Toward morning, finding the heat of the forecastle unpleasant, I
ascended to the deck where everything was noiseless. The Trades were
blowing with a mild, steady strain upon the canvas, and the ship
heading right out into the immense blank of the Western Pacific. The
watch were asleep. With one foot resting on the rudder, even the man
at the helm nodded, and the mate himself, with arms folded, was
leaning against the capstan.

On such a night, and all alone, reverie was inevitable. I leaned over
the side, and could not help thinking of the strange objects we might
be sailing over.

But my meditations were soon interrupted by a gray, spectral shadow
cast over the heaving billows. It was the dawn, soon followed by the
first rays of the morning. They flashed into view at one end of the
arched night, like--to compare great things with small--the gleamings
of Guy Fawkes's lantern in the vaults of the Parliament House.
Before long, what seemed a live ember rested for a moment on the rim
of the ocean, and at last the blood-red sun stood full and round in
the level East, and the long sea-day began.

Breakfast over, the first thing attended to was the formal baptism of
Wymontoo, who, after thinking over his affairs during the night,
looked dismal enough.

There were various opinions as to a suitable appellation. Some
maintained that we ought to call him "Sunday," that being the day we
caught him; others, "Eighteen Forty-two," the then year of our Lord;
while Doctor Long Ghost remarked that he ought, by all means, to