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We sail hence tomorrow, perhaps, and my next letters will be mailed at
Smyrna, in Syria. I hope to write from the Sea of Tiberius, Damascus,
Jerusalem, Joppa, and possibly other points in the Holy Land. The
letters from Egypt, the Nile and Algiers I will look out for, myself. I
will bring them in my pocket.
They take the finest photographs in the world here. I have ordered some.
They will be sent to Alexandria, Egypt.
You cannot conceive of anything so beautiful as Constantinople, viewed
from the Golden Horn or the Bosphorus. I think it must be the handsomest
city in the world. I will go on deck and look at it for you, directly.
I am staying in the ship, tonight. I generally stay on shore when we are
in port. But yesterday I just ran myself down. Dan Slote, my room-mate,
is on shore. He remained here while we went up the Black Sea, but
it seems he has not got enough of it yet. I thought Dan had got the
state-room pretty full of rubbish at last, but a while ago his dragoman
arrived with a bran new, ghastly tomb-stone of the Oriental pattern,
with his name handsomely carved and gilded on it, in Turkish characters.
That fellow will buy a Circassian slave, next.
I am tired. We are going on a trip, tomorrow. I must to bed. Love to
all.
Yrs
172
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