Along this bazaar I witnessed a scene, the evening of my return from Jerusalem, which caused the place, with all its previous dulness, to leave a pleasing impression on my mind. Darkness had, on this occasion, gathered round us, while yet some distance from the city, and I had been riding on, engaged in sad musings about the country and its melancholy history; we crossed at length the open waste between the gardens and the city, and then passing beneath the dark archway of the gate, and over its pavement of loose and slippery stones, I found myself suddenly amid a group, which conjured up at once all that I had read in the Arabian Nights. Just inside this gate is a coffee house, in front of which the street spreads out into two or three times its usual width. The place was now all lighted up with lamps, hung upon pillars, or amid the trellis work supporting a large grape vine, or to the overhanging vines themselves; mats were strewed around, and thickly occupied with groups in the rich and striking costume of the east; some were sipping coffee or sherbet, and others engaged with their pipes; but all were gazing with kindling eyes and animated features on a man who stood in the midst, with outstretched arms and great volubility of tongue. He was an oriental story-teller, and, to judge from the deep and unusual interest stamped on the features of his audience, must have been one of quick sagacity and considerable eloquence. Further on I passed another company similarly employed.