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.