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 the sea as soon as I can.
Finished Moby-Dick; Or, The Whale, and am now too wound up from the chase to sleep.
I'll confess Chapter 32, Cetology, charmed me the most.
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