Lucie Duff Gordon
To Sir Alexander Duff Gordon, CAIRO, December 2, 1863.
Dearest Alick,
 It is beginning to be cold here, and I only await the results of my inquiries about
            possible houses at Thebes to hire a boat and
            depart. Yesterday I saw a camel go through the eye of a needle—i.e., the low arched
            door of an enclosure; he must kneel and bow his head to creep through—and thus the rich
            man must humble himself. See how a false translation spoils a good metaphor, and turns a
            familiar simile into a ferociously communist sentiment. I expect Henry and Janet here
               
 I stayed in bed 
* * * * *
 [The house at Thebes of which my mother
               speaks in the following letter was built about 
 ‘Squatters settled upon the temple like a swarm of mason bees; and the extent of the
               mischief they perpetrated in the course of centuries may be gathered from the fact
               that they raised the level of the surrounding soil to such a height that the
               obelisks, the colossi, and the entrance pylon were buried to a depth of 40 feet,
               while inside the building the level of the native village was 50 feet above the
               original pavement. Seven months ago the first court contained not only the local
               mosque, but a labyrinthine maze of mud structures, numbering some thirty dwellings,
               and eighty strawsheds, besides yards, stables, and pigeon-towers, the whole being
               intersected by innumerable lanes and passages. Two large mansions—real mansions,
               spacious and, in Arab fashion, luxurious,—blocked the great Colonnade of Horembebi;
               while the second court, and all the open spaces and ruined parts of the upper end of
               the Temple, were encumbered by sheepfolds, goat-yards, poultry-yards, donkey-sheds,
               clusters of mud huts, refuse-heaps, and piles of broken pottery. Upon the roof of the
               portico there stood a large, rambling, ruinous old house, the property of the French
               Government, and known as the “Maison de France” . . . Within its walls the
               illustrious Champollion and his ally Rosellini lived and worked together in