countries. Doubtless the clothes of the dead furnish materials for
innumerable holy relics as vestiges of the wardrobe of the Prophet.
These are disseminated by the pilgrims throughout all countries,
pregnant with disease; and, being brought into personal contact with
hosts of true believers, Pandora's box could not be more fatal.

Not only are relics upon a pocket scale conveyed by pilgrims and
reverenced by the Arabs, but the body of any Faky who in lifetime was
considered unusually holy is brought from a great distance to be
interred in some particular spot. In countries where a tree is a rarity,
a plank for a coffin is unknown; thus the reverend Faky, who may have
died of typhus, is wrapped in cloths and packed in a mat. In this form
he is transported, perhaps some hundred miles, slung upon a camel, with
the thermometer above 130 degrees Fah. in the sun, and he is conveyed to
the village that is so fortunate as to be honored with his remains. It
may be readily imagined that with a favorable wind the inhabitants are
warned of his approach some time before his arrival.

Happily, long before we arrived at Sofi, the village had been blessed by
the death of a celebrated Faky, a holy man who would have been described
as a second Isaiah were the annals of the country duly chronicled. This
great "man of God," as he was termed, had departed this life at a
village on the borders of the Nile, about eight days' hard camel-journey
from Sofi; but from some assumed right, mingled no doubt with jobbery,
the inhabitants of Sofi had laid claim to his body, and he had arrived
upon a camel horizontally, and had been buried about fifty yards from
the site of our camp. His grave was beneath a clump of mimosas that
shaded the spot, and formed the most prominent object in the foreground
of our landscape. Thither every Friday the women of the village
congregated, with offerings of a few handfuls of dhurra in small