marble floor, surveyed and trodden by nineteenth-century tourists, that great fabric which had been feeble and tottering for a thousand years received its death-blow from the furious Turk. For centuries the Roman Empire of the East had existed but in name; still it had existed. The Palæologi, those feeble Greek emperors, could still walk the walls of Constantinople, could still read of the ancient glory of the empire, and indulge in dreams of a happier future; but that fearful day which saw the streets of Constantinople running with blood, which ended with a horrible massacre beneath St. Sophia's dome—that day put an end to such hopes forever!

The Emperor Palæologus lay buried under a heap of dead, and with him lay the withered corpse of the Roman Empire!

CHAPTER XX.

SCENES IN STAMBOUL.-A TRIP TO ASIA MINOR.-THE HOWLING DERVISHES. THEIR TERRIBLE RITES.-DINNER WITH A DAMASCUS SILK-MERCHANT.-CURIOUS CUSTOMS.-A MORMON MISSIONARY. THE TURKS HARD TO CONVERT.

WALKING through a narrow alley in Stamboul one day, I was overtaken by a Turk who addressed me in tolerable English. "You want guide?" he asked.

I told him no, but he continued walking by my side. "Maybe you not know me?"

"Certainly not. How should I?"

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'Why," he said, "you ought know me. Me in Mark Twain's book. You remember Mark Twain's book? Me Faraway-Moses."

Did I know him? I should think I did. What American does not know, and has not laughed over, Far-away-Moses? Here was I in the very presence of that celebrated man. I gazed a moment in silent admiration, then squeezed his hand, and treated to a Turkish pastry at the first booth we came to.

A day or two after this event, I was again walking in Stamboul, and again was I approached by an English-speaking guide. "No, I don't need a guide," I told him. "I can paddle my

own canoe."

"You don't You know Mark

"But me very good guide," insisted the man. know me, gentleman; I tell you who I am. Twain's book? Me Far-away-Moses !"

Had the great Far-away-Moses changed so in three days? It was impossible. The only solution to this remarkable incident was that there were two Far-away-Mosescs.

A day or two Before I left

later still another Far-away-Moses turned up. Constantinople I began to think the woods full of them. That

the guides should think the mere name Far-away-Moses a passport to your good graces is a great compliment to Mark Twain. There was a sequel to this little adventure in Antwerp several months afterwards. I was visiting the Turkish bazaar at the Exposition then being held in that city. I spoke to the man in charge of my recent return from the East. "Ah, you were in Stamboul?" he said. Far-away-Moses?"

"Perhaps you saw

I had seen several of them, but I did not tell him so. I merely said "Yes." His face lighted with a smile.

"Tell me," he said, "how did he look? Far-away-Moses is my father!"

It is very possible the sons were as numerous as the father, but I saw only this one.

The cistern of the thousand and one columns is a gloomy place. It was originally three stories deep. The two lower stories have been filled with dirt and débris, and at the present day only the third or upper floor is accessible. A number of silk-spinners carry on their work in this cistern forty feet under the earth. They smoke while they work. One hand is busied with the whirling spinning-wheel, the other hand manipulates the long tube of their pipe. Although there are not literally a thousand and one columns, there are several hundred; they present the appearance of a forest of marble shafts. It is supposed Philoxenos built this cistern. Several others are in the same vicinity. That of the "Forty Martyrs" was built by the tyrant Phocas. The exact purpose of these immense underground reservoirs has never been precisely ascertained. A plausible supposition is that they were destined to collect the storm-water to use in case of fire.

In Scutari, Asia Minor, a steep and rugged street leads to the cloister of the howling dervishes: an ordinary - looking house in a garden surrounded by a high wall. I had no guide, and could not have found the way but for persistent repetition of the word "Tekke," Turkish for cloister. I repeated that open-sesame word to every one I met, and at last reached the

right place. In the anteroom or hall leading to the main apartment was a coal-black negro, who upon my entering promptly ordered me out. At any rate, I presume that is what he said, for he followed his remark with a gentle but firm seizure of my arm, leading me to the door. From his pantomimic action I discovered that I had neglected to remove my shoes! Having rectified my error, I humbly sought admittance again, and this time with success. The turbaned black gave me a stool, and made me understand as well as he could by signs and gestures that the ceremonies had not yet begun. I amused myself in the interim by observing my surroundings. Lying on the floor were a dozen or two men, some of them dervishes, smoking pipes and sipping coffee, which the negro served in very small cups. In the garden were graves of devout dervishes, over which waved the boughs of fig and pomegranate trees, and the leaves of grape-vines. At intervals of ten or fifteen minutes the turbaned black who had put me out, and who seemed to be head - manager of the coffee department, went out into the garden and carried on a little pious performance all by himself. First he would bow and strike the ground with his head; then arising, he would give vent to doleful howls, as if afflicted with a horrible case of stomach-ache! After howling and butting the ground for several minutes, thus relieving himself of superfluous religious ecstasy, the turbaned fellow returns to his post and resumes the duty of ladling out coffee.

I have witnessed the war and medicine dances of the Indians in the North-west; I have visited a number of lunatic asylums; but neither among the Indians nor among the lunatics did I ever see so grotesque or fearful an orgy as that of the howling dervishes of Scutari.

The ages of the dervishes varied from teuder youth to extreme old age. They wore loose, white gowns. In the beginning all were squatting on lamb-skins in the centre of the floor. There they howled and rocked backward and forward a quarter of an hour; then of a sudden all leaped to their feet, and backing against the wall, began a more bideous howling than ever. They

bowled in unison; as they did so they swayed backward and forward, up and down, distorted their faces, jerked their heads about, and writhed as if in convulsions. As the moments flew, the distortions became more violent, the movements more rapid, the hoarse grunts and screams more and more furious. I observed that the antics of the coal-blacks were wilder and fiercer than those of lighter-complexioned dervishes. A tall black in the uniform of an officer of the army was so violent in his contortions that I momentarily expected to see him tumble over in a swoon. He sprang up and down, screamed, roared, twisted his neck; his eyeballs glared, the long tassel of his fez flew hither and thither—he was a horrible sight. This man had the strength of a Hercules. He was the last to give in; to the last his writhings and hoarse shouts retained their full vigor and perfection. He sunk suddenly, from nervous exhaustion. Some of those who took part in the ceremonies were Turkish officers and medical students. The women were penned in a closely latticed gallery. Through the bars I saw that they were swaying back and forth, marking time to the mad music going on below.

When, after an hour of this mad tumult, all the dervishes collapsed to the floor, the Scheich, or head - priest, enacted a still more revolting performance. A number of children ranging from six months to ten years of age were laid on the bare floor face downward; then the hoary sinner called "Scheich," a man weighing fully one hundred and sixty pounds, deliberately walked over those children. The little fellows screamed with pain. As cach child was trod upon it was picked up by an attendant and presented to the Scheich, who blew in its face and made magic passes in the air over its head. If the infant survives this treatment it is holy; if it dies (as it often does) it is not holy, and ought to die. Such is the barbaric belief and practice of the howling dervishes.

The dancing dervishes of Pera, though happily less barbaric than the howling dervishes, are as curious and interesting. Their “Tekke" is an octagonal building. The floor of the large central apartment is waxed very smooth. Along the eight