On either side outside the door, squatting on the ground, or leaning indolently against the walls, were some half dozen men of very singular appearance.  Their principal garment was a kind of blue gown, something resembling the blouse worn by the peasants of the north of France, but not so long; it was compressed around their waists by a leathern girdle, and depended about half way down their thighs.  Their legs were bare, so that I had an opportunity of observing the calves, which appeared unnaturally large.  Upon the head they wore small skull-caps of black wool.  I asked the most athletic of these men, a dark-visaged fellow of forty, who they were.  He answered, “hamalos.”  This word I knew to be Arabic, in which tongue it signifies a porter; and, indeed, the next moment, I saw a similar fellow staggering across the square under an immense burden, almost sufficient to have broken the back of a camel.  On again addressing my swarthy friend, and enquiring whence he came, he replied, that he was born at Mogadore, in Barbary, but had passed the greatest part of his life at Gibraltar.  He added, that he was the “capitaz,” or head man of the “hamalos” near the door.  I now addressed him in the Arabic of the East, though with scarcely the hope of being understood, more especially as he had been so long from his own country.  He however answered very pertinently, his lips quivering with eagerness, and his eyes sparkling with joy, though it was easy to perceive that the Arabic, or rather the Moorish, was not the language in which he was accustomed either to think or speak.  His companions all gathered round and listened with avidity, occasionally exclaiming, when anything was said which they approved of:  “Wakhud rajil shereef hada, min beled bel scharki.” (A holy man this from the kingdoms of the East.) At last I produced the shekel, which I invariably carry about me as a pocket-piece, and asked the capitaz whether he had ever seen that money before.  He surveyed the censer and olive-branch for a considerable time, and evidently knew not what to make of it.  At length he fell to inspecting the characters round about it on both sides, and giving a cry, exclaimed to the other hamalos:  “Brothers, brothers, these are the letters of Solomon.  This silver is blessed.  We must kiss this money.”  He then put it upon his head, pressed it to his eyes, and finally kissed it with enthusiasm as did successively all his brethren.  Then regaining it, he returned it to me, with a low reverence.  Griffiths subsequently informed me, that the fellow refused to work during all the rest of the day, and did nothing but smile, laugh, and talk to himself.