1 \ 1PCHAPTER 1. Loomings.
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3 Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having
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4 little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me
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5 on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part
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6 of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and
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7 regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about
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8 the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever
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9 I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
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10 bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever
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11 my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral
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12 principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and
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13 methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to
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14 get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
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15 With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I
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16 quietly take to the ship. There is nothing su
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