Chapter LXIX: 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.