Grim's Hall

It's high time I read Moby-Dick, a work I somehow escaped in my formal education and early life.  I've really been missing something:

"Grub, ho!" now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast. 

They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company.  Not always, though:  Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor.  But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo's performances -- this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish.  Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere. . . .  

But as for Queequeg -- why, Queequeg sat there among them -- at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle.  To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding.  His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks toward him.  But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people's estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.