Christians are so ignorant!' He blushed, and apologized to me,
and said, 'It is not their fault; all this want of sense is from the
priests who talk folly to them for money, and to keep them afraid before
themselves. Poor things, _they_ don't know the Word of God.--"Help
thyself, oh my servant, and I will help thee."' This is the second
contest I have had on this subject. Last year it was with a Copt, who
was all _Allah kereem_ and so on about his baby, with his child of four
dying of small-pox. 'Oh, man,' said Sheykh Yussuf, 'if the wall against
which I am now sitting were to shake above my head, should I fold my feet
under me and say _Allah kereem_, or should I use the legs God has given
me to escape from it?'

I had a visit the other day from a lady who, as I was informed, had been
a harlot in Siout. She has repented, and married a converted Copt. They
are a droll pair of penitents, so very smart in their dress and manner.
But no one _se scandalise_ at their antecedents--neither is it proper to
repent in sackcloth and ashes, or to confess sins, except to God alone.
You are not to _indulge_ in telling them to others; it is an offence.
Repent inwardly, and be ashamed to show it before the people--ask pardon
of God only. A little of this would do no harm in Europe, methinks.

Here is a pretty story for you from the _Hadeth en-Nebbee_ (sayings of
the Prophet). 'Two prophets were sitting together, and discoursing of
prayer and the difficulty of fixing the attention entirely on the act.
One said to the other, "Not even for the duration of two _rekahs_
(prayers ending with the prostration and _Allah akbar_) can a man fix his
mind on God alone." The other said, "Nay, but I can do it!" "Say then
two _rekahs_," replied the elder of the two; "I will give thee my cloak."
Now he wore two cloaks--a new handsome red one and an old shabby blue
one. The younger prophet rose, raised his hands to his head, said _Allah
akbar_, and bent to the ground for his first _rekah_; as he rose again he
thought "Will he give me the red cloak or the blue, I wonder?"' It is
very stupid of me not to write down all the pretty stories I hear, but
this one is a capital specimen of Arab wit. Some day I must bring over
Omar with me, Inshallah, to England, and he will tell you stories like
Scheherazade herself. A jolly Nubian Alim told me the other night how in
his village no man ever eats meat, except on Bairam day: but one night a
woman had