As I have said before, many of the streets are vaulted over, and we often pass for a half-mile through what might be called a subterranean cavern lighted by openings from the top and pierced at the sides with cavelike stores. The smallest business shops in the world are in Jerusalem. A great many of the stores are no bigger than a dry-goods box. They have no windows. I stopped this afternoon before a shoe repair shop, and, out of curiosity, took its measurements. It was a hole in the wall with its bottom edge four feet above the cobblestone street. A rude stone two feet high was the step by which the shoemaker crawled in. It was just three feet wide, five feet high, and eight feet deep. It was as dark as a pocket, and the shoemaker squatting in the entrance with a board on his lap filled it completely. He was working at a pair of rough Bedouin shoes the owner of which sat cross-legged and in his bare feet in the street outside. As the cobbler waxed his thread he was careful to move his hands toward the street and back into the shop. The place was so small that had he pulled his thread in the ordinary way he would have barked his elbows against the walls. Next to this shoe shop there was a Jerusalem restaurant. It was an oval hole cut into the hill twelve feet high, eight feet wide, and forty feet deep. At the front was the cooking stove of Jerusalem, a rude slab of limestone with holes cut in the top as big around as a workman’s dinner bucket, and with other holes piercing these from the sides. A few inches from the top of each hole was a rude iron grating upon which the charcoal was laid. The draft which came in from below kept the fire going. The slab was mounted on cord-wood posts and had five fireplaces. At the back a rough table without a cloth was set for the guests. The only chairs were little stools a foot high and about a foot square the seats of which were of woven cords. Each kind of business, or trade, has its own bazaar. There is a shoemaker’s bazaar where scores of cobblers are working. At the entrance to each cavelike shop two shoemakers sit sewing away with untanned calfskin aprons tight about them. Between them on a block of wood, an olive tree stump it may be, rests a slab of white marble. This is the shoemakers’ bench, upon which they pound the wet leather to make it soft with what looks like a brass paper weight. It is as big around as a tumbler and of about the same height, tapering from the top to the bottom. The shoes are all made with needle and thread. The soles are of camel hide and the uppers of kidskin or goatskin. These are the common shoes of the peasant. As I watched the cobblers I asked about their wages and was told they received from forty to sixty cents for labouring from sunrise to sunset. In another street tinsmiths are at work making pots and pans out of oil cans. Their shops are not much bigger than cupboards, and the workmen are long-bearded men in fez caps and gowns.