transmit its traditions and secrets from generation to generation. They have also the right to punish or reward members of the community. Their Chief is known as the Aktchi-Dédé or Father Cook. I daresay my readers will wonder what on earth a cook has to do with it, but, with a nomadic people like the Turks, the cook in olden times occupied an exceptional position, and the chief of the Janissaries rejoiced in the title of Supreme Cook, and the banner of that allpowerful order was the soup kettle. The novices of the various orders of Dervishes are called Mouribs. They begin their duties at a very early age, and are not admitted as full members of the community until they have served at least six years. The various Dervishes have certain secret passwords and signs by which they can know each other in all parts of the Empire, and they wear a peculiar costume, consisting of an ample cloak of some soft dark woollen stuff, and a high conical hat or cap of the same material. A great number, however, of them belonging to the upper classes only assume the costume indoors. I was never more surprised than when, on visiting a Pasha whose acquaintance I had formed when he was wearing a very smart modern military uniform, I found him dressed in the Dervish habit.

The Dervishes are exceedingly charitable, and are bound to assist one another in all cases of emergency. Many of them, however, are so poor that they live entirely on alms, but these are never refused. The worst allegation which can be brought against them is that, with the sole exception of the Bektachi Dervishes, they encourage all sorts of superstitious beliefs and practices with the object of increasing their own influence. The Mevlévis, for instance, invariably have attached to their Tekiés an augur, an astrologer, and a mesmerist. Some of the lower orders of Dervishes ally themselves with the hodjas, or witches and necromancers, fortune-tellers, palmists, and other such fry who swarm all over the Empire. Nothing prettier can be imagined than the service of the Turning Dervishes. Their orchestra consists of a band of about eight musicians, each playing upon a peculiar and very ancient-looking instrument, such as a tabor, a tambourine, a dulcimer, a small mandoline, a one-stringed violin, and a little Egyptian harp. Although it is absolutely against the rule of the Khoran for musical instruments to be employed in divine service, the Dervishes have always managed to use them.

The extraordinary ceremony which gives its name to the Dancing, or, as they should be more appropriately called, the Turning Dervishes, is not without its meaning. The community first pray for their past sins, and the amendment of their future lives; and then, after a silent supplication for strength to work the change, they figure, by their peculiar movements, their anxiety to "shake the dust from their feet," and to cast from them all worldly ties.

As I could not reconcile myself to believe that the custom could

have grown out of mere whim, I took some pains to ascertain its meaning, and so visited their chapel several times to ascertain whether the ceremonies altered on different days, but I remarked no change.

Immediately after passing with a solemn reverence, twice performed before the High Priest, who remains standing, the Dervishes spread their arms, and commence their revolving motion; the palm of the right hand being held upwards, and that of the left turned down. Their under-dress displayed, when they doff their cloaks, consists of a jacket and petticoat of dark-coloured cloth, descending to the feet; the higher order of brethren are in white or green, and the others in brown, or a sort of yellowish grey; about their waists they wear wide girdles, edged with red. Their petticoats are of immense width, and laid in large accordion plaits beneath the girdle, giving a mushroomlike appearance as the wearers swing round.

The number of those who were "on duty," for I know not how else to express it, the last time I watched them, was nine, seven of them being men, and the remaining two mere boys. Nine, eleven, and thirteen are the mystic numbers which, however great the strength of the community, are never exceeded, and the remaining members of the brotherhood, during the evolutions of their companions, continue engaged in prayer within the enclosure. The beat of the drum in the gallery marked the time to which the revolving Dervishes moved, and the effect was singular to a degree that baffles description. So true and unerring were their motions, that, although the space which they occupied was somewhat circumscribed, they never once gained upon each other, and for five minutes they continued twirling round and round, as though impelled by machinery, their pale, passionless countenances perfectly unmoved, their heads slightly declined towards the right shoulder, and their inflated garments creating a cold, sharp draught in the chapel from the rapidity of their action. At the termination of that period, the name of the Prophet occurs in the chant, which had been unintermitting in the gallery, and, as they simultaneously pause, and, folding their hands upon their breasts, bend down in reverence at the sound, their ample garments wound al out them at the sudden check, and gave them for the moment the appearance of mummies.

An interval of prayer followed, and the same ceremony was performed three times, at the termination of which they all tumbled prostrate. Then those who had hitherto remained spectators flung their cloaks over them, and he who knelt on the left of the chief priest rose, and with a rapid and solemn voice, delivered a long prayer divided into sections, prolonging the last word of each sentence by the utterance of "Ha-ha-ha," with a rich depth of octave that would not have disgraced Edouard de Reské.

This prayer is for "the great ones of the earth "-the magnates of

the land—all who are "in authority over them"; and at each name all bowed their heads upon their breasts, until that of the Sultan was mentioned, when they once more fell flat upon the ground, to the sound of the most awful howl I ever listened to.

If the ceremonies of the Turning Dervishes are graceful and inoffensive, those of the Howling Dervishes, though exceedingly interesting, are equally repulsive. The first person to begin the office is the Cheikh, who wears a vivid crimson robe and squats down in front of the mihrib, on either side of which burn two small braziers, occasionally fed with incense. Then the musicians assemble and sit in a circle; at the other end of the room, against the wall, a number of members of the congregation and Dervishes arrange themselves in a row. Then the ceremonies commence. The musicians bang away on the cymbal and tambourines, and begin to cry out as loud as they can "Allah Ekber, Allah Ekber!" The devotees who loll up against the wall also begin to roar in cadence and rhythm, keeping the measure with their feet, and swaying their bodies to and fro. Louder and louder they cry until their excitement rises to literal frenzy. Their eyes seem to start out of their heads, their mouths foam, and in about an hour after the exerrises are begun, several of them tumble on to the floor rolling in epileptic fits. When the excitement is at its height, several mad men and women are brought in and laid gently before the Cheikh, who tramples on them very lightly with both his feet. On one occasion I saw a poor woman, who was evidently dangerously mad, catch hold of the Cheikh's legs and almost pull him down. She was removed immediately with great difficulty by no less than four men. Meanwhile the howling continued more deafening than ever. Little children were brought in and laid down to receive the pressure of the holy foot. A spruce young officer prostrated himself and was similarly treated. By this time the Dervishes at the upper end of the room had lost all control of themselves.

The cymbals twanged and crashed, the tambourines and drums were banged with tremendous force, and the whole frantic congregation was screaming as if possessed, "Allah Ekber, Allah Ekber!" As a grand finale to this scene of wild excitement, a little and very officious Dervish made his appearance carrying a brass dish containing a sharp knife, a live snake, and a small red-hot poker, which he presented to the Cheikh, who, holding the dish in his hands, advanced to the upper part of the chamber, and actually stabbed one young epileptic with the knife from cheek to cheek; another frantically seized upon the snake and began to bite it, but nobody seemed inclined to touch the red-hot poker, for that remained unused on the dish to the end. I am not sure that the man ate the serpent up, but I am perfectly certain that I saw the young man whose cheeks had been pierced, ten minutes after the ceremony looking perfectly well, and with the deep wound

in his cheeks already beginning to heal. A more diabolic or outlandish exhibition I never beheld in my life, but I am assured that it is trifling compared with what takes place in the less modernized cities of the interior.

On a lovely May day after a lunch at Roberts' College, which can boast one of the most beautiful views in the world, my attention was directed by Dr. Washburn, the learned Principal, to a neat-looking villa situated on the heights above the Bosphorus and the ruins of the castle of Mahomet II. This building is the Tekié of the Bektachi Dervishes, the most influential and enlightened of all the orders. Half-an-hour afterwards I stood in front of their abode. A pleasantlooking old Turkish gentleman was seated in front of the door smoking a chibouck. I saluted him, and he, in reply, offered me a cup of coffee and begged me to be seated. He turned out to be D. Pasha, one of the chiefs of the order and a good French scholar. From what he told me, and from what I afterwards found out for myself, the order of Bektachi was founded by Hadji-Bektachi-Veli, who had retired early in the 11th century to a cave on Mount Olympus, where he lived and died in the odour of sanctity. The commencement of this order was exceedingly humble, but it rapidly grew in importance until it became the most influential of all. For many centuries it was composed exclusively of military men, and was exceedingly orthodox. The Dervishes who are mentioned in history as accompanying the Turkish army, and who took such a prominent part in the siege of Constantinople, were undoubtedly Bektachi. But early in the 18th century a certain Fazil Bey visited Paris, and formed the acquaintance of Voltaire and the other philosophers of the period. After many years' absence, on his return to Turkey he reformed the order, and introduced into it certain advanced theories which are distinctly heretical. Whilst recognising the existence of the Supreme Being, the Bektachi say no prayers whatever, and the speeches made at their meetings are purely of a philosophic, literary, political, and scientific character. It is even said that they are affiliated to some of the French Masonic Lodges. One thing is certain; the order consists almost exclusively of gentlemen of education belonging to the liberal or Young Turkey party. Hence, as may be imagined, the Bektachi are not smiled upon by the Sultan, but he has never been able to suppress them. They have survived the Janissaries, of which order they at one time formed a part. At the present moment they are not numerous, but they are undoubtedly very influential, on account of the high character and education of their principal members. They have no Tekié in Constantinople proper, and the one at Rumelli Hissar is constantly watched by the police and by palace spies. In conclusion, and in connection with this order of Dervishes, I will relate a funny anecdote of Sultan Mahmûd II. Rival orders of Dervishes had endeavoured

their best to induce the Sultan to suppress the Bektachi, which, to tell the truth, he was not at all reluctant to do. His Majesty, however, determined to put the undesirable brethren to a test. He accordingly gave a great banquet, to which he invited all the Principal Dervishes in Constantinople. What was the surprise of his guests to find that each was supplied with a spoon having a handle a couple of yards long. How on earth were they to eat their Pilaf? They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, and wondered what it could mean? "Come, come," cries the Sultan from his throne at the upper end of the room, "why do you not eat your Pilaf?" The dismayed looks of the Dervishes plainly indicated the puzzled condition of their minds. Suddenly, to the intense amusement of the Commander of the Faithful and of the company, the Bektachi began to feed each other mutually across the table with their giant spoons. "Bravi," cried the Padischah, clapping his hands with delight, "you are indeed progressive and sensible men, O Bektachi, and I shall not suppress your order to please these idiots who are so dull of comprehension."

It is remarkable that historians, and even modern diplomats, have bestowed scarcely any attention on this very influential order of Dervishes, which has played, and still plays, so prominent a part in the Revolutionary Movement in Turkey.

RICHARD DAVEY.

VOL. LIX. N.S.