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         <item><date>October 10th 1999</date>Initial version</item>
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<front>
 <docTitle>
 <titlePart type="main">Texts for beginners</titlePart>
 </docTitle>
<docAuthor>A N Other</docAuthor>
<docDate>October 10th 1999</docDate>
</front>
<body>

<div><head>The table in section 1</head>
<p>
Over the whine of the electric mixer, Mara heard her name called, but she 
didn't bother to acknowledge it.  Instead she added more sugar to the egg
whites and continued to beat them until they formed stiff peaks.  She was
spooning the meringue on to the pie filling when she heard the hum of the
wheelchair approaching the kitchen.
</p><p>
`Mara, the mailman just drove by.'  The chair rolled to a stop inside the
room.  `I'm expecting some correspondence from Fitzgerald.  Will you see if
it's come?'
</p><p>
Mara didn't turn around.  I'm busy at the moment, Adam.'  She continued to
spread the meringue thickly over the pie, ignoring the instant of tense
silence.
</p>
<div><head>The table in section 1</head>
<q rend="display">
<table cols="3" rend="inline">
<row><cell cols="3">AT&amp;T Common Stock</cell></row>
<row><cell>Year </cell><cell> Price</cell><cell>Dividend</cell></row>
<row><cell>1971</cell><cell>41--54</cell><cell>$2.60</cell></row>
<row><cell>   2</cell><cell>41--54</cell><cell>2.70</cell></row>
<row><cell>   3</cell><cell>46--55</cell><cell>2.87</cell></row>
<row><cell>   4</cell><cell>40--53</cell><cell>3.24</cell></row>
<row><cell>   5</cell><cell>45--52</cell><cell>3.40</cell></row>
<row><cell>   6</cell><cell>51--59</cell><cell>.95*</cell></row>
<row><cell cols="3">(* first quarter only)</cell></row>
</table>
</q>

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<div><head>LOOMINGS</head>

<p>Call me Ishmael.  Some years ago&#8212;never mind how long
precisely &#8212;having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a
little and see the watery part of the world.  It is a way I have of
driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation.  Whenever I
find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp,
drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily
pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every
funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper
hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me
from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking
people's hats off&#8212;then, I account it high time to get to sea as
soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.  With a
philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly
take to the ship.  There is nothing surprising in this.  If they but
knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish
very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.  There now is
your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian
isles by coral reefs&#8212;commerce surrounds it with her surf.  Right
and left, the streets take you waterward.  Its extreme down-town is
the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by
breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land.  Look
at the crowds of water-gazers there.  Circumambulate the city of a
dreamy Sabbath afternoon.  Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and
from thence, by Whitehall northward.  What do you see?&#8212;Posted
like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon
thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries.  Some leaning against
the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the
bulwarks glasses!  of ships from China; some high aloft in the
rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep.  But these
are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster&#8212;tied
to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks.  How then is this?
Are the green fields gone?  What do they here?  But look!  here come
more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a
dive.  Strange!  Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of
the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not
suffice.  No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly
can without falling in.  And there they stand&#8212;miles of
them&#8212;leagues. </p>

<p> Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and
avenues, &#8212;north, east, south, and west.  Yet here they all
unite.  Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the
compasses of all those ships attract them thither?  Once more.  Say,
you are in the country; in some high land of lakes.  Take almost any
path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and
leaves you there by a pool in the stream.  There is magic in it.  Let
the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest
reveries&#8212;stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and
he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that
region.  Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try
this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a
metaphysical professor.  Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water
are wedded for ever.
 But here is an artist.  He desires to paint you the dreamiest,
shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all
the valley of the Saco.  What is the chief element he employs?  There
stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a
crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his
cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke.  Deep into
distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of
mountains bathed in their hill-side blue.  But though the picture lies
thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like
leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the
shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him.  Go visit
the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade
knee-deep among Tiger-lilies&#8212;what is the one charm wanting?
&#8212;Water &#8212;there is not a drop of water there!  Were Niagara
but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see
it?  Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two
handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he
sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway
Beach?  Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy
soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea?  Why upon your
first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical
vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of
sight of land?  Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy?  Why did
the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove?  Surely
all this is not without meaning.  And still deeper the meaning of that
story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting,
mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned.
But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans.  It is
the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to
it all.  Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea
whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over
conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever
go to sea as a passenger.  For to go as a passenger you must needs
have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in
it.  Besides, passengers get sea-sick &#8212;grow quarrelsome
&#8212;don't sleep of nights &#8212;do not enjoy themselves much, as a
general thing; &#8212;no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am
something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain,
or a Cook.  I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to
those who like them.  For my part, I abominate all honorable
respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever.
It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking
care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not.  And as for
going as cook, &#8212; though I confess there is considerable glory in
that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board &#8212;yet,
somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls; &#8212;though once broiled,
judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is
no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of
a broiled fowl than I will.  It is out of the idolatrous dotings of
the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you
see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the
pyramids.  No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before
the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal
mast-head.  True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump
from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow.  And at first,
this sort of thing is unpleasant enough.  It touches one's sense of
honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the
land, the van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes.  And more
than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you
have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest
boys stand in awe of you.  The transition is a keen one, I assure you,
from the schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of
Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it.  But even
this wears off in time.  What of it, if some old hunks of a
sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks?  What
does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the
New Testament?  Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the
less of me,
 because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that
particular instance?  Who aint a slave?  Tell me that.  Well, then,
however the old sea-captains may order me about&#8212;however they may
thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it
is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much
the same way &#8212; either in a physical or metaphysical point of
view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all
hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.  Again,
I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me
for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that
I ever heard of.  On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay.
And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being
paid.  The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction
that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us.  But being paid,
&#8212;what will compare with it?  The urbane activity with which a
man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so
earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that
on no account can a monied man enter heaven.  Ah!  how cheerfully we
consign ourselves to perdition!  Finally, I always go to sea as a
sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the
forecastle deck.  For as in this world, head winds are far more
prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the
Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the
quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on
the forecastle.  He thinks he breathes it first; but not so.  In much
the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other
things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it.  But
wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a
merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling
voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the
constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me
in some unaccountable way &#8212;he can better answer than any one
else.  And, doubtless, my going on this whaling
 voyage,  formed part of the grand programme of Providence that  was drawn up a
long time ago.  It came in as a sort of brief  interlude and solo between more
extensive performances.  I take  it that this part of the bill must have run
something like this:
<list>
<item>Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the
United States. </item>
<item>Whaling Voyage by one Ishmael. </item>
<item>Bloody Battle in Affghanistan.</item>
</list>Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage
managers,  the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling  voyage,
when others were set down for magnificent parts in high  tragedies,  and short
and easy parts in genteel comedies,  and  jolly parts in farces &#8212;though I
cannot tell why this was exactly;  yet,  now that I recall all the
circumstances,  I think I can see a  little into the springs and motives which
being cunningly presented  to me under various disguises,  induced me to set
about
performing the part I did,  besides cajoling me into the delusion  that it was
a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill  and discriminating judgment.
chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the  great whale
himself.  Such a portentous and mysterious monster  roused all my curiosity.
Then the wild and distant seas where  he rolled his island bulk;  the
undeliverable, nameless perils of  the whale;  these, with all the attending
marvels of a thousand  Patagonian sights and sounds,  helped to sway me to my
wish.  With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements;
but as for me,  I am tormented with an everlasting  itch for things remote.  I
love to sail forbidden seas,  and land  on barbarous coasts.  Not ignoring what
is good,  I am quick to  perceive a horror,  and could still be social with
it&#8212;would they  let me &#8212;since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all
the  inmates of the place one lodges in.  By reason of these things, then, the
whaling voyage was welcome;  the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung
open,  and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose,  two  and two
there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions  of the whale,  and, mid
most of them all, one grand hooded phantom,  like a snow hill in the air.
</p>
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