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Chapter 7. The Chapel. In this same new Bedford, there stands a

Wilman's Chapel, and few are the Moody Fisherman, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific,

who failed to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I'm sure that I did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallyed out upon the special errand. The

sky had changed from clear, sunny cold to driving sleet and mist. Rapping 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 rained, only broken at times by the streaks of the storm.

Each silent worshipper seemed purposefully sitting apart from the other, as if each silent

grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived, and there the

silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black

borders, masoned into the wall, on either side the pulpit.

Many of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote.

Sacred to the memory of John Talbot, who at the age of 18 was lost overboard near the

Isle of Desolation off Patagonia, November 1, 1836. This tablet is erected to his memory

by his sister. Sacred to the memory of Robert Long,

...