Such dreary streets!  Blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb.  At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted.  But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open.  It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch.  Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah?  But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and the “The Sword-Fish?”—­this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.”  However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet.  A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit.  It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there.  Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath—­“The Spouter Inn:—­Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?—­Spouter?—­Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there.  As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place—­a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly.  It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft.  Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed.  In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer—­of whose works I possess the only copy extant—­“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.”  True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind—­old black-letter, thou reasonest