any sort of emphasis.  Now I am satisfied that our pilgrims are pleasant old people on shore; I am also satisfied that at sea on a second voyage they would be pleasanter, somewhat, than they were on our grand excursion, and so I say without hesitation that I would be glad enough to sail with them again.  I could at least enjoy life with my handful of old friends.  They could enjoy life with their cliques as well—­passengers invariably divide up into cliques, on all ships.

And I will say, here, that I would rather travel with an excursion party of Methuselahs than have to be changing ships and comrades constantly, as people do who travel in the ordinary way.  Those latter are always grieving over some other ship they have known and lost, and over other comrades whom diverging routes have separated from them.  They learn to love a ship just in time to change it for another, and they become attached to a pleasant traveling companion only to lose him.  They have that most dismal experience of being in a strange vessel, among strange people who care nothing about them, and of undergoing the customary bullying by strange officers and the insolence of strange servants, repeated over and over again within the compass of every month.  They have also that other misery of packing and unpacking trunks—­of running the distressing gauntlet of custom-houses—­of the anxieties attendant upon getting a mass of baggage from point to point on land in safety.  I had rasher sail with a whole brigade of patriarchs than suffer so.  We never packed our trunks but twice—­when we sailed from New York, and when we returned to it.  Whenever we made a land journey, we estimated how many days we should be gone and what amount of clothing we should need, figured it down to a mathematical nicety, packed a valise or two accordingly, and left the trunks on board.  We chose our comrades from among our old, tried friends, and started.  We were never dependent upon strangers for companionship.  We often had occasion to pity Americans whom we found traveling drearily among strangers with no friends to exchange pains and pleasures with.  Whenever we were coming back from a land journey, our eyes sought one thing in the distance first—­the ship —­and when we saw it riding at anchor with the flag apeak, we felt as a returning wanderer feels when he sees his home.  When we stepped on board, our cares vanished, our troubles were at an end—­for the ship was home to us.  We always had the same familiar old state-room to go to, and feel safe and at peace and comfortable again.

I have no fault to find with the manner in which our excursion was conducted.  Its programme was faithfully carried out—­a thing which surprised me, for great enterprises usually promise vastly more than they perform.  It would be well if such an excursion could be gotten up every year and the system regularly inaugurated.  Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.