Not only in Constantinople but in all parts of the Turkish Empire, and all over the Mohammedan world, goods are bought and sold in these half-dark tunnels which are called bazaars. It is the same in the Mohammedan towns of North Africa, in Arabia, Asia Minor, Persia, Caucasia, Afghanistan, India, and Turkestan. Wherever minarets rise above the dwellings of men and the muezzin sings out his everlasting "There is no god but God," the exchange of wares and coin is carried on in dark bazaars. The great bazaar in Stambul is one of the richest, but even where the bazaars are small and insignificant the same order prevails, the same mode of life. Among Turkish men and women of high rank stroll poor ragamuffins and dervishes or begging monks. A caravan of camels moves slowly through the crowd, bringing fresh supplies to the tradesmen from a steamboat quay or from the railway station. The camels have scarcely disappeared in the darkness before a train of mules with heavy bales follows in their track. A loud-voiced man offers for sale grapes and melons he carries in a basket, while another bears a water-bottle of leather. And all the races which swarm here! The great majority are, of course, Turks, but we also see whole rows of shops where only Persians trade. We see Hindus from India, Egyptians from Cairo, Arabs from the coasts of the Red Sea, Circassians and Tatars from the Caucasus and the Crimea, Sarts from Samarkand and Bokhara, Armenians, Jews, and Greeks, and not infrequently we meet a negro from Zanzibar or a Chinaman from the farthest East. It is a confusion of shopmen and customers, brokers and thieves from all the East. A noise and bustle, a deafening roar which never ceases all day long, a hurrying, a striving and eagerness to clear the stock and gain money. If the prices were fixed, business would soon be done. But if you have taken a fancy to a Kurdish mat and ask the price, the tradesman demands a quite absurd sum. You shrug your shoulders and go your way. He calls out another, lower price. You go on quietly, and the man comes running after you and has dropped his price to the lowest. In every shop bargains are made vociferously in the same way. There is a continual buzz of voices, now and then interrupted by the bells of caravans. The illumination is dim. The noonday sun penetrates only through openings in the vault and forms patches of light. Dust floats about in the shafts of light, mixed with smoke from water-pipes. The greater the distance the dimmer this confined air appears. There is also an indescribable odour. The smell of men and animals, of dusty goods, of rank tobacco, of rotting refuse, strong spices, fresh, juicy fruit--all mixed together into a peculiar odour which is characteristic of all Oriental bazaars.