“And so on, and so on, and so forth, for several days. Finally, anchored off Gibraltar, which looks familiar and home-like.”
It reminds me of the journal I opened with the New Year, once, when I was a boy and a confiding and a willing prey to those impossible schemes of reform which well-meaning old maids and grandmothers set for the feet of unwary youths at that season of the year—setting oversized tasks for them, which, necessarily failing, as infallibly weaken the boy’s strength of will, diminish his confidence in himself and injure his chances of success in life. Please accept of an extract:
“Monday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Tuesday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Wednesday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Thursday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Friday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Next Friday—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Friday fortnight—Got up, washed, went to bed.
“Following month—Got up, washed, went to bed.”
I stopped, then, discouraged. Startling events appeared to be too rare, in my career, to render a diary necessary. I still reflect with pride, however, that even at that early age I washed when I got up. That journal finished me. I never have had the nerve to keep one since. My loss of confidence in myself in that line was permanent.
The ship had to stay a week or more at Gibraltar to take in coal for the home voyage.
It would be very tiresome staying here, and so four of us ran the quarantine blockade and spent seven delightful days in Seville, Cordova, Cadiz, and wandering through the pleasant rural scenery of Andalusia, the garden of Old Spain. The experiences of that cheery week were too varied and numerous for a short chapter and I have not room for a long one. Therefore I shall leave them all out.
