One incident of the imperial audience Mark Twain omitted from his book, perhaps because the humor of it had not yet become sufficiently evident.  “The humorous perception of a thing is a pretty slow growth sometimes,” he once remarked.  It was about seventeen years before he could laugh enjoyably at a slight mistake he made at the Emperor’s reception.  He set down a memorandum of it, then, for fear it might be lost: 

There were a number of great dignitaries of the Empire there, and although, as a general thing, they were dressed in citizen’s clothing, I observed that the most of them wore a very small piece of ribbon in the lapels of their coats.  That little touch of color struck my fancy, and it seemed to me a good idea to add it to my own attractions; not imagining that it had any special significance.  So I stepped aside, hunted up a bit of red ribbon, and ornamented my lapel with it.  Presently, Count Festetics, the Grand Master of ceremonies, and the only man there who was gorgeously arrayed, in full official costume, began to show me a great many attentions.  He was particularly polite, and pleasant, and anxious to be of service to me.  Presently, he asked me what order of nobility I belonged to?  I said, “I didn’t belong to any.”  Then he asked me what order of knighthood I belonged to?  I said, “None.”  Then he asked me what the red ribbon in my buttonhole stood for?  I saw, at once, what an ass I had been making of myself, and was accordingly confused and embarrassed.  I said the first thing that came into my mind, and that was that the ribbon was merely the symbol of a club of journalists to which I belonged, and I was not pursued with any more of Count Festetic’s attentions.

Later, I got on very familiar terms with an old gentleman, whom I took to be the head gardener, and walked him all about the gardens, slipping my arm into his without invitation, yet without demur on his part, and by and by was confused again when I found that he was not a gardener at all, but the Lord High Admiral of Russia!  I almost made up my mind that I would never call on an Emperor again.

Like all Mediterranean excursionists, those first pilgrims were insatiable collectors of curios, costumes, and all manner of outlandish things.  Dan Slote had the stateroom hung and piled with such gleanings.  At Constantinople his room-mate writes: 

I thought Dan had got the state-room pretty full of rubbish at last, but awhile ago his dragoman arrived with a brand-new ghastly tombstone of the Oriental pattern, with his name handsomely carved and gilted on it in Turkish characters.  That fellow will buy a Circassian slave next.

It was Church, Denny, Jack, Davis, Dan, Moult, and Mark Twain who made the “long trip” through Syria from Beirut to Jerusalem with their elaborate camping outfit and decrepit nags “Jericho,” “Baalbec,” and the rest.  It was better camping than that Humboldt journey of six years before,