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