The Pulpit

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favourite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom—the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

I had not been seated long when a sturdy, distinguished-looking old man entered. The storm-battered door swung shut behind him, and everyone in the congregation quickly looked at him. Their attention made it clear that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, as the whalemen called him. He was a great favorite among them. In his youth he had been a sailor and a harpooner, but for many years he had devoted his life to the ministry. Father Mapple was then in the hardy winter of a healthy old age. His was the kind of old age that seems to become a second flowering of youth. Amid the deep lines of his wrinkles, a gentle new bloom seemed to shine through, like spring greenery peeking out beneath February’s snow. Anyone who had heard his history before seeing him would have looked at him with the greatest interest. For his manner as a clergyman had acquired certain peculiarities from his adventurous life at sea. When he entered, I noticed that he carried no umbrella. He certainly had not come in a carriage, either. Melting sleet streamed from his waterproof hat, and his heavy pilot-cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had soaked up. He took off his hat, coat, and overshoes one by one and hung them in a small space in a nearby corner. Then, dressed in a respectable suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany colour, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

Like most old-fashioned pulpits, this one was very high. A regular staircase would have stretched far across the floor to reach it, taking up much of the chapel's already limited space. So the architect seemed to have followed Father Mapple's suggestion and built the pulpit without stairs. In their place was a vertical side ladder, like those used to climb from a boat onto a ship at sea. A whaling captain's wife had given the chapel a handsome pair of red worsted hand ropes for the ladder. The ladder itself had a nicely finished top and was stained the color of mahogany. Given the kind of chapel it was, the whole arrangement seemed quite tasteful. Father Mapple paused for a moment at the foot of the ladder. Grasping the ornamental knobs on the hand ropes with both hands, he looked up. Then, with a sailor's skill but still showing reverence, he climbed hand over hand, as if ascending to the main-top of his ship.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

The sides of the ladder were made of cloth-covered rope, as swinging ladders usually are. Only the rungs were wooden, so the ladder bent at every step. When I first saw the pulpit, I noticed that these joints seemed unnecessary here, however useful they might be on a ship. So I was not prepared for what Father Mapple did after reaching the top. He slowly turned around, bent over the pulpit, and deliberately pulled up the ladder step by step. He brought the whole ladder inside, leaving himself secure from attack in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold—a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.

I thought about it for some time without fully understanding the reason. Father Mapple had such a strong reputation for sincerity and holiness that I could not suspect him of seeking attention through mere theatrical tricks. No, I thought, there must be a serious reason for it. And it must symbolize something unseen. Could his physical isolation signify his spiritual withdrawal, for the time being, from all outward worldly ties and connections? Yes, I see that, for the faithful man of God, this pulpit is a self-contained stronghold. It is supplied with the meat and wine of the word, a lofty Ehrenbreitstein with a well inside its walls that never runs dry.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off—serenest azure is at hand.”

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature borrowed from the chaplain’s years at sea. Marble cenotaphs stood on either side of the pulpit. Between them, a large painting hung on the wall behind it. The painting showed a noble ship battling a terrible storm near a shore of black rocks and white breakers. But high above the racing clouds and dark, rolling storm clouds floated a small island of sunlight. An angel’s face shone from it, casting a distinct patch of light on the ship’s pitching deck. The patch resembled the silver plate now set into the Victory’s deck where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “sail on, sail on, noble ship, and steer with a steady hand. Look, the sun is breaking through. The clouds are rolling away, and the calmest blue sky is near.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.

The pulpit, too, showed the same nautical taste as the ladder and the picture. Its paneled front resembled the broad, rounded bow of a ship. The Holy Bible rested on a projecting scroll-shaped support, modeled on the curled bow of a ship.

What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

What could be more meaningful? The pulpit is always at the forefront of this earth. Everything else follows behind it. The pulpit leads the world. From the pulpit, the storm of God’s swift anger is seen first, and the bow must bear its first force. From the pulpit, the God of fair and foul winds is first asked for favorable winds. Yes, the world is a ship on its outward voyage, not one that has completed its journey. And the pulpit is its prow.