And now I am in Bethlehem—not a simple country village, as many imagine, but a densely-populated town, with winding, narrow ways, where men and women and children, camels, donkeys, and carriages, seem mixed up in wild disorder. On every side we are shut in with habitations—stony, bare of windows, built high up, with here and there a shop, but chiefly with a simple door on the ground-floor; and then we dash into the market-place, and apparently it is market-day, and half of the open space is filled with buyers and sellers in many-coloured garments of the East; and down on us come the guides and small pedlars, shrieking, ejaculating, spluttering in broken English, just as Byron tells us the Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold.
We enter the Church of the Nativity, regarded as the very oldest specimen of Christian architecture; and a very ugly building it is. In one of the remote quarters I came to an old stone font, bearing the inscription: ‘For the memory, repose and forgiveness of sinners, of whom the Lord knows the name.’ Here, in 1161, Baldwin was crowned King of Jerusalem. Look up at the roof as you pass along, of pure wood and lead, furnished in 1482 by Edward IV. of England and Philip of Burgundy. The guardianship of the church is divided among Greeks, Armenians, and Latins. We are supplied with tapers, and go down in the cave where the Christ was born. A little further on is the place of the manger in which He was laid. In another section of the cave, all hewn out of the solid rock, Joseph is said to have slept when he was warned by God in a dream to take Mary and her child and fly into Egypt. Again, we are shown the spot where the children massacred by King Herod were interred. Fifteen lamps perpetually illuminate the subterranean Church of the Nativity, near which is the Altar of the Adoration, which commemorates the visit of the Magi. Amidst darkness visible we make our way to the cave in which St. Jerome wrote his great work, the translation of the Hebrew Bible into the Vulgate or Latin tongue. It is a dark and dreary spot, and near by we are shown his tomb. One can scarce credit the story of his having done such work in such a corner, or believe that there he lived to reach the ripe age of ninety-two. A year in such a spot would be enough to kill an ordinary orthodox Christian in these degenerate days. I make my exit speedily into the upper air. I have seen enough for one day; no lying legend can tempt me further. The enormous pile of churches built up over the sacred sites, and inhabited by priests of rival Churches, who hate each other like poison, are too much for me.
Bethlehem is the market-place of the Dead Sea Bedouins, and also of the numerous small towns and villages in the vicinity, and has besides some nourishing manufactures of its own. Its inhabitants are almost exclusively Christian. The people are chiefly employed in the production of embroidered dresses, and in carving in a beautiful way mother-of-pearl. I hear that they are an intelligent and industrious people, and that there are plenty of schools for the children. The women are said to be fair, but I see none such. On our way back we are shown the Field of the Shepherds, sloping up a neighbouring hill. It was there the angel of the Lord appeared to them as they watched their sheep by night. We pass by also the Pools of Solomon—three reservoirs made by the great King for supplying the inhabitants of Jerusalem with water. All the country round is a scene of great activity, as is evident from the enormous amount of terraces to be seen everywhere planted with the universal olive-tree. But at this time we see nothing but stones, with here and there a few black goats climbing the mountain-sides; all life seems to have withered up under the scorching sun. The Wells of Solomon contain no water, the hills no sign of vegetation. They are dry, and so are we.
On the whole, after my visit to Bethlehem, I quite agree with an American writer—the Rev. Mr. Tompkins—in his remarks on the church built by the Empress Helena. While vast, imposing, and suggestive of past glory, it is a fitting monument of that kind of Christianity which, let us hope, is relegated to the past. No instance of an enormous expensive building could show more clearly the folly of erecting to God that which has no earthly use. Unless men can see in future ages that Christianity is for man, and not for God, I fancy that religion will perish from the earth. To-day one stands in this edifice, which in point of size is justly comparable with any church in the world, and wonders what rash folly ever possessed the Empress to waste so much money. It is so dreary, so cold, so deserted, so utterly the shell of Christianity, that Christianity seems a very farce right here where it began.
CHAPTER XII.
THE JEW IN JERUSALEM.
One of the most interesting evenings I spent in Jerusalem was in listening to a lecture by Dr. Wheeler, of the English Hospital in the city, who is now seeking to build a hospital for the Jews there. He is also, I believe, connected with the London Society which is seeking to bring over the Jew to the knowledge of the Messiah, a task by no means easy, as the conviction of the Jew—that the promised Messiah is yet to come—is not easily to be dispelled. I came over with a converted Jew—a clergyman in London. His parents, who were wealthy, lived in Jerusalem. In order to become a Christian he had to sacrifice all his worldly prospects, and aroused such bitter enmity on the part of his relatives that, though he had made the journey for the sake of seeing his dying mother, he almost despaired of an interview, and had to wait five days before his object was achieved.
But to return to Dr. Wheeler. He has been at work in Jerusalem eleven years, and his knowledge of the state of the Jews is profound. The Jews, he told us, in Palestine may be roughly divided into four classes: The Ashkenazim, comprising the fair-haired, sallow German Jew, the Russian, Polish, American, etc., who speak Yiddish, and enjoy the protection of the consuls of the countries to which they belong; the Sephardim, or Spanish Jews, many of whom still wear the black turban imposed on them by the mad Caliph Halim; the Gemenites, who have only recently come to the land—they are dark, and wear their hair in side-curls; and the Karaites, a sect which sprang up about the eighth century. These reject the Talmud and deny the authority of the Oral Law; they are few in number, and have but one small synagogue; the orthodox religious Jews have no religious intercourse with them, and regard them as heretics. The Ashkenazim adapt themselves to any costume. The Sephardim all wear the dignified and beautiful Oriental costume. All unite in wearing the love-locks. As to the women, they all dress in Oriental costume, and wear their heads covered. On the Sabbath they are all dressed in their best. Charms are worn on the heads and foreheads and necks of young children, and a sprig of green is worn also as a charm against the evil eye. The Rabbis generally wear long flowing robes, trimmed with fur, and also a turban.
Specially-appointed Rabbis see that the food is properly prepared, as everything must be kosha, or legally clean. Milk must not be taken before or after meat. No Christian food on any account may be consumed; even eggs cooked in Christian pots are refused. Only Jewish wine may be drunk, and if a bottle of it is only touched by a Christian it becomes unclean. The social and religious life of the Jew is identical. The birth of a son causes great rejoicing, and improves the social status of the mother. Circumcision on the eighth day, if the child is strong enough, is a holy festival. After eighteen all Jews are expected to marry. Although facilities of divorce are large, they are not often resorted to.