iod we had light, variable winds, attended by a confused,
uneasy sea, and one continual series of rains. The like was never seen;
it poured in torrents for seventeen days; the tar of the standing
rigging appeared white-washed; sails wet, chafed, and torn; decks sodden
and spongy, and the heat below oppressive.

One night, as usual, the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain
came down, beyond all ancient similes. I was wet to the bones, and am
convinced they too were damp; the heavy canvas was slamming and beating
against the masts and tops, with a noise like the report of cannon,
whenever the ship gave a quick lurch, giving the idea, of flying out of
the bolt ropes; indeed I wished they would, for the yards had been
braced every way to woo the fitful breezes, which only for a moment
would fill the leaden sails, and then hop around to another quarter. The
night was black as Erebus! except when the lightning flashed out in a
blinding glare, with a pale, blueish dazzle, like to the flash of a gun,
or a burning blue light; illuminating the mazes of rigging, lofty spars,
and clusters of the watch, crouching under partial shelter of the
hammock-nettings;--then all was dark again. I was standing on the poop,
up to my ancles in water, although feeling as if swimming; a little old
quarter-master directing the helmsman was at my elbow--I could not see,
but I felt him,--he too was at times trying to feel the white feathery
dog vane, to know where the wind was! It was old Harry Greenfield! None
of your low-crowned, flowing-ribbon'd, wide-trouser'd dandy Jacks,
pricked all over with china-ink, like a savage; but a short, stout,
wholesome little "tar of all weathers," with a pleasant, rosy,
good-humored visage, bronzed and wilted to be sure, and rather mouldy
about the head, for he had "served his full time in a man-of-war
ship"--nearly half a century--and no doubt had taught many a sucking
reefer, and given excellent advice to lots of sapient lieutenants--I
know he has to me often; in a word, to complete his portrait, he was the
image of Durand's Santa Claus! "Well," said I, "old gentleman, how are
you to-night?" "Dry as dust, sir." "What! I thought you wet!" "Fat!"
said he, misunderstanding me, "what on--salt junk? You might carry a
lump of it from here to Jerusalem, and not get enough fat to grease the
pint of a sail-needle." "No! wet I say." "Ah! yes, sir! You're right, my
hands and feet are shrunk up like a washerwoman's thu