d bargain.
I find the Turk more of a sharp than the Jew.

The long day was over. The shutters were pulled along in front of the
shop and padlocked. A form was accorded me on which to sleep. Another
form was drawn out into the middle of the room and placed at a certain
angle, pointing to the East, I suppose. Then during half an hour the
Turks ascended this form in turn, stood, bowed, knelt, prostrated
themselves in silent prayer, reiteratedly. They prayed very
differently from Russian peasants. Their movements were abrupt and
mechanical, like steps in a military drill. They were nearer to
spiritual death and praying-boxes than any I had ever watched pray
before. I felt myself in the presence of a new form of piety. I had
crossed the great broad line that separates Europe from Asia, and come
to a place where Europe is not understood and therefore hated.

At six next morning the sleepers awoke and performed the same rites on
the improvised praying-stool; the shutters were rolled back; the
Turks who had homes returned; in came the Arabic newspaper; once
more Turkish delight, coffee, the clatter of dice and dominoes, the
gathering of animated groups, loud, unpleasant voices and mirthless
vivacity--so the life of the coffee-house went on; so I imagine it
goes on for ever.

* * * * *

As I think of this in retrospect it seems that the blind musician
stood in some peculiar and significant relation to the more ordinary
life about him. But for him, I should probably have omitted to
describe my night among the Turks. He made the coffee-house worth
living in, worth sketching, worth being re-seen in the reflection of
words. He was what I should call the glory of the coffee-house.

Thus the garden of Eden was beautiful, but Adam and Eve in the garden
were the glory of the garden, the highest significance of its beauty,
the voice by which relatively dumb beauty got a step farther in
expressing itself. The garden would never have been described but for
the episode of Adam and Eve. It would not have been worth while to
describe it.... The forest is beautiful, but the bird singing in the
forest is the glory of the forest. The morning is beautiful, but the
tramp walking in the morning is the glory of the morning; he also, in
his youth and morning of life, is a voice by which beauty endeavours
to reveal itself.

Each scene, each picture, has a highest significance if we could but
find it. Thus the bli