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But
that
night
,
in
particular
,
a
strange
(
and
ever
since
inexplicable
)
thing
occurred
to
me
.
Starting
from
a
brief
standing
sleep
,
I
was
horribly
conscious
of
something
fatally
wrong
.
The
jaw-bone
tiller
smote
my
side
,
which
leaned
against
it
;
in
my
ears
was
the
low
hum
of
sails
,
just
beginning
to
shake
in
the
wind
;
I
thought
my
eyes
were
open
;
I
was
half
conscious
of
putting
my
fingers
to
the
lids
and
mechanically
stretching
them
still
further
apart
.
But
,
spite
of
all
this
,
I
could
see
no
compass
before
me
to
steer
by
;
though
it
seemed
but
a
minute
since
I
had
been
watching
the
card
,
by
the
steady
binnacle
lamp
illuminating
it
.
Nothing
seemed
before
me
but
a
jet
gloom
,
now
and
then
made
ghastly
by
flashes
of
redness
.
Uppermost
was
the
impression
,
that
whatever
swift
,
rushing
thing
I
stood
on
was
not
so
much
bound
to
any
haven
ahead
as
rushing
from
all
havens
astern
.
A
stark
,
bewildered
feeling
,
as
of
death
,
came
over
me
.
Convulsively
my
hands
grasped
the
tiller
,
but
with
the
crazy
conceit
that
the
tiller
was
,
somehow
,
in
some
enchanted
way
,
inverted
.
My
God
!
what
is
the
matter
with
me
?
thought
I.
Lo
!
in
my
brief
sleep
I
had
turned
myself
about
,
and
was
fronting
the
ship
's
stern
,
with
my
back
to
her
prow
and
the
compass
.
In
an
instant
I
faced
back
,
just
in
time
to
prevent
the
vessel
from
flying
up
into
the
wind
,
and
very
probably
capsizing
her
.
How
glad
and
how
grateful
the
relief
from
this
unnatural
hallucination
of
the
night
,
and
the
fatal
contingency
of
being
brought
by
the
lee
!
Look
not
too
long
in
the
face
of
the
fire
,
O
man
!
Never
dream
with
thy
hand
on
the
helm
!
Turn
not
thy
back
to
the
compass
;
accept
the
first
hint
of
the
hitching
tiller
;
believe
not
the
artificial
fire
,
when
its
redness
makes
all
things
look
ghastly
.
To-morrow
,
in
the
natural
sun
,
the
skies
will
be
bright
;
those
who
glared
like
devils
in
the
forking
flames
,
the
morn
will
show
in
far
other
,
at
least
gentler
,
relief
;
the
glorious
,
golden
,
glad
sun
,
the
only
true
lamp
--
all
others
but
liars
!
Nevertheless
the
sun
hides
not
Virginia
's
Dismal
Swamp
,
nor
Rome
's
accursed
Campagna
,
nor
wide
Sahara
,
nor
all
the
millions
of
miles
of
deserts
and
of
griefs
beneath
the
moon
.
The
sun
hides
not
the
ocean
,
which
is
the
dark
side
of
this
earth
,
and
which
is
two
thirds
of
this
earth
.
So
,
therefore
,
that
mortal
man
who
hath
more
of
joy
than
sorrow
in
him
,
that
mortal
man
can
not
be
true
--
not
true
,
or
undeveloped
.
With
books
the
same
.
The
truest
of
all
men
was
the
Man
of
Sorrows
,
and
the
truest
of
all
books
is
Solomon
's
,
and
Ecclesiastes
is
the
fine
hammered
steel
of
woe
.
"
All
is
vanity
.
"
ALL
.
This
wilful
world
hath
not
got
hold
of
unchristian
Solomon
's
wisdom
yet
But
he
who
dodges
hospitals
and
jails
,
and
walks
fast
crossing
graveyards
,
and
would
rather
talk
of
operas
than
hell
;
calls
Cowper
,
Young
,
Pascal
,
Rousseau
,
poor
devils
all
of
sick
men
;
and
throughout
a
care-free
lifetime
swears
by
Rabelais
as
passing
wise
,
and
therefore
jolly
;
--
not
that
man
is
fitted
to
sit
down
on
tomb-stones
,
and
break
the
green
damp
mould
with
unfathomably
wondrous
Solomon
.
But
even
Solomon
,
he
says
,
"
the
man
that
wandereth
out
of
the
way
of
understanding
shall
remain
"
(
i.e.
even
while
living
)
"
in
the
congregation
of
the
dead
.
"
Give
not
thyself
up
,
then
,
to
fire
,
lest
it
invert
thee
,
deaden
thee
;
as
for
the
time
it
did
me
.
There
is
a
wisdom
that
is
woe
;
but
there
is
a
woe
that
is
madness
.
And
there
is
a
Catskill
eagle
in
some
souls
that
can
alike
dive
down
into
the
blackest
gorges
,
and
soar
out
of
them
again
and
become
invisible
in
the
sunny
spaces
.
And
even
if
he
for
ever
flies
within
the
gorge
,
that
gorge
is
in
the
mountains
;
so
that
even
in
his
lowest
swoop
the
mountain
eagle
is
still
higher
than
other
birds
upon
the
plain
,
even
though
they
soar
.
Had
you
descended
from
the
Pequod
's
try-works
to
the
Pequod
's
forecastle
,
where
the
off
duty
watch
were
sleeping
,
for
one
single
moment
you
would
have
almost
thought
you
were
standing
in
some
illuminated
shrine
of
canonized
kings
and
counsellors
.
There
they
lay
in
their
triangular
oaken
vaults
,
each
mariner
a
chiselled
muteness
;
a
score
of
lamps
flashing
upon
his
hooded
eyes
.
In
merchantmen
,
oil
for
the
sailor
is
more
scarce
than
the
milk
of
queens
.
To
dress
in
the
dark
,
and
eat
in
the
dark
,
and
stumble
in
darkness
to
his
pallet
,
this
is
his
usual
lot
.
But
the
whaleman
,
as
he
seeks
the
food
of
light
,
so
he
lives
in
light
.
He
makes
his
berth
an
Aladdin
's
lamp
,
and
lays
him
down
in
it
;
so
that
in
the
pitchiest
night
the
ship
's
black
hull
still
houses
an
illumination
.
See
with
what
entire
freedom
the
whaleman
takes
his
handful
of
lamps
--
often
but
old
bottles
and
vials
,
though
--
to
the
copper
cooler
at
the
tryworks
,
and
replenishes
them
there
,
as
mugs
of
ale
at
a
vat
.
He
burns
,
too
,
the
purest
of
oil
,
in
its
unmanufactured
,
and
,
therefore
,
unvitiated
state
;
a
fluid
unknown
to
solar
,
lunar
,
or
astral
contrivances
ashore
.
It
is
sweet
as
early
grass
butter
in
April
.
He
goes
and
hunts
for
his
oil
,
so
as
to
be
sure
of
its
freshness
and
genuineness
,
even
as
the
traveller
on
the
prairie
hunts
up
his
own
supper
of
game
.
Already
has
it
been
related
how
the
great
leviathan
is
afar
off
described
from
the
mast-head
;
how
he
is
chased
over
the
watery
moors
,
and
slaughtered
in
the
valleys
of
the
deep
;
how
he
is
then
towed
alongside
and
beheaded
;
and
how
(
on
the
principle
which
entitled
the
headsman
of
old
to
the
garments
in
which
the
beheaded
was
killed
)
his
great
padded
surtout
becomes
the
property
of
his
executioner
;
how
,
in
due
time
,
he
is
condemned
to
the
pots
,
and
,
like
Shadrach
,
Meshach
,
and
Abednego
,
his
spermaceti
,
oil
,
and
bone
pass
unscathed
through
the
fire
;
--
but
now
it
remains
to
conclude
the
last
chapter
of
this
part
of
the
description
by
rehearsing
--
singing
,
if
I
may
--
the
romantic
proceeding
of
decanting
off
his
oil
into
the
casks
and
striking
them
down
into
the
hold
,
where
once
again
leviathan
returns
to
his
native
profundities
,
sliding
along
beneath
the
surface
:
is
before
;
but
,
alas
!
never
more
to
rise
and
blow
.
