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The Line

           Norcananysonofmortalwoman,forthefirsttime,seathimselfamidthosehempenintricacies,andwhilestraininghisutmostattheoar,bethinkhimthatatanyunknowninstanttheharpoonmaybedarted,andallthesehorriblecontortionsbeputinplaylikeringedlightnings;hecannotbethuscircumstancedwithoutashudderthatmakestheverymarrowinhisbonestoquiverinhimlikeashakenjelly.Yethabit—strangething!whatcannothabitaccomplish?—Gayersallies,moremerrymirth,betterjokes,andbrighterrepartees,youneverheardoveryourmahogany,thanyouwillhearoverthehalf-inchwhitecedarofthewhaleboat,whenthushunginhangman’snooses;and,likethesixburghersofCalaisbeforeKingEdward,thesixmencomposingthecrewpullintothejawsofdeath,withahalteraroundeveryneck,asyoumaysay.

           Perhapsaverylittlethoughtwillnowenableyoutoaccountforthoserepeatedwhalingdisasters—somefewofwhicharecasuallychronicled—ofthismanorthatmanbeingtakenoutoftheboatbytheline,andlost.For,whenthelineisdartingout,tobeseatedthenintheboat,islikebeingseatedinthemidstofthemanifoldwhizzingsofasteam-engineinfullplay,wheneveryflyingbeam,andshaft,andwheel,isgrazingyou

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