- end_line
- 4229
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.838Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4168
- text
- He was an extremely little man, that solitary cabin-passenger—the
passenger who came on board in a business-like manner with his baggage;
never spoke to any one, and the captain seldom spoke to him.
Perhaps he was a deputy from the Deaf and Dumb Institution in New York,
going over to London to address the public in pantomime at Exeter Hall
concerning the signs of the times.
He was always in a brown study; sometimes sitting on the quarter-deck
with arms folded, and head hanging upon his chest. Then he would rise,
and gaze out to windward, as if he had suddenly discovered a friend.
But looking disappointed, would retire slowly into his state-room,
where you could see him through the little window, in an irregular
sitting position, with the back part of him inserted into his berth,
and his head, arms, and legs hanging out, buried in profound
meditation, with his fore-finger aside of his nose. He never was seen
reading; never took a hand at cards; never smoked; never drank wine;
never conversed; and never staid to the dessert at dinner-time.
He seemed the true microcosm, or little world to himself: standing in
no need of levying contributions upon the surrounding universe.
Conjecture was lost in speculating as to who he was, and what was his
business. The sailors, who are always curious with regard to such
matters, and criticise cabin-passengers more than cabin-passengers are
perhaps aware at the time, completely exhausted themselves in
suppositions, some of which are characteristically curious.
One of the crew said he was a mysterious bearer of secret dispatches to
the English court; others opined that he was a traveling surgeon and
bonesetter, but for what reason they thought so, I never could learn;
and others declared that he must either be an unprincipled bigamist,
flying from his last wife and several small children; or a scoundrelly
forger, bank-robber, or general burglar, who was returning to his
beloved country with his ill-gotten booty. One observing sailor was of
opinion that he was an English murderer, overwhelmed with speechless
remorse, and returning home to make a full confession and be hanged.
But it was a little singular, that among all their sage and sometimes
confident opinings, not one charitable one was made; no! they were all
sadly to the prejudice of his moral and religious character. But this
is the way all the world over. Miserable man! could you have had an
inkling of what they thought of you, I know not what you would have
done.
However, not knowing any thing about these surmisings and suspicions,
this mysterious cabin-passenger went on his way, calm, cool, and
collected; never troubled any body, and nobody troubled him. Sometimes,
of a moonlight night he glided about the deck, like the ghost of a
hospital attendant; flitting from mast to mast; now hovering round the
skylight, now vibrating in the vicinity of the binnacle. Blunt, the
Dream Book tar, swore he was a magician; and took an extra dose of
salts, by way of precaution against his spells.
When we were but a few days from port, a comical adventure befell this
cabin-passenger. There is an old custom, still in vogue among some
merchant sailors, of tying fast in the rigging any lubberly landsman of
a passenger who may be detected taking excursions aloft, however
moderate the flight of the awkward fowl. This is called _“making a
spread eagle”_ of the man; and before he is liberated, a promise is
exacted, that before arriving in port, he shall furnish the ship’s
company with money enough for a treat all round.
- title
- Chunk 2