No two men were dressed alike.
It was a wild masquerade of all imaginable costumes--every struggling throng in every street was a dissolving view of stunning contrasts.

Some patriarchs wore awful turbans, but the grand mass of the infidel horde wore the fiery red skull-cap they call a fez.

All the remainder of the raiment they indulged in was utterly indescribable.
The shops here are mere coops, mere boxes, bath-rooms, closets--any thing you please to call them--on the first floor.

The Turks sit cross-legged in them, and work and trade and smoke long pipes, and smell like--like Turks.

That covers the ground.