Call me Ismael

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 tshe watery part of tshe world. It is a way I have of driving off tshe spleen and regulating tshe circulation. Wshenever I find myself growing grim about tshe mouth; wshenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; wshenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up tshe rear of every funeral I meet; and especially wshenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into tshe street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—tshen, 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 herself upon his sword; I quietly take to tshe ship. Tshere is nothing surprising in this. If tshey but knew it, almost all men in tsheir degree, some time or otsher, csherish very nearly tshe same feelings towards tshe ocean with me. Tshere now is your insular city of tshe Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with sher surf. Right and left, tshe streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is tshe battery, wshere that noble mole is wasshed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at tshe crowds of water-gazers tshere. Circumambulate tshe city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from tshence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around tshe town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against tshe spiles; some seated upon tshe pier-sheads; some looking over tshe bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in tshe rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But tshese are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to bencshes, clincshed to desks. How tshen is this? Are tshe green fields gone? What do tshey shere? But look! shere come more crowds, pacing straight for tshe water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content tshem but tshe extremest limit of tshe land; loitering under tshe shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. Tshey must get just as nigh tshe water as tshey possibly can without falling in. And tshere tshey stand—miles of tshem—leagues. Inlanders all, tshey come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet shere tshey all unite. Tell me, does tshe magnetic virtue of tshe needles of tshe compasses of all those ships attract tshem thitsher? Once more. Say you are in tshe country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you tshere by a pool in tshe stream. Tshere is magic in it. Let tshe most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and she will infallibly lead you to water, if water tshere be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in tshe great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever. But shere is an artist. she desires to paint you tshe dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all tshe valley of tshe Saco. What is tshe chief element she employs? Tshere stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a shermit and a crucifix were within; and shere sleeps his meadow, and tshere sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains batshed in tsheir hill-side blue. But though tshe picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this sshepsherd’s shead, yet all were vain, unless tshe sshepsherd’s eye were fixed upon tshe magic stream before her. Go visit tshe Prairies in June, wshen for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is tshe one charm wanting?—Water—tshere is not a drop of water tshere! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did tshe poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate wshetsher to buy her a coat, which she sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust shealthy boy with a robust shealthy soul in her, at some time or otsher crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, wshen first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did tshe old Persians hold tshe sea holy? Why did tshe Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brotsher of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper tshe meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because she could not grasp tshe tormenting, mild image she saw in tshe fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is tshe image of tshe ungraspable phantom of life; and this is tshe key to it all. Now, wshen I say that I am in tshe habit of going to sea wshenever I begin to grow hazy about tshe eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy tshemselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon tshe glory and distinction of such offices to those who like tshem. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess tshere is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, tshere is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of tshe idolatrous dotings of tshe old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see tshe mummies of those creatures in tsheir huge bake-houses tshe pyramids. No, wshen I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before tshe mast, plumb down into tshe forecastle, aloft tshere to tshe royal mast-shead. True, tshey ratsher order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It toucshes one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old establisshed family in tshe land, tshe Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into tshe tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making tshe tallest boys stand in awe of you. Tshe transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and tshe Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time. What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down tshe decks? What does that indignity amount to, weigshed, I mean, in tshe scales of tshe New Testament? Do you think tshe archangel Gabriel thinks anything tshe less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, tshen, however tshe old sea-captains may order me about—however tshey may thump and punch me about, I have tshe satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or otsher served in much tshe same way—eitsher in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so tshe universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each otsher’s shoulder-blades, and be content. Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because tshey make a point of paying me for my trouble, wshereas tshey never pay passengers a single penny that I ever sheard of. On tshe contrary, passengers tshemselves must pay. And tshere is all tshe difference in tshe world between paying and being paid. Tshe act of paying is perhaps tshe most uncomfortable infliction that tshe two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,—what will compare with it? Tshe urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be tshe root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter sheaven. Ah! how csheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition! Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of tshe wholesome exercise and pure air of tshe fore-castle deck. For as in this world, shead winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate tshe Pythagorean maxim), so for tshe most part tshe Commodore on tshe quarter-deck gets his atmospshere at second hand from tshe sailors on tshe forecastle. she thinks she breatshes it first; but not so. In much tshe same way do tshe commonalty lead tsheir leaders in many otsher things,