We pursued our course eastward to the temporary Syrian bazaar called Sughé-Shami. Goods from all parts of Syria--from the town of Smyrna to the remotest fastness of Lebanon--were to be found there. The Syrians drove a lively trade in silk stuffs from Damascus and Aleppo, as well as in European cotton prints and in steel ware. The steel ware was sold as “Inglisi,” though it was generally of German manufacture, imported into Asia Minor either direct from the Fatherland or from Constantinople. I saw “Inglisi” silk umbrellas, with what appeared to be silver handles, priced at half a mejidi, or about two shillings. German watches, guaranteed to be “Inglisi,” could be bought at a cost varying from four to ten shillings. On the other hand, Persian carpets were far more expensive there than they are in London, and so also were Turkish ones. Silk headgear called _chepi_ and silk kerchiefs called _kefi_ were in great request among the Bedouins, who purchased, besides, the dried fruits of Syria. There were many coffee-houses _à la turque_, where story-tellers recited in flowery language, either Arabic or Turkish, the tales of the Arabian Nights. Some pilgrims might sit listening from sunrise to sunset, but my guide and I, having drunk a cup of coffee, proceeded on our way, past the Prophet’s birthplace, to the Moamil or pottery bazaar. There, as I watched the potters at work, I couldn’t help quoting the immortal lines of Omar Khayyám, as translated by Fitzgerald: “For I remember stopping by the way To watch a potter thumping his wet clay; And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur’d--‘Gently, Brother, gently, pray.’” Thence, in the Sughé-Lail, the carpenters have their niches. My guide told me a story of a Meccan carpenter who went once to measure a doorway of one of the houses in the neighbourhood. Having forgotten his yard measure he calculated the width by opening his arms. Then, still keeping his arms in the same position, he hastened back to his shop. On the way he fell down a well; the people gathered round; and one among them threw him a rope, but the carpenter refused to catch hold of it, lest he might change the measurement of the doorway. “Ah, my friend,” said I, “there I waited for you. That story is taken from ‘Mullá Nasiru’-Din,’ a book satirising the mock piety and the folly of the priests. You must be more careful in choosing the tales you would foist on my credulity.” And so wrangling we reach the cattle market.