“Oh, every thing. Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino-games I beat, and horse-billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon, Sundays; (because that’ll tell at home, you know,) and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don’t ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always—wonder what is the reason of that?—and how many lies Moult has told—Oh, every thing! I’ve got every thing down. My father told me to keep that journal. Father wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done.”
“No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars—when you get it done.”
“Do you?—no, but do you think it will, though?
“Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars—when you get it done. May be, more.”
“Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain’t no slouch of a journal.”
But it shortly became a most lamentable “slouch of a journal.” One night in Paris, after a hard day’s toil in sight-seeing, I said:
“Now I’ll go and stroll around the cafés awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow.”
His countenance lost its fire. He said:
“Well, no, you needn’t mind. I think I won’t run that journal any more. It is awful tedious. Do you know—I reckon I’m as much as four thousand pages behind hand. I haven’t got any France in it at all. First I thought I’d leave France out and start fresh. But that wouldn’t do, would it? The governor would say, ‘Hello, here—didn’t see anything in France?’ That cat wouldn’t fight, you know. First I thought I’d copy France out of the guide-book, like old Badger in the for’rard cabin who’s writing a book, but there’s more than three hundred pages of it. Oh, I don’t think a journal’s any use—do you? They’re only a bother, ain’t they?”
