Tent Work in Palestine: A Record of Discovery and Adventure

by C. R. Conder

We now wandered through the vaults, where the tombs of Eusebius of Cremona, of Paula, and of her daughter Eustochia, are shown, and the famous study—a gloomy, rock-cut cell—where St. Jerome is said to have spent so many years of his life, engaged on the noble Vulgate translation of the Scriptures.

We left the building in order to witness the entry of the French Consul, who attends the ceremony on this day as representative of the “Eldest son of the Church.” First came the village elders in gay dresses, capering madly on horses and mules; then about a couple of dozen cavalry-soldiers in black, with red fezzes and facings. The four kawasses on good brown horses, dressed in crimson hussar jackets, braided with gold and black, with blue trousers and silk head-shawls, and carrying great maces with gilded tops. The Consul and his secretary came last.

At ten in the evening the bell began to ring, and we again entered the Latin chapel. The place was quite full, and the congregation pushed and struggled, and chattered at the top of their voices. The French Consul appeared in full uniform, covered with orders, and we also obtained good places near the altar. The heat was fearful, and many persons fainted and had to be dragged out.

The long wearisome service, almost entirely choral, with occasional solos, went on for two hours. The Patriarch, in his hot and heavy vestments of cloth-of-gold, looked much exhausted. His mitre was changed at various times, one being of silver, a second of gold, a third jewelled. The whole service was directed by an extremely active priest, who appeared to be a sort of master of the ceremonies.

At midnight the climax was reached, the storm of song and music suddenly ceased, and, in the stillness, the clock struck, and the seventh candle on the high altar was lighted. A curtain was drawn back, and above the altar was a little glass-fronted ebony box, from which the rosy face of a small wax image looked down representing an infant swathed in cloth-of-gold. The great convent-bell swung with a deep sound, heralding the news of Christmas morn, and the little red-cassocked choristers burst forth, in memory of the angels, with the “Gloria! gloria in excelsis!” The organ struggled and pealed in a mad and powerful symphony, and was accompanied by a pipe or reed, in memory of the music of the shepherds’ pipes. The mystic ceremonies of the early mass were commenced, and the weary congregation became interested.

There was something at once touching and ridiculous in this curious scene: ridiculous when one considered the rude and inadequate symbolism employed, and on the other hand impressive, when one reflected that for fifteen centuries the Christmas morn had yearly been celebrated within these walls, and the riches of the Church, the genius of great composers, the intellect of a powerful priesthood, all combined to pay honour to the birthday of the little Jewish child, who had been born in the rude rock stable one wintry night, in a small village of a remote and despised province of the empire of Rome.

Two more hours of singing and music followed, and the great procession to the grotto was then formed. Long wax torches were given to the Consul and his secretary, and candles to the rest of the congregation. A second wax image, in a little wicker cradle, was placed on the altar beneath the former, and borne thence by the Patriarch, who came last. As he passed me, I saw that the figure was surrounded with long strips of paper, like swaddling-clothes loosed from its limbs, one of its hands being raised in benediction.

Very striking was the scene in passing through the Greek chancel. The dark building was lighted only by the torches and tapers, which made the silver lamps above shine out against the dusky background. A dense crowd was kept in its ranks by two lines of Turkish soldiers with loaded Snider rifles. The variety of costumes and faces was wonderful, while the dark columns and grim figures in the glass mosaics, the forest of rafters in the ancient roof, and the rich screen before the apse, formed a dim and effective background, to the glittering line of priests and acolytes in cloth of silver and gold.

The thought could not but suggest itself, how different was the scene thus enacted, amidst the awe-stricken veneration of the multitude, with all the pomp and magnificence which could be lavished on it by a rich and long-established Church, from that first Christmas scene in the dark damp stable beneath, the events of which day were now symbolised by the dressing and undressing of a small wax doll.

The grotto was filled with priests, and blazed with crimson silk, silver and gold, lit up by rows of silver lamps above. The Gospel for the day was read in Latin, and at the words “Et peperit filium suum primogenitum,” the image was laid by the Patriarch on the marble slab, supposed to mark the spot where Christ was born.