But it shortly became a most lamentable “slouch of a journal.”  One night in Paris, after a hard day’s toil in sightseeing, I said: 

“Now I’ll go and stroll around the cafes 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 anymore.  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?”

“Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn’t of much use, but a journal properly kept is worth a thousand dollars—­when you’ve got it done.”

“A thousand!—­well, I should think so.  I wouldn’t finish it for a million.”

His experience was only the experience of the majority of that industrious night school in the cabin.  If you wish to inflict a heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to keep a journal a year.

A good many expedients were resorted to to keep the excursionists amused and satisfied.  A club was formed, of all the passengers, which met in the writing school after prayers and read aloud about the countries we were approaching and discussed the information so obtained.

Several times the photographer of the expedition brought out his transparent pictures and gave us a handsome magic-lantern exhibition.  His views were nearly all of foreign scenes, but there were one or two home pictures among them.  He advertised that he would “open his performance in the after cabin at ‘two bells’ (nine P.M.) and show the passengers where they shall eventually arrive”—­which was all very well, but by a funny accident the first picture that flamed out upon the canvas was a view of Greenwood Cemetery!

On several starlight nights we danced on the upper deck, under the awnings, and made something of a ball-room display of brilliancy by hanging a number of ship’s lanterns to the stanchions.  Our music consisted of the well-mixed strains of a melodeon which was a little asthmatic and apt to catch its breath where it ought to come out strong, a clarinet which was a little unreliable on the high keys and rather melancholy on the low ones, and a disreputable accordion that had a leak somewhere and breathed louder than it squawked—­a more elegant term does not occur to me just now.  However, the dancing was infinitely worse than the music.  When the ship rolled to starboard the whole platoon of dancers came charging down to starboard