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!
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.
3. What is the text mainly about?*