So long as childhood continues, Bethlehem will be cherished by the young, and recalled with delight by those of riper years. The synonym of helpless infancy, mothers will revert to it with hope, and the children of each generation will claim it as their common heritage. As here the young mother pressed her tender offspring to her bosom for the first time, Bethlehemmust ever remain the symbol of domestic affections and privacies.
Originally called “The House of Bread,” and now “The House of Flesh,” its Arabic name, Beit Lahm, contains the significance of its wondrous history.To distinguish it from Bethlehem belonging to the tribeship of Zebulun,[323]it is called by the sacred historian “Bethlehem of Judah;”[324]to preintimate its fruitfulness, it was prophetically designated Ephratah;[325] to illustrate its rising glory “among the thousands of Judah,”it was announced as the birthplace of Him “whose goings forth have been from of old.”[326] In antiquity coeval with the oldest cities in the world, its identity is unquestioned. Stretching backward thirty-six centuries,its authentic history opens with the mournful death and burial of the beautiful Rachel;[327] and rendered imperishable by the sepulchral monument to that beloved wife,600 years later it was the scene of the touching story of Boaz and the youthful widow of Chilion.[328] Giving birth to Obed, the father of Jesse,Bethlehem, less than 100 years subsequent to the marriage of Ruth and Boaz, was the birthplace of David,[329] where, at the tender age of seventeen, he was anointed king over Israel; and, in honor of events so illustrious, it thereafter was called the “City of David.” During the reverses which befell Saul of Gibeah it was captured by the Philistines, and David, having been declared a public enemy, was compelled to fly to the cave of Adullam.
After 1000 years of comparative oblivion, Bethlehem suddenly emerged from obscurity into brighter and more enduring glory. Summoned by the Emperor Augustus to their native city to be taxed, Joseph and Mary came from the hills of Nazareth, and, reaching the town at the close of the day, after a journey of eighty miles,the mother of the Messiah was compelled to lodge in the stable, “because there was no room for them in the inn.”[330] That night the Prince of Peace was born; the race commenced its life anew; angels sang the song of the nativity; wondering shepherds hastened to pay homage to the new-born King; a lone but marvelous star arrested the attention of the magi of Arabia Felix; and Bethlehem rose to be “greatest among the thousands of Judah.”
An event so great and memorable has rendered the city of the Savior’s birth a holy shrine, at which the devout of all ages and countries have bowed with unspeakable delight. And, in commemoration of the event, and to rescue the site from oblivion, the Emperor Constantine, in the commencement of the fourth century, ordered the erection of a magnificent basilica over the “Grotto of the Nativity,” which is now the oldest monument of Christian architecture in the world. Separated from the town by a long esplanade, the church occupies the eastern brow of the hill on which the city is built, and, together with the three convents abutting from its sides, forms an enormous pile of limestone, vast in dimensions, irregular in outline, and, though it is destitute of external architectural grandeur, the size, strength, and commanding position of the edifice render it the chief attraction of the place. The Greeks, Latins, and Armenians hold joint possession of the basilica, and adjoining it are the monasteries for the entertainment and devotion of their respective orders.
It was late one evening in the month of April that I rapped for admission at the iron door of the Latin convent. The Franciscans received me kindly, and, after a generous meal, an aged monk led me to my apartments for the night. The convent bell called me early from my slumbers, and, ascending to the broad, flat roof of the monastery, I enjoyed an extensive view of the surrounding country. The sky was soft, the air pure, and the sun was just rising above the mountains of Moab. The shepherd’s shrill voice mingled with the tinkling of bells as he led his flock in search of pasture, and the leaves of orange, fig, and olive trees shone like jewels as the dew-drops thereon reflected the morning light. Far away to the east are the Plains of the Jordan, the mountains of Gilead, Moab, Ammon, and Seir; on the north the Hills of Judea are bleak; on the west they are green as far as the eye can reach toward the “Great Sea;” on the south are the Gardens of Urtâs and the Pools of Solomon. With a mind attuned by such a scene, I read the romantic story of Ruth and Boaz, the history of David’s coronation, and the more tender narrative of the Savior’s birth. The past returned with all the reality of the present, and history repeated its wondrous deeds before the eye of a sublime faith. But the charm was broken in a moment by the chant of a funeral dirge. Just beneath me, andnear the convent wall, a long procession of women was approaching, following to its final rest the lifeless form of some daughter of Bethlehem. It was a singular hour for a burial. Except the men who bore the corpse, there were no others present. Fifty women robed in white gathered about the grave, and, as a symbol of the abundant happiness of departed spirits, each one bore upon her head a basket of bread, and, leaving it upon the tomb, they all retired.
Descending through the long halls of the monastery, we found the monks differently engaged; some were arranging their scanty toilets, others repeating their prayers. On each door is a rude picture illustrating the faith of the inmate, and the subject he desired to be most frequently reminded of. On one is a coffin; on another are the lambent flames of Purgatory; but on most is the serene face of Mary. My guide rejoined me in the hall of the refectory, and led me to the stable of blessed memory. Passing through the Latin chapel, where a priest was celebrating mass, we descended a flight of narrow winding steps, cut in the native rock, at the foot of which is the sacred grotto. Thirty-eight feet long, eleven wide, and two deep, it has the appearance of having been the cellar of a Syrian house, which, according to a custom still prevalent, serves as a stable. Near the eastern end is the supposed place of our Lord’s birth, marked by a white marble slab, in the centre of which is a large silver star, encircled with an inscription in Latin, “Here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.” Sixteen silver lamps shed a perpetual light upon the shrine; from golden censers incense unceasingly ascends, while the walls are covered with silk embroidered with gold. To the south is the substituted manger, the original having been carried to Rome and deposited in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. Above it is a fine picture of the birth-scene by Maello, and near it is a better one of the Magi. A narrow passage leads to the small grotto where Joseph is said to have stood at the moment our Lord was born, and in it is a picture representing the angel warning him to take the young child and his mother and escape into Egypt. The angel’s face is expressive of intense earnestness; the countenance of Joseph is calm and thoughtful; while Mary tenderly but firmly clasps her infant to her bosom.
CAVE OF THE NATIVITY.
Following a glimmering light, we entered a large sepulchralvault containing the dust of the departed members of the fraternity, and from it passed to the “altar of the infant martyrs” slain by Herod. A picture above it commemorates the death of “twenty thousand innocents,” and the old monk groaned as he looked upon it. In an adjoining oblong chamber are altars dedicated to the memory of St. Paula and her daughter Eustachia, two eminent Roman ladies, who spent their days here in charity and devotion; and near the altars are their tombs, over which are the portraits of the saints. Their features are represented as sharp, their expression pensive, and over their heads an angel holds a wreath of glory. Not far from these sepulchres is the tomb of Jerome, and in the north end of the same chamber is the study of that eminent scholar. Here, in a cell twenty feet square and nine deep, around which runs a stone seat, he spent most of his life, producing those great works which have given immortality to his name. Here, in the severities of monastic life, he smote his body with a stone while imploring the mercy of the Lord. It was here he fancied he heard the peals of the trump of the last judgment incessantly ringing in his ear. On the wall hangs a portrait of this great man. The head is round and bald, the face beams with intelligence, by his side hangs a crucifix, and behind him stands an angel sounding in his ear the trumpet of the last day.
Reascending the narrow staircase, we passed into the magnificent Basilica of St. Helena. In length 120 feet by 110 wide, the interior consists of a central nave and four lateral aisles, formed by four rows of twelve Corinthian columns in each row, twenty feet high and two and a half in diameter, supporting a horizontal architrave. According to tradition, these pillars were taken from the porches of the Temple at Jerusalem. Originally the roof and rafters were formed of cedar from the forests of Lebanon, but at present they are of oak, the gift of King Edward IV. when the church was last repaired. The gold, marble, and mosaics which once adorned the walls of this noble edifice have been removed, and by the mutual jealousies of the rival sects this grandest of Eastern basilicas is in a neglected state. The aspect of the interior is greatly injured by a partition wall separating the choir from the body of the church, which in turn is divided into two chapels, one belonging to the Greeks and the other to the Armenians;on the north side of the choir is the Chapel of St. Catharine, occupied by the Latins.