Across the old stone bridge, on the road that leads up to the citadel, are many curious booths. A questionable character of doubtful race sits Turkish fashion in one the size of a draper’s box, before him a pot of writing fluid, several wooden pens, some slips of common paper, and a pepper-box of sand, also a constant cup of coffee, a tobacco-box, and a flint. Natives pass up this hill to the market place behind the old fort, and on market days the man of letters is very busy. Christians do not patronise his talents, for in every Christian community, thanks to the propagandas, there are several peasants who can read and write; but Mohamedans, faithful to the wishes of the Padisha, abstain from the corruption of education, and thereby make the letter-writer necessary. A veiled lady presents a letter at the booth. ‘From whom?’ asks the sage of cipher. ‘Our husband,’ the veiled lady replies. ‘“Most beloved of my wives,”’ the flattering fellow begins to read, ‘“I am well. I wish you are well. The weather is well. The buffaloes are well....”’ Here the wise man studies the document closely, and asks: ‘What is your husband’s name?’ ‘Almoon, effendi.’ ‘Ah, yes; Almoon.’ [Illustration: THE HORSE MARKET.] [Illustration: SWEARING TO A BARGAIN.] The woman pays two metaleeks. A few weeks later the same woman appears with another letter. ‘From whom is it?’ again the question. ‘Our husband,’ again the reply. ‘“Most beloved wife,”’ by way of variation, ‘“the weather is well. I am well. I wish you well.” What did you say your husband’s name is?’ ‘Almoon.’ ‘Ah, yes; Almoon. Your husband’s writer does not form his letters well.’ The woman pays two more metaleeks. Some time later she returns again. The intelligent man of letters recognises her this time, and employs his trained memory. ‘“Most beloved of my wives,”’ he begins, ‘“I hope you are well. I am----”’ ‘Effendi,’ the woman interrupts, ‘this letter, I think, is from my sister.’ ‘Ah, you should have told me!’ Another hole in the wall, the keeper clinking coin--no doubt as to his race, he deals in money. He charges a piastre (twopence) for changing a lira, but silver coins are bought by him at current value. In Turkey a gold piece seems to have no fixed value; but actually it is the price of silver that varies. In Constantinople a pound Turkish is worth 103 piastres, in Salonica only 101, but in Uskub it brings 105, and in Monastir 107 or 108. Obviously the thing to do is to buy silver coin in Monastir and sell it in Salonica. Imagine getting twenty-three shillings in change for a pound in Liverpool, twenty-two in Manchester, and twenty in London!