My Reis wept at the death of the black sheep, which used to follow him to the coffee-shop and the market, and ‘was to him as a son,’ he said, but he ate of him nevertheless.  Omar surreptitiously picked out the best pieces for my dinner for three days, with his usual eye to economy; then lighted a fire of old wood, borrowed a cauldron of some darweeshes, cut up the sheep, added water and salt, onions and herbs, and boiled the sheep.  Then the big washing copper (a large round flat tray, like a sponging bath) was filled with bread broken in pieces, over which the broth was slowly poured till the bread was soaked.  Next came a layer of boiled rice, on the top of that the pieces of boiled meat, and over all was poured butter, vinegar and garlic boiled together.  This is called a Fettah, and is the orthodox dish of darweeshes and given at all Khatmehs and other semi-religious, semi-festive, semi-charitable festivities.  It is excellent and not expensive.  I asked how many had eaten and was told one hundred and thirty men had ‘blessed my hand.’  I expended 160 piastres on bread, butter and vinegar, etc. and the sheep was worth two napoleons; three napoleons in all, or less—­for I ate for two days of the mutton.

The three Ma-allims came on board this boat, as I said and ate; and it was fine to hear us—­how polite we were.  ‘A bit more, oh Ma-allim?’ ‘Praise be to God, we have eaten well—­we will return to our work’; ’By the Prophet, coffee and a pipe.’  ’Truly thou art of the most noble people.’  ‘Oh Ma-allim, ye have honoured us and rejoiced us,’ ’Verily this is a day white among days,’ etc.  A very clever Egyptian engineer, a pupil of Whitworth’s, who is living in a boat alongside mine, was much amused, and said, ’Ah you know how to manage ’em.’

I have learnt the story of the two dead bodies that hitched in my anchor-chain some time ago.  They were not Europeans as I thought, but Circassians—­a young man and his mother.  The mother used to take him to visit an officer’s wife who had been brought up in the hareem of the Pasha’s mother.  The husband caught them, killed them, tied them together and flung them into the Nile near Rhoda, and gave himself into the hands of the police.  All was of course hushed up.  He goes to Fazoghlou; and I don’t know what becomes of the slave-girl, his wife.  These sort of things happen every day (as the bodies testify) among the Turks, but the Europeans never hear it.  I heard it by a curious chance.

September 4.—­My boat will soon be finished, and now will be as good as new.  Omar has worked like a good one from daybreak till night, overlooking, buying all the materials, selling all the old wood and iron, etc., and has done capitally.  I shall take a paper from my Ma-allims who are all first class men, to certify what they have done and that the boat is as good as new.  Goodah Effendi has kindly looked at her several times for