Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den--the bar--a rude attempt at a right whale's head.

Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale's jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it.

Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.
Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison.

Though true cylinders without--within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom.

Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads' goblets.