The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous,and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates,and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths,and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn,shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.
You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore.This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue,and would seem to smell almost as musky;he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage.That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him.In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal;_he_ doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg?which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.
“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner,quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller,and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor.But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did,or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa,which was the sum of poor Mungo’s performances—this kind of travel, I say,may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part,that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.
These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table,and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise,nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed.Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas—entire strangers to them—and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table—all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes—looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!
But as for Queequeg—why, Queequeg sat there among them—at the head of the table, too, it so chanced;as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding.His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him,and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it,to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him.But _that_ was certainly very coolly done by him,and every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.
We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls,and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough,that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room,lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.
CHAPTER 6. The Street.
If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a civilized town,that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.
In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign parts.Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies.Regent Street is not unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green,live Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water Street and Wapping.In these last-mentioned haunts you see only sailors; but in New Bedford,actual cannibals stand chatting at street corners; savages outright;many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger stare.
But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and,besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft which unheeded reel about the streets,you will see other sights still more curious, certainly more comical.There weekly arrive in this town scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men,all athirst for gain and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames;fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and snatch the whale-lance.Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence they came.In some things you would think them but a few hours old. Look there!that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat and swallow-tailed coat,girdled with a sailor-belt and sheath-knife.Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.
No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one—I mean a downright bumpkin dandy—a fellow that,in the dog-days, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands.Now when a country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished reputation,and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching the seaport.In bespeaking his sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats;straps to his canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed!how bitterly will burst those straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps,buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.
But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a queer place.Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of Labrador.As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony.The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil,true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run with milk;nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this,nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came they?how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?
Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion,and your question will be answered. Yes;all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans.One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea.Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?
In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters,and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say,they have reservoirs of oil in every house,and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.
In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples—long avenues of green and gold.And in August, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise,proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is art;which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation’s final day.
And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer;whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens.Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem,where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk,their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore,as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.
CHAPTER 7. The Chapel.
In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen,shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.
Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand.The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist.Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin,I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering,I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows.A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm.Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other,as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived;and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets,with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit.Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:—
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard,Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, _November_ 1_st_, 1836.THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY,AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats’ crews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale,On the Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, _December_ 31_st_, 1839.THIS MARBLE Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY,Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, _August_ 3_d_, 1833.THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.
Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door,and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene,there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance.This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance;because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore,was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall.Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation,I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery,and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief,that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those,in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.
Oh!ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say—here,_here_ lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these.What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes!What despair in those immovable inscriptions!What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith,and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave.As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.
In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included;why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales,though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands;how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world,we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him,if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth;why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal,unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance,yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago;how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss;why all the living so strive to hush all the dead;wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city.All these things are not without their meanings.
But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs,and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.
It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage,I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened,doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael,the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark,fine chance for promotion, it seems—aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes,there is death in this business of whaling—a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then?Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death.Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance.Methinks that in looking at things spiritual,we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water,and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air.Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say,it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket;and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.
CHAPTER 8. The Pulpit.
I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered;immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him,a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation,sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes,it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen,among whom he was a very great favourite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth,but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of,Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age;that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth,for among all the fissures of his wrinkles,there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom—the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow.No one having previously heard his history,could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest,because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him,imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led.When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage,for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet,and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed.However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed,and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.
Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one,and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor,seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed,had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs,substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea.The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder,which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany colour, the whole contrivance,considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste.Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder,and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes,Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity,hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.
The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones,were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint.At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship,these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary.For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round,and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step,till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.
I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this.Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity,that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I,there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen.Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation,he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions?Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit,I see, is a self-containing stronghold—a lofty Ehrenbreitstein,with a perennial well of water within the walls.
But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place,borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings.Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit,the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo!the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off—serenest azure is at hand.”
Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture.Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows,and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work,fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.
What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear;the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried,and the bow must bear the earliest brunt.From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds. Yes,the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.
CHAPTER 9. The Sermon.
Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Starboard gangway, there!side away to larboard—larboard gangway to starboard!Midships!midships!”
There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches,and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.
He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows,folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes,and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.
This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog—in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy—
“The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down to doom.
“I saw the opening maw of hell, With endless pains and sorrows there;Which none but they that feel can tell— Oh, I was plunging to despair.
“In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him mine,He bowed his ear to my complaints— No more the whale did me confine.
“With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne; Awful, yet bright,as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.
“My song for ever shall record That terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God, His all the mercy and the power.”
Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm.A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last,folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates,clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah—‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah. ’”
“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters—four yarns—is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures.Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound!what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet!What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly!How billow-like and boisterously grand!We feel the floods surging over us; we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters;sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us!But _what_ is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches?Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men,and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all,because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment,repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men,the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God—never mind now what that command was,or how conveyed—which he found a hard command.But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do—remember that—and hence,he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves;and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.
“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God,by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men will carry him into countries where God does not reign,but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa,and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here.By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz.That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates?Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa,as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days,when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates,is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian;and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that,just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates,that Jonah sought to flee world-wide from God?Miserable man!Oh!most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God;prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered,self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah,on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive!no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,—no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search,he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo;and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin,all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye.Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence;in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent.In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other—“Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or,“Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad,I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike,one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored,offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide,and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill;while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him.Frighted Jonah trembles, and summoning all his boldness to his face,only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected;but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it;and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.
“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs—‘Who’s there?’ Oh!how that harmless question mangles Jonah!For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies.‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah, though the man now stands before him;but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance.‘We sail with the next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. ‘No sooner, sir?’—‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger.’ Ha!Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent.‘I’ll sail with ye,’—he says,—‘the passage money how much is that?—I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written, shipmates,as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history,‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning.
“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any,but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates,sin that pays its way can travel freely, and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper,is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s purse,ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it’s assented to.Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive;but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold.Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain.He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters;and Jonah is put down for his passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now,‘I’m travel-weary; I need sleep.’ ‘Thou lookest like it,’ says the Captain, ‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key.Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself,and mutters something about the doors of convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within.All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth,and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close,and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship’s water-line,Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour,when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels’ wards.
“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah’s room;and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp,flame and all, though in slight motion,still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth,infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung.The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place,and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance.But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh!so my conscience hangs in me!’ he groans, ‘straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!’
“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling,but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him;as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish,praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels,a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound,and there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestlings in his berth,Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.