Whale of a Trade!
Published by admin under Trading Resources on December 31, 2008The most heavily traded commodity of the mid–nineteenth century was, of course, whale oil — prized as fuel, energy source, food and, in a pinch, as a lubricant for all manner of household and marital needs. And the epicenter of the whale-oil world was the island of Nantucket. In 1851, seeing a prime business opportunity, the editors of Trader Monthly moved the magazine’s offices there, across the street from the Nantucket Venerable Whale Oil Exchange, in order to monitor this vital market. Times were good: Under guest editor Herman Melville, readership increased tenfold; the whale-obsessed denizens of Nantucket, it seemed, simply could not get enough whale-related news about whales. Unfortunately, magazine management kept costs low by hiring only semi-literate dockhands on seasonal leave from the wharf — a staffing tactic that backfired when it became evident that the new hires preferred to settle all editorial disputes via the seafaring method of “harpooning to the death.” Layoffs ensued.
Excerpt: How many times, need we even query, have you strode jauntily across the deck of your whaling-junk, only to lose your purchase and tumble ass-over-teakettle into the briny deep — all because your peg leg, in time of greatest need, was simply not peggy enough? Fret no more, for this season’s newest legs, carved of sturdiest Staten Island mahogany and reinforced with whale-bone inserts, are the finest we’ve yet strapped to our swollen lower extremities. Need to saunter with great purpose from ship to ship while dock’d? Seeking full peggy stability whilst firing a harpoon from a deck made slick by blubber and blood? You will surely never forget the accursed Humpback attack that led to the loss of your lower forelimb, but a quick buckle-fasten of a new, e’er-more-peggy leg will render your stride as crisp as that of a young whaler!
Excerpt: It seemed a capital idea to bestow upon heralded whaling captain Wilhelm Smithee (he of the 661 credited kills) $10 to trade in the markets. Yet after 3 days in which he failed to cross the transom of the Whale Oil Exchange to begin his trades, we assembled a search posse — which located Smithee in a decrepit inn-room above the Blow Hole Tavern. Scandalous! We discovered the famed whaler in flagrante delicto with 3 scurvy dock trollops and 2 midget townsfolk, the lot of them denuded of bedclothes. The most avoirdupois strumpet, a hoop-skirt harridan known to all as “Miss Maxie,” was found thrashing about in a cast-iron tub in the bath-chamber, play-acting the part of an ill-tempered Right Whale while Captain Smithee, rum-drunk to the earlobes, attempted to spear her with a silver dinner fork. O, outcome most foul!
Excerpt: Much attention is rightly focused on the whale-oil markets — but any trader worth a sop-bucket of warm krill would be remiss were he to neglect the secondary blubber-markets. “The whale-oil markets are clogged with the ructions of maladroit speculators — mostly duplicitous Norsemen and scurrilous Newfoundlanders,” says stock-jobber Josiah Van Sned, who seeks handsomer returns by the more unsung commodity. “Why, blubber is as useful to the common man as the grease-rag is to the steerage slave!” he exults. “My family eats it! My home is insulated by it! I melt it down and bathe in it; my children make candles of it to illuminate our nightly games of cock-a-hoop! My precious Matilda, meanwhile, applies a coating of it nightly, and not since James K. Polk was in short-pants has she looked so radiant!”
Excerpt: This year’s new-model cetacean weaponry is, in our experience, unparalleled in its capacity for wanton slaughter. Indeed, the Remington Arms Lancet Whale-Slay ‘51 looks as though it could puncture the hide of the mightiest Baleen from a distance of some 2 furlongs — an estimate we assayed by ascending to our roof-top and firing it toward Farmer McCoy’s prizedHerefords, scoring three direct hits in nary 4 minutes. Less mirthful events, alas, were transpiring down-stairs, where 1 ale-crazed editor trained his Lancet on 8-year-old Jiminy Cubbins, the mentally deficient town-boy who pays a visit twice weekly to empty the chamber-pots. The gun discharged, resulting in an unfortunate flesh-wound that within moments was looking, by the light of our whale-oil lamp, a trifle gangrenous. Such, however, is the price of whaling progress. Keep on limping, Jiminy!
Trader Daily � Whale of a Trade!
