I gave Sheykh Yussuf 4 pounds for three months’ daily lessons last night, and had quite a contest to force it upon him.  ’It is not for money, oh Lady;’ and he coloured crimson.  He had been about with Ali Effendi, but could not get the people to see him.  The Copts, I find, have a religious prejudice against him, and, indeed, against all heretics.  They consider themselves and the Abyssinians as the only true believers.  If they acknowledge us as brethren, it is for money.  I speak only of the low class, and of the priests; of course the educated merchants are very different.  I had two priests and two deacons, and the mother of one, here to-day for physic for the woman.  She was very pretty and pleasing; miserably reduced and weak from the long fast.  I told her she must eat meat and drink a little wine, and take cold baths, and gave her quinine.  She will take the wine and the quinine, but neither eat nor wash.  The Bishop tells them they will die if they break the fast, and half the Christians are ill from it.  One of the priests spoke a little English; he fabricates false antiques very cleverly, and is tolerably sharp; but, Oh mon Dieu, it is enough to make one turn Muslim to compare these greasy rogues with such high-minded charitable shurafa (noblemen) as Abd-el-Waris and Sheykh Yussuf.  A sweet little Copt boy who is very ill will be killed by the stupid bigotry about the fast.  My friend Suleyman is much put out, and backs my exhortations to the sick to break it.  He is a capital fellow, and very intelligent, and he and Omar are like brothers; it is the priests who do all they can to keep alive religious prejudice. Alhamdulillah, they are only partially successful.  Mohammed has just heard that seventy-five head of cattle are dead at El-Moutaneh.  Here only a few have died as yet, and Ali Effendi thinks the disease less virulent than in Lower Egypt.  I hope he is right; but dead beasts float down the river all day long.

To turn to something more amusing—­but please don’t tell it—­such a joke against my gray hairs.  I have had a proposal, or at least an attempt at one.  A very handsome Sheykh-el-Arab (Bedawee) was here for a bit, and asked Omar whether I were a widow or divorced, as in either case he would send a dellaleh (marriage brokeress) to me.  Omar told him that would never do.  I had a husband in England; besides, I was not young, had a married daughter, my hair was gray, etc.  The Sheykh swore he didn’t care; I could dye my hair and get a divorce; that I was not like stupid modern women, but like an ancient Arab Emeereh, and worthy of Antar or Abou Zeyd—­a woman for whom men killed each other or themselves—­and he would pay all he could afford as my dowry.  Omar came in in fits of laughter at the idea, and the difficulty he had had in stopping the dellaleh’s visit.  He told the Sheykh I should certainly beat her I should be so offended.  The disregard of differences of age here on marriage is very strange.  My adorer was not more than thirty, I am sure.  Don’t tell people, my dear Alick; it is so very absurd; I should be ‘ashamed before the people.’