Call Us Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in our purse, and nothing particular to interest us on shore, we thought we would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way we have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever we find ourselves growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in the soul; whenever we find ourselves involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral we meet; and especially whenever our hypos get such an upper hand of us, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent either of us from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, we account it high time to get to sea as soon as we can. This is our substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; we 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 us.