We sailed, and from that hour all idling ceased.  Such another system of overhauling, general littering of cabins and packing of trunks we had not seen since we let go the anchor in the harbor of Beirout.  Every body was busy.  Lists of all purchases had to be made out, and values attached, to facilitate matters at the custom-house.  Purchases bought by bulk in partnership had to be equitably divided, outstanding debts canceled, accounts compared, and trunks, boxes and packages labeled.  All day long the bustle and confusion continued.

And now came our first accident.  A passenger was running through a gangway, between decks, one stormy night, when he caught his foot in the iron staple of a door that had been heedlessly left off a hatchway, and the bones of his leg broke at the ancle.  It was our first serious misfortune.  We had traveled much more than twenty thousand miles, by land and sea, in many trying climates, without a single hurt, without a serious case of sickness and without a death among five and sixty passengers.  Our good fortune had been wonderful.  A sailor had jumped overboard at Constantinople one night, and was seen no more, but it was suspected that his object was to desert, and there was a slim chance, at least, that he reached the shore.  But the passenger list was complete.  There was no name missing from the register.

At last, one pleasant morning, we steamed up the harbor of New York, all on deck, all dressed in Christian garb—­by special order, for there was a latent disposition in some quarters to come out as Turks—­and amid a waving of handkerchiefs from welcoming friends, the glad pilgrims noted the shiver of the decks that told that ship and pier had joined hands again and the long, strange cruise was over.  Amen.

CHAPTER LXI.

In this place I will print an article which I wrote for the New York Herald the night we arrived.  I do it partly because my contract with my publishers makes it compulsory; partly because it is a proper, tolerably accurate, and exhaustive summing up of the cruise of the ship and the performances of the pilgrims in foreign lands; and partly because some of the passengers have abused me for writing it, and I wish the public to see how thankless a task it is to put one’s self to trouble to glorify unappreciative people.  I was charged with “rushing into print” with these compliments.  I did not rush.  I had written news letters to the Herald sometimes, but yet when I visited the office that day I did not say any thing about writing a valedictory.  I did go to the Tribune office to see if such an article was wanted, because I belonged on the regular staff of that paper and it was simply a duty to do it.  The managing editor was absent, and so I thought no more about it.  At night when the Herald’s request came for an article, I did not “rush.”  In fact, I demurred for a while, because I did not