Whaling's Honor and Glory

There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.

In some ventures, careful disorder is the right method.

The more I dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up to the very spring-head of it so much the more am I impressed with its great honorableness and antiquity; and especially when I find so many great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other have shed distinction upon it, I am transported with the reflection that I myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a fraternity.

The more I study whaling and trace it back to its very origins, the more impressed I am by its great honor and age. I find that so many great demigods, heroes, and prophets of all kinds have brought distinction to whaling in one way or another. And I am thrilled to think that I, too, belong to such a glorious fraternity, even if only in a minor role.

The gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to the eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale attacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent. Those were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms to succor the distressed, and not to fill men’s lamp-feeders. Every one knows the fine story of Perseus and Andromeda; how the lovely Andromeda, the daughter of a king, was tied to a rock on the sea-coast, and as Leviathan was in the very act of carrying her off, Perseus, the prince of whalemen, intrepidly advancing, harpooned the monster, and delivered and married the maid. It was an admirable artistic exploit, rarely achieved by the best harpooneers of the present day; inasmuch as this Leviathan was slain at the very first dart. And let no man doubt this Arkite story; for in the ancient Joppa, now Jaffa, on the Syrian coast, in one of the Pagan temples, there stood for many ages the vast skeleton of a whale, which the city’s legends and all the inhabitants asserted to be the identical bones of the monster that Perseus slew. When the Romans took Joppa, the same skeleton was carried to Italy in triumph. What seems most singular and suggestively important in this story, is this: it was from Joppa that Jonah set sail.

The gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman. To the eternal honor of our calling, the first whale our brotherhood attacked was not killed for base gain. Those were the knightly days of our profession. We took up arms only to help people in distress, not to fill men’s oil lamps. Everyone knows the fine story of Perseus and Andromeda. The lovely Andromeda, a king’s daughter, was tied to a rock on the seacoast. Just as Leviathan was carrying her off, Perseus, the prince of whalemen, boldly advanced. He harpooned the monster, rescued the maiden, and married her. It was an admirable feat of skill, rarely matched by the best harpooners today. For Perseus killed Leviathan with his very first throw. And let no one doubt this ancient story. In ancient Joppa, now Jaffa, on the Syrian coast, a vast whale skeleton stood in a pagan temple for many ages. The city’s legends and all its inhabitants said these were the very bones of the monster Perseus killed. When the Romans took Joppa, they carried the same skeleton to Italy in triumph. What seems most remarkable and suggestive about this story is that Jonah set sail from Joppa.

Akin to the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda—indeed, by some supposed to be indirectly derived from it—is that famous story of St. George and the Dragon; which dragon I maintain to have been a whale; for in many old chronicles whales and dragons are strangely jumbled together, and often stand for each other. “Thou art as a lion of the waters, and as a dragon of the sea,” saith Ezekiel; hereby, plainly meaning a whale; in truth, some versions of the Bible use that word itself. Besides, it would much subtract from the glory of the exploit had St. George but encountered a crawling reptile of the land, instead of doing battle with the great monster of the deep. Any man may kill a snake, but only a Perseus, a St. George, a Coffin, have the heart in them to march boldly up to a whale.

The famous story of St. George and the Dragon resembles the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda. Some even believe it was indirectly derived from that story. I maintain that the dragon was a whale, because many old chronicles strangely mix up whales and dragons. They often use one to mean the other. “You are like a lion of the waters, and like a dragon of the sea,” says Ezekiel. He plainly means a whale. In fact, some versions of the Bible use that very word. Besides, the exploit would be much less glorious if St. George had merely faced a crawling land reptile. Instead, he fought the great monster of the deep. Any man can kill a snake, but only a Perseus, a St. George, or a Coffin has the courage to march boldly up to a whale.

Let not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the creature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely represented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted on land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance of those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists; and considering that as in Perseus’ case, St. George’s whale might have crawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal ridden by St. George might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse; bearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible with the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to hold this so-called dragon no other than the great Leviathan himself. In fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story will fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the Philistines, Dagon by name; who being planted before the ark of Israel, his horse’s head and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the stump or fishy part of him remained. Thus, then, one of our own noble stamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of England; and by good rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most noble order of St. George. And therefore, let not the knights of that honorable company (none of whom, I venture to say, have ever had to do with a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a Nantucketer with disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we are much better entitled to St. George’s decoration than they.

Do not let modern paintings of this scene mislead us. They vaguely show the creature that brave whaleman of old encountered as shaped like a griffin. They also show the battle on land, with the saint on horseback. But consider how little people knew in those days, when artists did not know the whale’s true shape. And consider that, as in Perseus’ case, St. George’s whale might have crawled out of the sea onto the beach. The animal St. George rode might also have been only a large seal or sea-horse. Bearing all this in mind, we may conclude that the so-called dragon was none other than the great Leviathan himself. That conclusion is not entirely incompatible with the sacred legend and the oldest drawings of the scene. In fact, when faced with the strict and piercing truth, the whole story will fare like Dagon. Dagon was the Philistines’ idol, made of fish, flesh, and fowl. When placed before the ark of Israel, his horse’s head and both palms fell off. Only his stump, or fishy part, remained. So England’s guardian is one of our own noble kind, a whaleman. By rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most noble order of St. George. I venture to say that none of the knights of that honorable company has ever dealt with a whale, as their great patron did. So let them never look down on a Nantucketer. Even in our woolen coats and tarred trousers, we have a much better claim to St. George’s decoration than they do.

Whether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long remained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that antique Crockett and Kit Carson—that brawny doer of rejoicing good deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from the inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I claim him for one of our clan.

For a long time, I was unsure whether to admit Hercules among us. According to Greek mythology, this ancient Crockett and Kit Carson was swallowed and thrown up by a whale. He was a muscular hero who delighted in doing good deeds. But whether being swallowed and thrown up makes him a whaleman is open to debate. There is no record that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless he did it from the inside. Still, he may be considered a sort of involuntary whaleman. At any rate, if he did not catch the whale, the whale caught him. I claim him as one of our clan.

But, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of Hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more ancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versâ; certainly they are very similar. If I claim the demi-god then, why not the prophet?

But the best authorities disagree. Some believe the Greek story of Hercules and the whale came from the even older Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale. Others believe the reverse. The two stories are certainly very similar. If I claim the demigod, then, why not the prophet?

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like royal kings of old times, we find the head waters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental story is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord;—Vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?

But heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets do not make up the whole roll of our order. We have yet to name our grand master. For, like the royal kings of old, we trace the origins of our fraternity to none other than the great gods themselves. A wondrous Eastern story from the Shaster tells us that the awe-inspiring Vishnoo himself is our Lord. Vishnoo is one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos. In the first of his ten earthly incarnations, he set the whale apart and made it sacred forever. According to the Shaster, Brahma, the God of Gods, decided to recreate the world after one of its periodic dissolutions. He brought forth Vishnoo to oversee the work. But the Vedas, the mystical books Vishnoo apparently needed to read before beginning creation, lay at the bottom of the waters. They must therefore have contained something like practical tips for young architects. So Vishnoo took the form of a whale and dived down to the deepest waters to rescue the sacred volumes. Was Vishnoo not a whaleman, then, just as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?

Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there’s a member-roll for you! What club but the whaleman’s can head off like that?

Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! Now that’s a membership list! What other club can start its list like that?