Call me Ishmael. Some years ago–never mind how long
precisely–having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little
and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off
the spleen and regulating the circulation.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp,
drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing
before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet;
and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it
requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping
into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I
account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute
for pistol and ball.
With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon
his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this.
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other,
cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
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