where by a web of ropes that depend from the dizzy height of the dome, and suspend countless dingy, coarse oil lamps, and ostrich-eggs, six or seven feet above the floor.  Squatting and sitting in groups, here and there and far and near, were ragged Turks reading books, hearing sermons, or receiving lessons like children. and in fifty places were more of the same sort bowing and straightening up, bowing again and getting down to kiss the earth, muttering prayers the while, and keeping up their gymnastics till they ought to have been tired, if they were not.

Every where was dirt, and dust, and dinginess, and gloom; every where were signs of a hoary antiquity, but with nothing touching or beautiful about it; every where were those groups of fantastic pagans; overhead the gaudy mosaics and the web of lamp-ropes—­nowhere was there any thing to win one’s love or challenge his admiration.

The people who go into ecstasies over St. Sophia must surely get them out of the guide-book (where every church is spoken of as being “considered by good judges to be the most marvelous structure, in many respects, that the world has ever seen.”) Or else they are those old connoisseurs from the wilds of New Jersey who laboriously learn the difference between a fresco and a fire-plug and from that day forward feel privileged to void their critical bathos on painting, sculpture and architecture forever more.

We visited the Dancing Dervishes.  There were twenty-one of them.  They wore a long, light-colored loose robe that hung to their heels.  Each in his turn went up to the priest (they were all within a large circular railing) and bowed profoundly and then went spinning away deliriously and took his appointed place in the circle, and continued to spin.  When all had spun themselves to their places, they were about five or six feet apart—­and so situated, the entire circle of spinning pagans spun itself three separate times around the room.  It took twenty-five minutes to do it.  They spun on the left foot, and kept themselves going by passing the right rapidly before it and digging it against the waxed floor.  Some of them made incredible “time.”  Most of them spun around forty times in a minute, and one artist averaged about sixty-one times a minute, and kept it up during the whole twenty-five.  His robe filled with air and stood out all around him like a balloon.

They made no noise of any kind, and most of them tilted their heads back and closed their eyes, entranced with a sort of devotional ecstacy.  There was a rude kind of music, part of the time, but the musicians were not visible.  None but spinners were allowed within the circle.  A man had to either spin or stay outside.  It was about as barbarous an exhibition as we have witnessed yet.  Then sick persons came and lay down, and beside them women laid their sick children (one a babe at the breast,) and the patriarch of the Dervishes walked upon their bodies.  He was supposed to cure their diseases by trampling upon their breasts or backs or standing on the back of their necks.  This is well enough for a people who think all their affairs are made or marred by viewless spirits of the air—­by giants, gnomes, and genii—­and who still believe, to this day, all the wild tales in the Arabian Nights.  Even so an intelligent missionary tells me.