The Funeral

“Haul in the chains! Let the carcase go astern!”

“Pull in the chains! Let the carcass drift behind the ship!”

The vast tackles have now done their duty. The peeled white body of the beheaded whale flashes like a marble sepulchre; though changed in hue, it has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk. It is still colossal. Slowly it floats more and more away, the water round it torn and splashed by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with rapacious flights of screaming fowls, whose beaks are like so many insulting poniards in the whale. The vast white headless phantom floats further and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats, what seem square roods of sharks and cubic roods of fowls, augment the murderous din. For hours and hours from the almost stationary ship that hideous sight is seen. Beneath the unclouded and mild azure sky, upon the fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joyous breezes, that great mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite perspectives.

The great lifting ropes have now done their work. The skinned white body of the headless whale shines like a marble tomb. Though its color has changed, it has not noticeably lost any size. It is still enormous. Slowly, it floats farther and farther away. Insatiable sharks churn and splash the water around it. Above it, screaming birds fly about, eager to feed. Their beaks stab the whale like countless insulting daggers. The vast white headless phantom drifts farther and farther from the ship. With every few yards it travels, what seem like acres of sharks and clouds of birds add to the murderous noise. For hours, this horrible sight remains visible from the almost motionless ship. A clear, gentle blue sky stretches above the pleasant sea. Joyful breezes carry that great mass of death onward, until it is lost in the endless distance.

There’s a most doleful and most mocking funeral! The sea-vultures all in pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or speckled. In life but few of them would have helped the whale, I ween, if peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral they most piously do pounce. Oh, horrible vultureism of earth! from which not the mightiest whale is free.

What a mournful and mocking funeral! The sea-vultures are all in pious mourning, the air-sharks all dressed impeccably in black or speckled colors. I think few of them would have helped the whale in life, if he had needed it. But they piously swoop down on the feast at his funeral. Oh, the horrible vultureism of this earth! Not even the mightiest whale is free from it.

Nor is this the end. Desecrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost survives and hovers over it to scare. Espied by some timid man-of-war or blundering discovery-vessel from afar, when the distance obscuring the swarming fowls, nevertheless still shows the white mass floating in the sun, and the white spray heaving high against it; straightway the whale’s unharming corpse, with trembling fingers is set down in the log—shoals, rocks, and breakers hereabouts: beware! And for years afterwards, perhaps, ships shun the place; leaping over it as silly sheep leap over a vacuum, because their leader originally leaped there when a stick was held. There’s your law of precedents; there’s your utility of traditions; there’s the story of your obstinate survival of old beliefs never bottomed on the earth, and now not even hovering in the air! There’s orthodoxy!

Nor is this the end. Though the body has been desecrated, a vengeful ghost survives and hovers over it to frighten others. A timid warship or a blundering exploration vessel spots it from afar. The distance hides the swarming birds but still reveals the white mass floating in the sun. It also reveals the white spray rising high against the mass. At once, trembling fingers record the harmless whale’s corpse in the log: shoals, rocks, and breaking waves nearby: beware! And perhaps for years afterward, ships avoid the place. They leap over it like foolish sheep leaping over empty space, because their leader once leaped there when a stick was held up. There you have the law of precedents. There you have the usefulness of traditions. There you have the story of old beliefs that stubbornly survive, though they were never grounded in the earth and no longer even hover in the air! There’s orthodoxy!

Thus, while in life the great whale’s body may have been a real terror to his foes, in his death his ghost becomes a powerless panic to a world.

So, while the great whale’s body may have truly terrified his enemies in life, his ghost causes helpless panic throughout the world after his death.

Are you a believer in ghosts, my friend? There are other ghosts than the Cock-Lane one, and far deeper men than Doctor Johnson who believe in them.

Do you believe in ghosts, my friend? There are ghosts besides the Cock-Lane ghost. And men far more thoughtful than Doctor Johnson believe in them.