THE WHITE WHALE 247 
monster’s spine ; and standing in that prow*, for that one single incom- 
putable flash of time, you behold an oarsman, half shrouded by the in- 
censed boiling spout of the whale, and in the act of leaping as if from 
a precipice: The action of the whole thing is wonderfully good and 
true. The half emptied line-tub floats on the whitened sea ; the wooden 
poles of the spilled harpoons obliquely bob in it; the heads of the 
swimming crew are scattered about the whale in. contrasting expressions 
of affright ; while in the black stormy distance the ship is bearing down 
upon the scene. Serious fault might be found with the anatomical 
details of this whale, but let that pass ; since for the life of me, I could 
not draw so good a one. 
In the second engraving, the boat is in the act of drawing alongside 
the barnacled flank of a large running Right Whale that rolls his 
black weedy bulk in the sea like some mossy rockslide from the Pata- 
gonian cliffs. His jets are erect”, full, and black like soot; so that from 
so abounding a smoke in the chimney, you would think there must be 
a brave supper cooking in the great bowels below. Sea fowls are peck- 
ing at. the small crabs, shell-fish, and other sea candies and macaroni, 
which the Right Whale sometimes carries on his pestilent back. And 
all the while the thick-lipped leviathan, is* rushing through the deep, 
leaving tons of tumultous white curds in his wake, and causing the 
slight boat to rock in the swells like a skiff caught nigh the paddle-wheels 
of an ocean steamer. Thus, the foreground is all raging commotion; 
but behind, in admirable artistic contrast, is the glassy level of a 1 sea be- 
calmed, the drooping unstarched sails of the powerless ship, and the 
inert mass of a dead whale, a conquered fortress, with the flag of 
capture lazily hanging from the whale-pole inserted into his spout- 
hole. 
Who Garnery the painter is, or was, I know not. But my life for it 
he was either practically conversant with his subject or else marvellously 
tutored by some experienced whaleman. The French are the lads for 
painting action. Go and gaze upon the paintings of Europe, and 
where will you find such a gallery of living and breathing commotion 
on canvas, as in that triumphal hall at Versailles; where the beholder 
fights his way, pell-mell through the consecutive great battles of France; 
where every sWord seems a flash of the Northern Lights, and the sue- 
