbados, about to take orders.
He wore an uncommon large pursy ring on his forefinger, with something
he called a real diamond in it; though it was very dim, and looked more
like a glass eye than any thing else. He was very proud of his ring,
and was always calling your attention to something, and pointing at it
with his ornamented finger.
He was a sentimental sort of a darky, and read the _“Three Spaniards,”_
and _“Charlotte Temple,”_ and carried a lock of frizzled hair in his
vest pocket, which he frequently volunteered to show to people, with
his handkerchief to his eyes. Every fine evening, about sunset, these
two, the cook and steward, used to sit on the little shelf in the
cook-house, leaning up against each other like the Siamese twins, to
keep from falling off, for the shelf was very short; and there they
would stay till after dark, smoking their pipes, and gossiping about
the events that had happened during the day in the cabin.
And sometimes Mr. Thompson would take down his Bible, and read a
chapter for the edification of Lavender, whom he knew to be a sad
profligate and gay deceiver ashore; addicted to every youthful
indiscretion. He would read over to him the story of Joseph and
Potiphar’s wife; and hold Joseph up to him as a young man of excellent
principles, whom he ought to imitate, and not be guilty of his
indiscretion any more. And Lavender would look serious, and say that he
knew it was all true—he was a wicked youth, he knew it—he had broken a
good many hearts, and many eyes were weeping for him even then, both in
New York, and Liverpool, and London, and Havre. But how could he help
it? He hadn’t made his handsome face, and fine head of hair, and
graceful figure. It was not _he,_ but the others, that were to blame;
for his bewitching person turned all heads and subdued all hearts,
wherever he went. And then he would look very serious and penitent, and
go up to the little glass, and pass his hands through his hair, and see
how his whiskers were coming on.
- title
- Chunk 3