THE PORT OF THE WILDERNESS
swore by the beard of a certain upright English merchant of Beirut.
No picture can ever adequately represent the bazaar, not even a moving picture; for besides the unending kaleidoscopic changes of coloring, as brightly dressed peddlers and purchasers move hither and thither, there is a ceaseless, deafening, indescribable and untranslatable tumult of sound. Yet to one who understands Arabic, this is more than noise: it is music, poetry and romance. The hawker of each commodity uses a peculiarly worded appeal which, in eloquent circumlocution, extols the virtues of his wares. These calls are usually rhyming; often they include one of the ninety-nine sacred titles of Allah, and frequently they are sung to a set tune. Back and forth through the perilously crowded streets they go—boys with great trays of sweetmeats on their heads, men with tubs of pickled vegetables, peasants bearing heavy loads of fresh figs, water-carriers stooping low under their goatskin bottles, peddlers of cakes and nuts and sherbets and the nosegay's which the Syrian gentleman loves to hold—literally under his nose—as he strolls through the city. All are shouting their wares. "Oh, thirsty one!" "Oh, father of a family!" "Oh, Thou who givest food!" "Allay the heat!" "Rest for the throat!" When Abraham passed through Damascus he doubtless heard these same cries.
If we are driving, as is possible in the wider ba-
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