The Chapel

In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

In New Bedford, there is a Whaleman’s Chapel. Few gloomy fishermen about to sail for the Indian Ocean or Pacific fail to visit it on a Sunday. I certainly did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:—

After returning from my first morning walk, I set out again on this special errand. The clear, sunny cold had given way to driving sleet and mist. I wrapped myself in my shaggy jacket, made of a cloth called bearskin, and fought my way against the stubborn storm. Inside, I found a small congregation of sailors and sailors’ wives and widows, scattered about. A muffled silence filled the place, broken only now and then by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed to sit apart deliberately, as if each person’s grief were an island, impossible to share. The chaplain had not yet arrived. These silent islands of men and women sat gazing steadily at several marble tablets, bordered in black and set into the wall on either side of the pulpit. Three of the tablets read something like this, though I cannot claim to quote them exactly:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, who was lost overboard at age eighteen, near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, on November 1st, 1836. HIS SISTER placed this tablet in his memory.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats’ crews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, December 31st, 1839. THIS MARBLE Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

IN MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG. They formed one of the boat crews of the SHIP ELIZA. A whale towed them out of sight on the Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, December 31st, 1839. Their surviving SHIPMATES placed this marble memorial here.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.

IN MEMORY OF CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, who was killed by a sperm whale while standing in the bow of his boat off the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833. HIS WIDOW placed this tablet in his memory.

Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

I shook the sleet off my ice-coated hat and jacket and sat down near the door. When I turned sideways, I was surprised to see Queequeg near me. The solemn scene had affected him, and he gazed around with a look of wondering disbelief and curiosity. This savage was the only person there who seemed to notice my entrance. He was the only one who could not read, and so was not reading the cold inscriptions on the wall. I did not know whether any relatives of the seamen named there were among the congregation. But so many accidents in the fishery go unrecorded. And several women present wore expressions of unending grief, even if they did not wear mourning clothes. So I felt sure that people with unhealed hearts had gathered before me. The sight of those bleak tablets must have made their old wounds bleed again in sympathy.

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say—here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

Oh, you whose dead lie buried beneath green grass! You can stand among flowers and say, here, here lies my beloved. You do not know the desolation that fills hearts like these. How bitter are the empty spaces on those black-bordered marble tablets that cover no ashes! How much despair lies in those unchanging inscriptions! What deadly emptiness and unwelcome doubts lie in those lines! They seem to gnaw at all Faith. They deny resurrection to those who perished without a place or a grave. Those tablets might as well stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

In what census of living creatures are the human dead included? Why does a universal proverb say that the dead tell no tales, though they hold more secrets than the Goodwin Sands? Why do we put the significant and unbelieving word “late” before the name of someone who departed for the other world yesterday? Yet we do not call someone “late” if they merely sail for the remotest Indies of this living earth. Why do Life Insurance Companies pay death benefits for immortals? What eternal, motionless paralysis and deadly, hopeless trance still hold ancient Adam, who died sixty full centuries ago? Why do we still refuse to be comforted for those we nevertheless insist are living in unspeakable bliss? Why do all the living strive so hard to silence all the dead? Why will even a rumor of knocking inside a tomb terrify a whole city? All these things have their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs. Even from these dead doubts, she draws her deepest hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems—aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling—a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

I hardly need to say how I felt as I looked at those marble tablets, on the eve of a voyage from Nantucket. By the dim light of that dark, gloomy day, I read about the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be yours. But somehow I became cheerful again. What delightful reasons to set sail, what a fine chance for promotion! Yes, a smashed boat will give me an honorary promotion to immortality. Yes, there is death in whaling. A man can be bundled into Eternity in a sudden, chaotic rush that leaves no time to speak. But what of it? I think we have greatly misunderstood Life and Death. I think what people call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. I think we look at spiritual things much as oysters look at the sun through water. The oysters think that thick water is the thinnest air. I think my body is merely the dregs of my better being. In fact, whoever wants my body can have it. Take it, I say. My body is not me. So three cheers for Nantucket! Let a smashed boat and a smashed body come whenever they will. Even Jove himself cannot smash my soul.