THE FUNERAL.
“Haul in the chains! Let the carcase go astern!”
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.