Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a well-to-do, retired whaleman. But unlike Captain Peleg- who cared not a rush for what are called serious things, and indeed deemed those self-same serious things the veriest of all trifles- Captain Bildad had not only been originally educated according to the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism, but all his subsequent ocean life, and the sight of many unclad, lovely island creatures, round the Horn- all that had not moved this native born Quaker one single jot, had not so much as altered one angle of his vest. Still, for all this immutableness, was there some lack of common consistency about worthy Captain Peleg. Though refusing, from conscientious scruples, to bear arms against land invaders, yet himself had illimitably invaded the Atlantic and Pacific; and though a sworn foe to human bloodshed, yet had he in his straight-bodied coat, spilled tuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative evening of his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the reminiscence, I do not know; but it did not seem to concern him much, and very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible conclusion that a man's religion is one thing, and this practical world quite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little cabin boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a broad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boat-header, chief mate, and captain, and finally a shipowner; Bildad, as I hinted before, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from active life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining days to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income.
Now, Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an incorrigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard task-master. They told me in Nantucket, though it certainly seems a curious story, that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew, upon arriving home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital, sore exhausted and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker, he was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used to swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an inordinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When Bildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-colored eye intently looking at you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch something- a hammer or a marrling-spike, and go to work like mad, at something or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished before him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his utilitarian character. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare flesh, no superfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap to it, like that worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat.
Such, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks was small; and there, bolt upright, sat old Bildad, who always sat so, and never leaned, and this to save his coat-tails. His broad-brim was placed beside him; his legs were stiffly crossed; his drab vesture was buttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed absorbed in reading from a ponderous volume.
"Bildad," cried Captain Peleg, "at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been studying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my certain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad?"
As if long habituated to such profane talk from his old shipmate, Bildad, without noticing his present irreverence, quietly looked up, and seeing me, glanced again inquiringly towards Peleg.
"He says he's our man, Bildad," said Peleg, "he wants to ship."
"Dost thee?" said Bildad, in a hollow tone, and turning round to me.
"I dost," said I unconsciously, he was so intense a Quaker.
"What do ye think of him, Bildad?" said Peleg.
"He'll do," said Bildad, eyeing me, and then went on spelling away at his book in a mumbling tone quite audible.
I thought him the queerest old Quaker I ever saw, especially as Peleg, his friend and old shipmate, seemed such a blusterer. But I said nothing, only looking round me sharply. Peleg now threw open a chest, and drawing forth the ship's articles, placed pen and ink before him, and seated himself at a little table. I began to think it was high time to settle with myself at what terms I would be willing to engage for the voyage. I was already aware that in the whaling business they paid no wages; but all hands, including the captain, received certain shares of the profits called lays, and that these lays were proportioned to the degree of importance pertaining to the respective duties of the ship's company. I was also aware that being a green hand at whaling, my own lay would not be very large; but considering that I was used to the sea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and all that, I made no doubt that from all I had heard I should be offered at least the 275th lay- that is, the 275th part of the clear net proceeds of the voyage, whatever that might eventually amount to. And though the 275th lay was what they call a rather long lay, yet it was better than nothing; and if we had a lucky voyage, might pretty nearly pay for the clothing I would wear out on it, not to speak of my three years' beef and board, for which I would not have to pay one stiver.
It might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely fortune- and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am one of those who never take on about princely fortunes, and am quite content if the world is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. Upon the whole, I thought the 275th lay would be about the fair thing, but would not have been surprised had I been offered the 200th, considering I was of a broad-shouldered make.
As Ishmael notes, Captain Bildad is a bit of a contradiction. When Ishmael first meets him, Bildad is studying the Bible. Being a Quaker, Bildad is supposed to embrace kindness and non-violence. Yet, he has the reputation for being a difficult leader, hard on his men, not sparing any of the saltier language of the sailor in order to motivate his crew. Godly and profane. That's Bildad.I have been trying to avoid commentary on the recent school shooting in Florida last week. I know that's unusual. Simply put, I get so weary of seeing those heartbreaking images on the television and hearing the empty platitudes of politicians offering up prayers while still accepting massive campaign donations from the National Rifle Association.
This time, however, the major scapegoats that the current man residing in the Oval Office and his crew of sycophants are blaming are people with mental illnesses. I know I shouldn't be surprised by this tactic. Scapegoats seem to be the source of all woes in the United States according to these "leaders." Mexicans. Illegal refugees. Legal immigrants. Women. Muslims. Now, the mentally ill.
Let me be clear here: I think that my country is woefully negligent in helping people suffering from mental illnesses. There is lack of funding. Lack of understanding. Lack of compassion. "Crazy" people don't deserve the kind of support and research that people suffering from other illnesses deserve. That's pretty much the attitude held by the majority of the population in the United States. Good, "Christian" people.
And so, the mentally ill are being blamed for the fact that the United States has a major problem with guns. It's not the weapons themselves that are the problem. It's the crazy people who use them to kill students in schools, worshipers in church, concertgoers in Las Vegas.
I find this logic faulty and, frankly, offensive.
Yes, anyone who goes into a school with a weapon and kills innocent people probably has some mental health problems. However, had the person not been able to purchase said weapon, there would be 17 people alive today who are, instead, being buried. That's the simple, honest truth. "Crazy" doesn't kill people. Guns kill people.
My wife has bipolar disorder. Therefore, there is a possibility that my children may develop bipolar disorder. I have a friend whose daughter has been struggling with schizophrenia for most of her adult life. My wife's uncle, who had bipolar disorder, committed suicide. So, I am not talking out of my ass here. I know mental illness.
The majority of people with mental illnesses are not violent murderers. Just like the majority of Muslims in the world are not terrorists, and the majority of Mexicans are not rapists and drug dealers. To believe otherwise is simply false. And stupid.
I'm tired of trying to sugarcoat my ideas about gun control, so let me say it as clearly as I can:
Guns kill people. Take away the guns, and people don't die. There is no need for automatic or semiautomatic guns for "sport." These are weapons designed simply to kill a lot of people in a very short period of time. Anyone who can't wait 28 days to buy a gun--who needs it within 48 hours--probably shouldn't be able to buy a gun. And the answer to school shootings is NOT to arm kindergarten teachers.
So. There it is people. I stand with those students from Florida. The problem here isn't mental illness. The problem here is that we have a country filled with leaders who have been bought and paid for by the National Rifle Association. Those leaders will never allow common sense to rule their decisions in regard to gun control.
And in two weeks' time, we will be talking about another school shooting.
If you have a problem with anything that I have just said, I'm sorry. I'm tired of young people dying. You probably should be, too.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for freedom of speech.
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