At the end of the ceremony, they shout out, There is no other god, but God, and Mahomet his prophet; after which, they kiss the superior’s hand, and retire.  The whole is performed with the most solemn gravity.  Nothing can be more austere than the form of these people; they never raise their eyes, and seem devoted to contemplation.  And as ridiculous as this is in description, there is something touching in the air of submission and mortification they assume.—­This letter is of a horrible length; but you may burn it when you have read enough, &c. &c.

LET.  XLII.

TO THE COUNTESS OF ——.

I AM now preparing to leave Constantinople, and perhaps you will accuse me of hypocrisy, when I tell you ’tis with regret, but as I am used to the air, and have learnt the language, I am easy here; and as much as I love travelling, I tremble at the inconveniencies attending so great a journey, with a numerous family, and a little infant hanging at the breast.  However, I endeavour, upon this occasion, to do, as I have hitherto done in all the odd turns of my life; turn them, if I can, to my diversion.  In order to this, I ramble every day, wrapped up in my serigee and asmack, about Constantinople, and amuse myself with seeing all that is curious in it.  I know you will expect that this declaration should be followed with some account of what I have seen.  But I am in no humour to copy what has been writ so often over.  To what purpose should I tell you, that Constantinople is the ancient Byzantium? that ’tis at present the conquest of a race of people, supposed Scythians? that there are five or six thousand mosques in it? that Sancta Sophia was founded by Justinian? &c.  I’ll assure you, ’tis not for want of learning, that I forbear writing all these bright things.  I could also, with very little trouble, turn over Knolles and Sir Paul Rycaut, to give you a list of Turkish emperors; but I will not tell you what you may find in every author that has writ of this country.  I am more inclined, out of a true female spirit of contradiction, to tell you the falsehood of a great part of what you find in authors; as, for instance, in the admirable Mr Hill, who so gravely asserts, that he saw, in Sancta Sophia, a sweating pillar, very balsamic for disordered heads.  There is not the least tradition of any such matter; and I suppose it was revealed to him in vision, during his wonderful stay in the Egyptian catacombs; for I am sure he never heard of any such miracle here.  ’Tis also very pleasant to observe how tenderly he and all his brethren voyage-writers lament the miserable confinement of the Turkish ladies, who are perhaps more free than any ladies in the universe, and are the only women in the world that lead a life of uninterrupted pleasure, exempt from cares; their whole time being spent in visiting, bathing, or the agreeable amusement of spending money, and inventing new fashions.  A husband would be thought mad,