There you have them, three savage races, under the American flag, the maniac captain, with their great keen harpoons, ready to spear the _White_ whale. And only after many days at sea does Ahab's own boat-crew appear on deck. Strange, silent, secret, black-garbed Malays, fire-worshipping Parsees. These are to man Ahab's boat, when it leaps in pursuit of that whale. What do you think of the ship _Pequod_, the ship of the soul of an American? Many races, many peoples, many nations, under the Stars and Stripes. Beaten with many stripes. Seeing stars sometimes. And in a mad ship, under a mad captain, in a mad, fanatic's hunt. For what? For Moby Dick, the great white whale. But splendidly handled. Three splendid mates. The whole thing practical, eminently practical in its working. American industry! And all this practicality in the service of a mad, mad chase. Melville manages to keep it a real whaling ship, on a real cruise, in spite of all fantastics. A wonderful, wonderful voyage. And a beauty that is so surpassing only because of the author's awful flounderings in mystical waters. He wanted to get metaphysically deep. And he got deeper than metaphysics. It is a surpassingly beautiful book. With an awful meaning. And bad jolts. It is interesting to compare Melville with Dana, about the albatross. Melville a bit sententious.--"I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged gale in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch below I ascended to the over-crowded deck, and there, lashed upon the main hatches, I saw a regal feathered thing of unspotted whiteness, and with a hooked Roman bill sublime. At intervals it arched forth its vast, archangel wings.--Wondrous throbbings and flutterings shook it. Though bodily unharmed, it uttered cries, as some King's ghost in supernatural distress. Through its inexpressible strange eyes methought I peeped to secrets not below the heavens--the white thing was so white, its wings so wide, and in those for ever exiled waters, I had lost the miserable warping memories of traditions and of towns.--I assert then, that in the wondrous bodily whiteness of the bird chiefly lurks the secret of the spell----" Melville's albatross is a prisoner, caught by a bait on a hook. Well, I have seen an albatross, too: following us in waters hard upon the Antarctic, too, south of Australia. And in the Southern winter. And the ship, a P. and O. boat, nearly empty. And the lascar crew shivering. The bird with its long, long wings following, then leaving us. No one knows till they have tried, how lost, how lonely those Southern waters are. And glimpses of the Australian coast. It makes one feel that our day is only a day. That in the dark of the night ahead other days stir fecund, when we have lapsed from existence. Who knows how utterly we shall lapse.