Ink won't serve.

_November_ 13.--The wind continues unaccommodating all night, and we see
nothing, although we promised ourselves to have seen Gibraltar, or at
least Tangiers, this morning, but we are disappointed of both. Tangiers
reminded me of my old Antiquarian friend Auriol Hay Drummond, who is
Consul there.[484] Certainly if a human voice could have made its hail
heard through a league or two of contending wind and wave, it must have
been Auriol Drummond's. I remember him at a dinner given by some of his
friends when he left Edinburgh, where he discharged a noble part "self
pulling like Captain Crowe 'for dear life, for dear life' against the
whole boat's crew," speaking, that is, against 30 members of a drunken
company and maintaining the predominance. Mons Meg was at that time his
idol. He had a sort of avarice of proper names, and, besides half a
dozen which were his legitimately, he had a claim to be called
_Garvadh_, which uncouth appellation he claimed on no very good
authority to be the ancient name of the Hays--a tale. I loved him
dearly; he had high spirits, a zealous faith, good-humour, and
enthusiasm, and it grieves me that I must pass within ten miles of him
and leave him unsaluted; for mercy-a-ged what a yell of gratitude would
there be! I would put up with a good rough gale which would force us
into Tangiers and keep us there for a week, but the wind is only in
gentle opposition, like a well-drilled spouse. Gibraltar we shall see
this evening, Tangiers becomes out of the question. Captain says we will
lie by during the night, sooner than darkness shall devour such an
object of curiosity, so we must look sharp for the old rock.

_November_ 14.--The horizon is this morning full of remembrances. Cape
St. Vincent, Cape Spartel, Tarifa, Trafalgar--all spirit-stirring
sounds, are within our ken, and recognised with enthusiasm both by the
old sailors whose memory can reinvest them with their terrors, and by
the naval neophytes who hope to emulate the deeds of their fathers. Even
a non-combatant like myself feels his heart beat faster and fuller,
though it is only with the feeling of the unworthy boast of the
substance in the fable, _nos poma natamus_.

I begin to ask myself, Do I feel any symptoms of getting better from the
climate?--which is delicious,--and I cannot reply with the least
consciousness of certainty; I cannot in reason expect it should be
otherwise: the failure of my limbs has been gradual