There is an intoxication in the very motions of the whirling dervishes, but the horrible ceremonies of the Rifayees are really distressing to the beholder. A long, empty hall, much like that of the Inquisition, as its walls are adorned by an infinite variety of instruments of torture, constitutes their temple of worship. The fanatical disciples of this sect assemble every Thursday at their Tekké, which is in Scutari, and after the performance of the usual ritual of the Mussulmans, commence their ceremonies by ranging themselves along the three sides of the apartment and within the balustrade, which serves to separate them from the spectators. Their sheikh takes his stand before the Mihrab facing the assembly, and three or four of the members furnishing themselves with instruments of music place themselves in the centre of the hall. The performance then begins, by a monotonous chant, accompanied with music, and the waving of their heads to and fro, which seems to create a sympathetic vertigo in the Mussulman bystanders--for they often are irresistibly drawn into the ranks. By degrees, the motion increases, the chant grows louder, and their countenances become livid, and their lungs seem to expand with the noise and excitement. The line becomes a solid phalanx as they place their arms on each other's shoulders, and withdrawing a step, suddenly advance with a tremendous and savage yell, Allah--Allah--Allah--hoo! which divine appellative is to be repeated a thousand times uninterruptedly. This strenuous effort renders them perfectly hideous, their very eyes seem ready to start from their sockets, and their lips foam as the inspiration possesses them. Thus retreating and springing forward, they, each time, with increasing energy, renew their invocations of Allah, Allah, Allah, hoo! until the distinctness of their articulation is lost, and their exclamation becomes, in reality a complete howl, as if proceeding from a pack of enraged dogs--thus meriting the sobriquet of the "Howling Dervishes." The movements and cries increase in swiftness until a mist of dust pervades the dim apartment, and the wild and pale enthusiasts, drenched with perspiration, seem like fantastic demons in the realms of discord. Suddenly some of them, stripped to their waists, rush forward and seizing the poignards and stilettoes, commence a wild, infuriated dance, jumping, leaping, and lacerating themselves--fixing the weapons into the hollow of their cheeks, and twisting them round and round, as if on pivots, until, exhausted from exertion, they fall to the ground in a spasmodic fit. "Only to show with how small pain, The sores of faith are cured again,"