Chapter 7 The Chapel

Abridged Text, followed by Abridger Notes, followed by multimedia, followed by Original Text with deletions.

 

Chapter 7 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.

 

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:—

 

S A C R E D

To the Memory of

J O H N    T A L B O T,

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

B Y   H I S   S I S T E R.

 

S A C R E D

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

P A C I F I C,

December 31st, 1839.

THIS  MARBLE

Is here placed by their surviving

S h i p m a t e s.

 

S A C R E D

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.

T H I S   T A B L E T

Is erected to his Memory

by

HIS WIDOW.

 

Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women wear the countenance of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that before me were assembled those whose sight of those bleak tablets caused old wounds to bleed afresh.

 

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 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 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.

 

Link to Chapter 8 The Pulpit.

 

Abridger Notes

 

I wanted to preserve the inscriptions on the wall of the chapel. Cemeteries and grave markers are favorite places to visit on travel, and even at home from time to time. They are pronouncements of the great equalizer. Some grave markers include substantial and very moving stories, like John E. Hagey’s (1748-1841) in Nashville City Cemetery. Particularly intriguing are plots that contain the remains of a couple, those who had died many years apart, and the narrative on sorrow in this chapter reminds me of the longer-lived partners.

 

I deleted this passage, because it interrupted the presentation of the inscriptions and Ishmael’s thoughts of their sorrowful loved ones:

 

“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.”

 

But I did so with hesitation because the passage speaks to Queequeg’s curiosity about others, his essential open-mindedness, which I like about him, and Ishmael. The deletion here also requires a short deletion in chapter 10 that references Queequeg having left the Chapel without Ishmael noticing. If I were to rework the sequencing of text, then I could avoid both the interruption I note above, while not having to add back the artificial, forced, or so I think, transition to the ‘frigid inscriptions’ that then precede Ishmael’s reflection on the sorrow of loved ones at their loss. Fortunately, Queequeg’s curiosity and open-mindedness is reflected elsewhere within the shore-bound narrative. I’d be in a pickle if not.

 

I did some deletions to the very last paragraph of the chapter, preferring not to detour (IMO) into ‘merriness’, only to return to spiritual reflection. I left the ending at “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.”

 

My lifelong activity in AI is as it root probably a the result of a belief in the primacy of the spirit. I think that saying 29 from the Gospel of Thomas perfectly captures my fascination, and a wider fascination, with AI:

Jesus said, “If the flesh came into being because of spirit, then it is a wonder. But if the spirit came into being because of the body, it is a wonder of wonders. Indeed, I am amazed at how this great wealth has made its home in this poverty.” (Gospel of Thomas saying 29)

 

I love this saying. As I get older I better grok the poverty of the body, but its the miracle of consciousness, intelligence, and the soul that is the more powerful sentiment. My mother is 93 and I'm certain she feels the same way.

Multimedia Chapter 7 The Chapel

 

I had recalled the chapel from the 1956 film that so grabbed me, but reviewed it just now and interested to look more closely. This snippet scans the inscriptions for about 30 seconds starting at about the 45 second mark, but also includes material from the next two chapters, The Pulpit and The Sermon. 

 

Original Chapter 7 The Chapel with deleted text

 

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.

 

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:—

 

S A C R E D

To the Memory of

J O H N    T A L B O T,

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

B Y   H I S   S I S T E R.

 

S A C R E D

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

P A C I F I C,

December 31st, 1839.

THIS  MARBLE

Is here placed by their surviving

S h i p m a t e s.

 

S A C R E D

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.

T H I S   T A B L E T

Is erected to his Memory

by

HIS WIDOW.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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