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<div class="wrapper">
<h2>
CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
</h2>
<p>
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 I 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<span class="wrecker"></span> 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.
</p>
<p>
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves
as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf.
Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is
the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by
breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the
crowds of water-gazers there.
</p>
<p>
Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears
Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do
you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand
thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some
leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking
over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as
if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all
landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters,
nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green
fields gone? What do they here?
</p>
<p>
But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and
seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the
extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder
warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as
they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of
them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys,
streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all
unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses
of all those ships attract them thither?
</p>
<p>
Once more. Say you are in the 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 there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let
the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand
that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead
you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be
athirst in the 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.
</p></div>
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Also see: Tab Triggers