Palgrave is not well at all, and his little black boy he fears will die, and several people in the steamer are ill, but in Luxor there is no sickness to speak of, only chronic old women, so old and ugly and achy, that I don’t know what to do with them, except listen to their complaints, which begin, ‘Ya ragleh.’ Ragel is man, so ragleh is the old German Mannin, and is the civil way of addressing a Saeedee woman.  To one old body I gave a powder wrapped up in a fragment of a Saturday Review.  She came again and declared Mashallah! the hegab (charm) was a powerful one, for though she had not been able to wash off all the fine writing from the paper, even that little had done her a deal of good.  I regret that I am unable to inform you what the subject of the article in the Saturday which had so drastic an effect.

Good-bye, dearest Mutter, I must go and take a sleep before the time of receiving the visits of to-day (the great festival).  I was up before sunrise to see the prayer, so must have a siesta in a cool place.  To-morrow morning early this will go.  I hope you got a letter I sent ten days or so ago.

May 10, 1866:  Sir Alexander Duff Gordon

To Sir Alexander Duff Gordon.  LUXOR, May 10, 1866.

Dearest Alick,

The real summer heat—­the Skems el-Kebeer (big sun) has fairly set in, and of course I am all the better.  You would give my camel a good backsheesh if you saw how prodigiously fat I have grown on her milk; it beats codliver-oil hollow.  You can drink a gallon without feeling it, it is so easy of digestion.

I have lent the dahabieh to Mustapha and to one or two more, to go to Keneh on business, and when she returns (which will be to-day) I shall make ready to depart too, and drop down stream.  Omar wants me to go down to Damietta, to ‘amuse my mind and dilate my stomach’ a little; and I think of doing so.

Palgrave was here about a fortnight ago, on Mustapha’s and Mariette’s business.  ‘By God! this English way is wonderful,’ said a witness, ’that English Bey questioned me till my stomach came out.’  I loved Mustapha Bey, who was with him; such a nice, kind, gentle creature, and very intelligent and full of good sense.  I rejoice to hear that he returns my liking, and has declared himself ‘one of my darweeshes.’  Talking of darweeshes reminds me of the Festival of Sheykh Gibrieel this year.  I had forgotten the day, but in the evening some people came for me to go and eat some of the meat of the Sheykh, who is also a good patron of mine, they say; being a poor man’s saint, and of a humble spirit, it is said he favours me.  There was plenty of meat and melocheea and bread; and then zikrs of different kinds, and a Gama el Fokara (assembly of the poor). Gama is the true word for Mosque—­i.e.,