Chapter 2

REDBURN'S DEPARTURE FROM HOME

It was with a heavy heart and full eyes, that my poor mother parted with
me; perhaps she thought me an erring and a willful boy, and perhaps I
was; but if I was, it had been a hardhearted world, and hard times that
had made me so. I had learned to think much and bitterly before my time;
all my young mounting dreams of glory had left me; and at that early
age, I was as unambitious as a man of sixty.

Yes, I will go to sea; cut my kind uncles and aunts, and sympathizing
patrons, and leave no heavy hearts but those in my own home, and take
none along but the one which aches in my bosom. Cold, bitter cold as
December, and bleak as its blasts, seemed the world then to me; there is
no misanthrope like a boy disappointed; and such was I, with the warmth
of me flogged out by adversity. But these thoughts are bitter enough
even now, for they have not yet gone quite away; and they must be
uncongenial enough to the reader; so no more of that, and let me go on
with my story.

"Yes, I will write you, dear mother, as soon as I can," murmured I, as
she charged me for the hundredth time, not fail to inform her of my safe
arrival in New York.

"And now Mary, Martha, and Jane, kiss me all round, dear sisters, and
then I am off. I'll be back in four months--it will be autumn then, and
we'll go into the woods after nuts, an I'll tell you all about Europe.
Good-by! good-by!"

So I broke loose from their arms, and not daring to look behind, ran
away as fast as I could, till I got to the corner where my brother was
waiting. He accompanied me part of the way to the place, where the
steamboat was to leave for New York; instilling into me much sage advice
above his age, for he was but eight years my senior, and warning me
again and again to take care of myself; and I solemnly promised I would;
for what cast-away will not promise to take of care himself, when he
sees that unless he himself does, no one else will.

We walked on in silence till I saw that his strength was giving out,--he
was in ill health then,--and with a mute grasp of the hand, and a loud
thump at the heart, we parted.

It was early on a raw, cold, damp morning toward the end of spring, and
the world was before me; stretching away a long muddy road, lined with
comfortable houses, whose inmates were taking their sunrise naps,
heedless of the wayfarer passing. The cold drops of drizzle trickled
down my leather cap, and mingled with a few hot tears on my cheeks.

I had the whole road to myself, for no one was yet stirring, and I
walked on, with a slouching, dogged gait. The gray shooting-jacket was
on my back, and from the end of my brother's rifle hung a small bundle
of my