Miss Berry is dull no doubt, but few books seem dull to me now, I can tell you, and I was much delighted with such a piece de resistance.  Miss Eden I don’t wish for—­that sort of theatre burlesque view of the customs of a strange country is inexpressibly tedious to one who is familiar with one akin to it.  There is plenty of real fun to be had here, but that sort is only funny to cockneys.  I want to read Baker’s book very much.  I am much pleased with Abd el-Kader’s book which Dozon sent me, and want the original dreadfully for Sheykh Yussuf, to show him that he and I are supported by such an authority as the great Ameer in our notions about the real unity of the Faith.  The book is a curious mixture of good sense and credulity—­quite ‘Arab of the Arabs.’  I will write a paper on the popular beliefs of Egypt; it will be curious, I think.  By the way, I see in the papers and reviews speculations as to some imaginary Mohammedan conspiracy, because of the very great number of pilgrims last year from all parts to Mecca. C’est chercher midi a quatorze heures.  Last year the day of Abraham’s sacrifice,—­and therefore the day of the pilgrimage—­(the sermon on Mount Arafat) fell on a Friday, and when that happens there is always a rush, owing to the popular notion that the Hajj el-Gumma (pilgrimage of the Friday) is seven times blessed, or even equivalent to making it seven times in ordinary years.  As any beggar in the street could tell a man this, it may give you some notion of how absurdly people make theories out of nothing for want of a little commonsense.

The Moolid en-Nebbee (Festival of the Prophet) has just begun.  I am to have a place in the great Derweesh’s tent to see the Doseh.

The Nile is rising fast; we shall kill the poor little Luxor black lamb on the day of the opening of the canal, and have a fantasia at night; only I grieve for my little white pussy, who sleeps every night on Ablook’s (the lamb’s) woolly neck, and loves him dearly.  Pussy (’Bish’ is Arabic for puss) was the gift of a Coptic boy at Luxor, and is wondrous funny, and as much more active and lissom than a European cat as an Arab is than an Englishman.  She and Achmet and Ablook have fine games of romps.  Omar has set his heart on an English signet ring with an oval stone to engrave his name on, here you know they sign papers with a signet, not with a pen.  It must be solid to stand hard work.

Well, I must finish this endless letter.  Here comes such a bouquet from the Pasha’s garden (somebody’s sister’s son is servant to the chief eunuch and brings it to me), a great round of scarlet, surrounded with white and green and with tall reeds, on which are threaded single tube-rose flowers, rising out of it so as to figure a huge flower with white pistils.  Arab gardeners beat French flower-girls in bouquets.

July 17, 1866:  Alick