Call me Urist McIshmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no blood on my hands, and nothing particular to interest me on the Mountainhomes, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the liver. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly Timber in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before ≡coffin≡s, 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 alcoholic principle to prevent me from deliberately doing something stupid, and methodically flooding the entire fort with !!magma!!—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for doing what normal Dwarfs do. 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 dwarfs in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.