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Title: The Christmas city
        Bethlehem across the ages

Author: Lewis Gaston Leary

Release date: January 12, 2024 [eBook #72694]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Sturgis & Walton Company, 1911

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRISTMAS CITY ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




  THE CHRISTMAS CITY

  BETHLEHEM ACROSS THE AGES

[Illustration: HOLY NIGHT

  _From the painting by Zenisek_
]




  THE

  CHRISTMAS CITY

  BETHLEHEM ACROSS THE AGES


  BY

  LEWIS GASTON LEARY, PH.D.

  AUTHOR OF “THE REAL PALESTINE OF TO-DAY”

  [Illustration: Decoration]


  New York

  STURGIS & WALTON
  COMPANY

  1911




  Copyright 1911

  BY STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY


  Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1911




  THIS LITTLE BOOK ABOUT THE
  CITY OF DIVINE MOTHERHOOD
  IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

  TO MY OWN MOTHER

[Illustration: _CONTENTS_]




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

  THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE                                         17

  I THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM                                          21

  II THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE                                        25

  III THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN                                     35

  IV THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING                                       43

  V THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL                                         51

  VI THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS                                              59

  VII THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM                                       67

  VIII THE STORY OF THE STABLE                                        73

  IX THE EPITAPH OF THE LADY PAULA                                    83

  X THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE                                           93

  XI THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION                                        105

  XII SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS                                         117

  XIII THE LONG WHITE ROAD                                           129

  XIV THE HOUSE OF BREAD                                             145

  XV THE CHURCH WHICH IS A FORT                                      155

  XVI THE SACRED CAVES                                               165

  XVII THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR                                  175

  XVIII THE SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN                               181

  XIX ACROSS THE AGES                                                187

[Illustration: _ILLUSTRATIONS_]




ILLUSTRATIONS


  Holy Night, _from the painting by Zenisek_      _Frontispiece_

                                                                    PAGE

  The Tomb of Rachel                                                  31

  The Church of the Nativity                                          79

  The South Transept of the Church of the Nativity
  and one of the Stairways leading
  down to the Sacred Caves                                            97

  St. Jerome and the Lion                                            123

  The Bethlehem Road                                                 133

  Bethlehem Girls                                                    137

  Bethlehem                                                          149

  Interior of the Church of the Nativity                             161

  The Altar of the Nativity                                          169

[Illustration: _THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE_]




THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE

Micah 5: 2-5


“But thou, Bethlehem Ephrathah, which art little to be among the
thousands of Judah, out of thee shall one come forth unto me that
is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth are from old, from
everlasting.... And he shall stand, and shall feed his flock in the
strength of Jehovah, in the majesty of the name of Jehovah his God: and
they shall abide; for now shall he be great unto the ends of the earth.

“And this man shall be our peace.”

[Illustration: _THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM_]




THE CHRISTMAS CITY




I

THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM

St. Paula, A. D. 386


“With what expressions and what language shall we set before you the
cave of the Saviour? The stall where He cried as a babe can best be
honored by silence; words are inadequate to speak its praise. Where
are the spacious porticoes? Where are the gilded ceilings? Where are
the mansions furnished by the miserable toil of doomed wretches? Where
are the costly halls raised by untitled opulence for man’s vile body
to walk in? Where are the roofs that intercept the sky, as if anything
could be finer than the expanse of heaven? Behold, in this poor crevice
of the earth the Creator of the heavens was born; here He was wrapped
in swaddling clothes; here He was seen by the shepherds; here He was
pointed out by the star; here He was adored by the wise men....

“In our excitement we are already hurrying to meet you.... Will the day
never come when we shall together enter the Saviour’s cave?

“Hail, Bethlehem, house of bread, wherein was born that Bread that came
down from heaven! Hail, Ephrathah, land of fruitfulness and fertility,
whose Fruit is the Lord himself.”

[Illustration: _THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE_]




II

THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE


The history of Bethlehem is the romance of Bethlehem; a story of love
and daring, of brave men and beautiful women. We do not know that
story in great detail; but here and there across the centuries, the
light breaks on the little Judean town and we catch a fleeting glimpse
of some scene of tender affection or chivalrous adventure. And it is
striking to notice how many of these incidents involve womanly devotion
and self-sacrifice, both before and after the Most Blessed of Women
suffered and rejoiced in Bethlehem.

Long, long centuries before that first Christmas was dreamed of, the
story of Bethlehem begins. And lo, the earliest episode has to do with
a birth day.

In the yellow evening light a little band of nomadic shepherds is
straggling along the dusty road past the high, gray walls of the outer
fortifications of Jerusalem—not Jerusalem the Holy City, but Jerusalem
the Jebusite stronghold, which is to remain heathen and hateful for a
thousand years until, in that far-distant future, the arrogant fortress
shall fall before the onslaughts of the mighty men of David.

At the head of the long line of herds and pack-animals and armed
retainers walks the chief, Jacob ben-Isaac. A generation before, he
had passed along this same ancient caravan route going northward; but
no one would recognize that frightened, homesick fugitive in the
grave, self-confident leader who travels southward to-day. For now he
is Sheikh Jacob, full of years and riches and wisdom; Jacob the strong
man, the successful man and, in his own rude way, the good man.

An hour’s journey beyond Jerusalem there appear shining on a hilltop to
the left the white stone houses of Bethlehem, at the sight of which the
tired herdsmen grow more cheerful and the slow-moving caravan quickens
somewhat its pace; for close under those protecting walls the tribe
of B’nai Jacob will shelter its flocks for the night, safe alike from
wolves and from marauding Arab bands.

But just as they reach the spot where the road to Bethlehem branches
off to the left from the main caravan route, there is a sudden change
of plan. The hope of camping at the town is abandoned, and one of the
low, black, goat-hair tents is hastily set up right by the roadside.
Then there is an excited bustling among the household servants, and a
time of anxious waiting for Sheikh Jacob, until Bilhah, the handmaid,
puts into the old man’s arms his son Benjamin, his youngest boy, who is
long to be the comfort of the father’s declining years.

[Illustration: THE TOMB OF RACHEL

In the background the town of Beit Jala]

Soon, however, the cries of rejoicing are hushed. From the women’s
quarters comes a loud, shrill wail of grief. And before the B’nai Jacob
break camp again the leader raises a heap of stones over the grave of
Rachel—his Rachel—a gray-haired woman now and bent with toil, but still
to him the beautiful girl whom he loved and for whom he labored
and sinned those twice seven long years in the strength of his young
manhood.

Many years afterward, when Benjamin was a grown man and Jacob lay dying
in the distant land of Egypt, the thoughts of the homesick old sheikh
dwelt on the lonely grave by the roadside.

“I buried her there on the way to Bethlehem,” he said.

Her tombstone remains “unto this day,” the Hebrew narrator adds.
Indeed, even to our own day, a spot by the Bethlehem road, about a mile
from the town, is pointed out as the burial place of Rachel. Probably
no site in Palestine is attested by the witness of so continuous a line
of historians and travelers. For many centuries the grave was marked by
a pyramid of stones. The present structure, with its white dome, is
only about four hundred years old. But there it stands “unto this day,”
revered by Christians, Jews and Moslems, and the wandering Arabs bring
their dead to be buried in its holy shadow.

Such is the first Biblical reference to Bethlehem. A son was born
there! More significant still, there was a vicarious sacrifice—a laying
down of one life for another.

[Illustration: _THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN_]




III

THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN


In the Book of Judges are recounted the adventures which befell certain
Bethlehemites in those lawless days when “there was no king in Israel
and every man did that which was right in his own eyes.” But the people
mentioned in this history were no longer dwelling in the city of their
birth; and we are glad of an excuse to pass by the tale of reckless
crime and merciless vengeance. Yet here, too, if the story were not too
cruel to repeat, we should find a woman dying for one whom she loved.

Even in that rough frontier period, however, there were interludes of
peace and kindliness; and like the cooling breeze which blows from
snow-capped Lebanon upon the burning brow of the Syrian reaper, is
the sense of grateful refreshment when we turn from the heartrending
monotony of scenes of cruelty and lust and treachery to the sweet,
clean air of the whitening harvest fields of Boaz of Bethlehem.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the two strange women entered the square there was great
excitement among the chattering busy-bodies who were waiting their turn
to fill their earthen jars at the public well; for one of the travelers
was seen to be no other than old Naomi, who long years before had gone
away across Jordan with her husband Elimelech to better their fortunes
among the famous farm-lands of Moab. Now the wanderer has returned to
the old home, poor and widowed and childless—no doubt to the secret
gratification of the more cautious stay-at-homes, who had never dared
tempt fortune by such an emigration to distant Moab, and who were still
no richer and no poorer than their fathers’ fathers had been.

The other woman was younger, a foreigner, a widow, so the gossip ran,
who had married Naomi’s dead son. The women at the well smiled at her
quaint accent, for the dialect of Moab is quite different from that of
the Bethlehem district. But many a stalwart young farmer dreamed that
night of the lonely, appealing eyes of the stranger from beyond Jordan.

Even middle-aged Boaz is stirred when the next morning he finds the
slender Moabitess among the women who are gleaning in his barley field;
for romance is not always dead in the soul of a mature and wealthy
landowner. Boaz, for all his grizzling hair, is a hero who makes us
feel very warm and comfortable about the heart. He is so generous,
so thoughtful, so humble in his final happiness. He has already been
touched by the story of the faithfulness of the young widow who said to
her mother-in-law,

 “Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after
 thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I
 will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

So the rich man drops a hint to his servants to let fall carelessly
little heaps of grain where the new gleaner can easily gather them. He
remembers the rough, dissolute character of the itinerant harvesters,
and warns them to treat the young woman with respect and courtesy.
At noontime he invites her to share the simple luncheon provided for
the farm-hands. A few weeks later the lonely rich man discovers her
affection for him, and our hearts beat in sympathy with his as, with
characteristic modesty, he exclaims,

 “Blessed be thou of Jehovah, my daughter: thou hast shown more
 kindness in the latter end than at the beginning, inasmuch as thou
 followedest not young men, whether poor or rich.”

But as well might one attempt to retouch the soft colorings of the
Judean sunrise as to re-tell the beautiful idyll of Ruth. Old Josephus
quite misses the delicate beauty of the story; for he concludes his
smug paraphrase by saying, “I was therefore obliged to recount this
history of Ruth, because I had a mind to demonstrate the power of God,
who, without difficulty, can raise those that are of ordinary parents
to dignity and splendor.”

They lived together happily ever afterward. Even sad Naomi found a new
interest in life when she took into her lonely old arms the form of
little Obed. For this bit of Bethlehem history, like the first, and
like the greatest later on, ends with the coming of a baby boy. And
doubtless, if the whole of the tale were told us, we should some day
see grandmother Ruth crooning over Obed’s son Jesse, who was to be the
father of a king.

[Illustration: _THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING_]




IV

THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING


An ancient Hebrew commentary on First Samuel says that Jesse became “a
weaver of veils for the sanctuary.” This may be why the story of David
and Goliath compares the giant’s staff to “a weaver’s beam.” Whatever
his occupation, the grandson of rich Boaz must have been a man of some
means, and influential in Bethlehem society. Also he had seven fine,
stalwart sons. Indeed, he had eight sons; but, as we all know, the
youngest was out tending the sheep when Samuel came.

The rough and ready era of the Judges, when every man did that which
was right in his own eyes, was now gone forever. Israel had a king;
and a tall, handsome figure of a man King Saul was. And for a while
he was a king who defeated foreign invaders on every side. But Saul’s
character could not stand the test of the sudden elevation to a
position of power and responsibility. His strength lay in brilliant,
spectacular efforts, rather than in a patient, well-organized rule.
Quarrels arose between the jealous tribes of Israel. Conquered foes
prepared new and better equipped forays against the poorly protected
frontier of the new kingdom. Worst of all, Saul broke with his tried
advisers and became prey to an irrational, suspicious melancholy, which
prevented him from coping with dangers which a few years earlier would
only have aroused his ambitious energy.

Saul had failed; so Samuel, the veteran prophet, judge and king-maker,
went quietly to Bethlehem to select a new leader who should direct the
troublous destinies of Israel.

It was doubtless the same farm where the young stranger from beyond
Jordan had gleaned the sheaves of barley almost a century before. How
proud Naomi would have been if she could have lived to see those tall
great-grandchildren of Ruth and Boaz! How excited we boys used to get
as we saw the seven sons of Jesse standing there in a row, and waited
for old Samuel to tell us which one was to be the king! Surely it must
be the eldest, Eliab, who is so tall and handsome, the very image of
what Saul was in his youth. No, it is not Eliab, perhaps just because
he is too much like King Saul. Abinadab is rejected and Shammah, too;
and the prophet’s eye passes even more rapidly over Nethaneel and
Raddai and Ozem.

Then Samuel turns to the father with a perplexed frown.

“Are these all your sons?”

“Yes—that is, all that are grown up. David is only a boy. He is taking
care of the sheep this morning.”

“Call him, too,” commands Samuel. “Let Abinadab mind the sheep for a
while.”

So in a few minutes David is brought in. He is fair in complexion, like
so many Judean Jews to-day, but his skin is burnt to a deep tan by the
sun of the sheep pasture. His eye has a captivating twinkle, and he can
hardly keep from humming a tune even in the presence of the prophet.

We guessed it all the while! This is indeed a royal fellow; and the
old prophet touches the thick brown hair of the shepherd lad with a
strange, loving reverence as he tells him that some day he must be his
people’s king.

This time I think that Josephus is probably right. For he tells us that
while they were all sitting at dinner afterward, Samuel whispered in
the boy’s ear “that God chose him to be their king: and exhorted him to
be righteous, and obedient to His commands, for that by this means his
kingdom would continue for a long time, and that his house should be of
great splendor and celebrated in the world.”

Surely wise old Samuel must have given the boy some such advice as
that.

[Illustration: _THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL_]




V

THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL


It was a long while, however, before David really became a king. As his
frame grew into a sturdy manhood, he fought with lions and bears and
Philistine champions. His sweet singing brought him to the notice of
Saul and he became the king’s favorite musician, until the jealousy of
the half-crazed monarch drove the young man into exile. Then for years
the former shepherd lived a wild, half-brigand life among the caves of
the rugged steppe-land south of Bethlehem, gradually gathering around
him a company of intrepid outlaws, administering rough justice over a
number of villages which put themselves under his protection, making
sudden forays into the Philistine country just to the west, and again
so hotly pursued by the soldiers of the relentless Saul that he was
forced to seek an asylum among the enemies of Israel, who were always
glad to forget old scores and welcome this dauntless free-lance and his
redoubtable band of warriors.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may have been during this outlaw period, or it may have been shortly
after David’s accession to the throne, when his kingdom was still
disorganized, and an easy prey to foreign invaders. At any rate, David
and his band were hiding in the cave of Adullam, a few miles from
Bethlehem. The little company was for the moment safe, but the country
all around was overrun by foreign troops, and even Bethlehem, the
scene of so many happy boyhood memories, was occupied by a Philistine
garrison.

No wonder that David felt very weary and discouraged as he thought of
the old home town in the hands of heathen soldiers. No wonder that he
sometimes became irritable and petulant, and wished for things that he
could not have. There was a spring right by the cave of Adullam. The
inhabitants of Palestine, however, can distinguish between water drawn
from different sources, in a manner which seems marvelous to our duller
taste. Yet we need not believe that the water in the City of David was
any better than that of the cave of Adullam in order to sympathize with
the tired, homesick cry—

“Oh, that one would give me water to drink of the well of Bethlehem,
which is by the gate!”

Then there was a little stir among David’s bodyguard. One soldier
whispered to another, who nudged a third; and soon three dark forms
slipped quietly away from the circle of lights around the campfire. For
those rough outlaws idolized their fair-haired young leader, and they
had been worried and grieved by his recent fit of melancholy.

At midnight there was a sudden rattling of the well-chain in the square
by the Bethlehem gate—then a challenge from the startled Philistine
sentry—a rush of soldiers along the stony street. But the three
seasoned warriors slipped easily through the camp of the half-awakened
army. They turned and doubled through the familiar maze of narrow,
winding streets until they came to the steep terraces at the south of
the town, where they dropped out of sight among the perplexing shadows
of the olive orchards, through which they made their way swiftly back
to the wild steppe-land and the mountain fastness where the band kept
watch over their sleeping chief.

Mighty men they were, these three, and it is no wonder that their
exploit became one of the favorite tales of Hebrew history. But when
they offered David the water for which he had longed, there came a lump
into his throat and he said, “I can’t take it. My thoughtless wish
might have cost too much. It would be like drinking my brave men’s
blood, to drink that for which they have endangered their lives. It
is too precious to drink. I will pour it out on the ground—so—as an
offering to Jehovah.”

Surely the God of Battles esteemed that simple libation as holy a thing
as holocausts of bullocks and rams, and forgave many of the sins of
those rough, hard outlaws because of the loving devotion they showed
toward one whom He had chosen to be the deliverer of Israel.

       *       *       *       *       *

An old legend says that after the mystic Star had guided the Wise Men
to the Saviour’s cradle, it fell from heaven and quenched its divine
fire in “David’s Well.” And surely, if the Star had fallen, it could
have found no more fitting resting place than the Well by the Gate,
whose water had been won by such unselfish adventure and dedicated with
such tender gratitude.

[Illustration: _THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS_]




VI

THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS


In the short twilight of the winter evening a husband and wife are
trudging wearily along the road which winds past the high gray walls
of Jerusalem—no longer Jerusalem the proud capital of the dynasty of
David, but a mere provincial town of the mighty Roman Empire, whose
streets are dizzy with the shouting of a dozen languages and thronged
with crowds of Greeks, Romans, Persians, Armenians, Ethiopians, and
travelers from even more distant lands, who rub shoulders carelessly
with the fanatical Pharisees and intriguing Sadducees whose mutual
bickerings make them a laughing-stock to their Gentile masters; while
there sits upon the throne of David a half-breed underling Edomite,
through whose diseased veins flow the cruelty and lust and cowardice
and treachery of turgid streams of unspeakable ancestry—Herod, called
in grim jest, “the Great.”

December in Judea is a cold, dreary month, with penetrating storms
of rain and sleet. It may even snow; and sometimes the drifts lie
knee-deep on that highroad from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. So they hasten
their steps, these footsore travelers who have come all the way from
distant Galilee at the command of their Roman rulers; for darkness is
coming on, and this night, of all nights, they must find a safe, warm
resting-place.

But when Bethlehem is at last reached, their cheerful anticipation
changes to utter, weary dejection; for the village inn proves to be
already overcrowded with other Bethlehemites who have returned to their
birthplace to be registered there for the census.

Only in the stable is there room; and this is a low, dark place, half
building, half cave. In front, it is walled up with rough stones; but
at the rear it extends far into what seems to have been originally a
natural opening in the hillside. Around three sides of the stable runs
a low, level shelf, with an iron ring every few feet, to which the
beasts are tied as they eat the fodder spread before them on the stone
ledge. This manger is not an uncomfortable resting place for the hardy
muleteers, who often sleep there on the straw. But it makes a hard bed
for Joseph—and for Mary.

The sky has cleared now, and through the open door can be seen a square
of twinkling stars, one of which shines with unusual brilliancy.
Within, however, it is very dark; for the lantern of the night-watchman
shines only a little way through the sombre shadows of the stable. The
cattle and horses have finished munching the grain. The last uneasy
lowing ceases. It is very still, except in one far corner where the
strangers cannot sleep.

And then there is a baby’s cry. And the bright star shines with
glorious radiance over David’s City. And upon the drowsy shepherds in
the fields where the Moabitess gleaned, there bursts a wondrous light
and the sound of heavenly singing.

For the fullness of time has come. Upon the humble Judean town has
burst that glory sung by the prophets of old. The long line of Rachel
and Ruth and royal David has at last issued in the King of kings.

[Illustration: _THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM_]




VII

THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM


But even at that first Christmastide, Bethlehem must again be the scene
of innocent suffering in another’s place, as for the Christ-child’s
sake some twenty baby boys in the little town are put to death by order
of King Herod, whose diseased, suspicious mind trembles at the thought
of even an infant claimant for his throne.

Five hundred years before, when the strong young men of Bethlehem had
been sent away into Babylonian exile, the loud wailing from bereaved,
heart-broken homes had recalled to Jeremiah that other sad mother
buried there by the lonely roadside. So now again, the awful outrage,
perpetrated almost within sight of that venerable tomb, seems to be
linked across the long centuries with the first Bethlehem grief; and
once more, in the words of the Lamenting Prophet, there is

    “Weeping and great mourning,
     Rachel weeping for her children;
     And she would not be comforted,
      Because they are not.”

The Blossoms of Martyrdom—so a fourth century poet calls these little
ones who were the first of all to suffer death for Christ’s sake.
And in that countless throng of those who “have come out of great
tribulation” there must surely stand in the foremost rank the little
band of Bethlehem children whose blood was shed because an infant
Saviour had been born into an unwelcoming world.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

[Illustration: _THE STORY OF THE STABLE_]




VIII

THE STORY OF THE STABLE


Between the years 1480 and 1483, Brother Felix Fabri, a learned German
monk of Ulm, made two voyages to Palestine, during the course of which
he collected information of all sorts about the holy places, which he
later published in a large and important book. Some of his statements
about Bethlehem are very accurate. Others do not strike us as quite so
convincing.

According to these stories told by Brother Felix, Boaz inherited
from his father Salmon, who had married Rahab of Jericho, a large
mansion built at the very edge of Bethlehem, so that part of the house
projected outside the town wall. In the rock underneath the main
building was a natural grotto which was used as a cellar, and also as
a dwelling room during the hot months. The house passed in due time
into the possession of Boaz’ grandson Jesse, whose son David was born
in the lower room. After David became king, however, the family removed
to Jerusalem, the deserted homestead gradually came into a state of
disrepair, and finally the part in the rock was used as a public
stable. This degradation of the once splendid mansion was permitted
by Providence, so that at last the great Son of David might be born
amid humble surroundings, and yet in the very place where His famous
ancestor first saw the light.

After our Lord’s Ascension, His mother lived for fourteen years,
dwelling in Jerusalem, whence every month she and her friends made a
pious pilgrimage to Bethlehem, that they might worship at the cave of
the Saviour’s birth. This so enraged the Jews that finally they defiled
the stable and blocked up its entrance with stones.

Following the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus, in A. D. 70,
Christians were again allowed to dwell in the Holy Land and to visit
the place of the Nativity, which they cleansed from the Jewish
defilement and hallowed by their worship. But in the year 132, the
Emperor Hadrian laid waste the city of Bethlehem, placed in the sacred
cave a statue of Jupiter and, as a crowning insult, instituted in the
very Grotto of the Nativity the iniquitous rites of the Adonis cult,
which continued to be celebrated there for almost two hundred years.

This, however, was the last heathen desecration of the holy spot.
In the year 326 the pious Helena, mother of the Christian emperor,
Constantine, “cleansed the place of the sweet Nativity of our Lord,
cast out the abominations of the idols from the holy cave, overthrew
all that she found there, and beneath the ruins found the Lord’s manger
entire.” In the manger she discovered the stone on which the Blessed
Virgin had placed the Babe’s head, and the hay and the swaddling
clothes and Joseph’s sandals and the long, loose gown which Mary wore.

[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY]

These were all carried to the capital, Constantinople, and remained
five hundred years in the Cathedral of St. Sophia, until Charlemagne,
returning from the conquest of Jerusalem (so says Fabri), begged
the relics as the reward of his holy labors and took them with him to
the West. The hay was bestowed in the church of Sta. Maria Maggiore in
Rome, the manger in St. John Lateran, and the garments in the cathedral
of Aix-la-Chapelle.

After St. Helena had purified the place of the Nativity, she erected
above it a church of wondrous beauty, but in such a manner that the
rock beneath and the cave in which the Saviour was born should remain
untouched. Whereupon the Jews of Bethlehem in derision nicknamed the
saintly empress “the Woman of the Stable.”

But by the time we reach St. Helena and the building of the Bethlehem
church, legend is beginning to merge into history.

[Illustration: _THE EPITAPH OF LADY PAULA_]




IX

THE EPITAPH OF THE LADY PAULA


The church at Bethlehem is crowded to the doors with a reverent
assemblage, which overflows into the public square and fills all the
nearby streets with silent, sad-faced worshippers. It is four hundred
and four years since the blessed Nativity of our Lord, and the slow,
solemn music which sounds faintly from within the heavy walls of the
ancient church is the requiem of the noblest, sweetest, saddest lady
who ever made her home in Bethlehem for Christ’s sake.

The funeral procession had seemed like a triumphal march. The bier
was borne upon the shoulders of bishops, whilst other bishops carried
candles beside it and led the antiphonal singing of the choirs. Beside
these dignitaries walked the sweet-faced sisters from the great convent
which the dead woman had founded, and barefooted brothers from the no
less famous monastery which she had endowed. Strange figures followed
in the procession: wild, shaggy hermits who for the first time in
years had come out of their caves in the wilderness of Judea, and nuns
bound to perpetual self-immolation, whose unnatural pallor told of
incessant vigils broken this once only, that they also might have a
part in the final honors shown to their beloved and godly benefactor.
Aged Jerome was there; the foremost scholar in all Christendom, but
now bent and weary with the realization that world-wide fame is but a
paltry substitute for the companionship of a faithful friend. Beside
him walked the proud bishop John of Jerusalem, not long since the enemy
of Paula and Jerome and at bitter strife with the convent of Bethlehem;
but now, it seems, a sincere mourner of one before whose pure and
devoted spirit even mighty hierarchs must bow in humble reverence.

But those whose hearts grieve most sincerely cannot all gain admission
to the church. The square before the entrance is crowded with the poor
and the sick and the outcast who are waiting patiently until the long
ceremony shall end. Then these humble folk will slip into the quiet
church at eventide and pray beside the coffin of their beloved friend,
while unrestrained tears roll down their haggard faces—tears for her,
and them, and Bethlehem.

       *       *       *       *       *

It hardly seems seventeen years since the coming of the Lady Paula
stirred the quiet life of Bethlehem. All the world knew of the young
Roman widow, of noble family and enormous wealth, who had renounced the
luxurious life to which she had been accustomed and had aroused the
gossip of the capital by her coarse dress and incessant devotions and
the menial duties which she performed in her efforts to relieve the
condition of the crowded slums of the city. And then the wealthy lady
had broken the last ties of her old life, so the rumor ran, and had
left Rome forever in order to dwell in holy Bethlehem with her daughter
and their friend and teacher, the reverend presbyter Jerome.

For a time Paula and her daughter lived quietly in a small rented
house, until the completion of a convent which was erected at her
expense. A monastery was next built, of which Jerome was made the head,
and in connection with this, a hospice for the entertainment of the
strangers who in greater and greater numbers came hither to visit the
holy places and to study under the famous teacher.

Thereafter Paula was the very spring of Bethlehem life and Christian
activity. She managed the affairs of her various establishments with
patience, tact, and great executive ability; and yet found time to
perfect her Greek and to learn Hebrew, so that under the guidance
of Jerome she might read the entire Bible in the original tongues.
Pilgrims from far and near taxed the resources of the famous hospice,
and gifts to innumerable charities at last exhausted even the large
fortune she had inherited, so that she became not only poor, but in
debt. And reading between the lines of his own correspondence, we can
see that not least among the godly woman’s worries was the care of
the great, but somewhat crabbed old man whom later centuries were to
honor as “Saint” Jerome. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say
that Christendom is indebted to a woman for its most important and
influential version of the Bible; for it is easy to conceive that the
Vulgate translation might never have been completed by Jerome, without
the constant aid and encouragement which were so freely bestowed on the
aged author by his friend.

All these varied and exacting tasks were undertaken by one who
never enjoyed robust health. Paula was often prostrated by serious
illness and she further overtaxed her strength by incessant fasts and
mortifications, until at last the life of the eager, self-sacrificing,
loving, faithful woman burnt itself out at the age of fifty-six.

       *       *       *       *       *

The funeral service is over now. The long procession has left the
church, and for three days the poor whom Paula loved can worship at her
bier. Then the tender, weary, faithful heart will be laid at rest in a
vault beneath the church, “close to the cave of the Lord,” and above
her cavern sepulchre lonely old Jerome will inscribe these lines:

    “Seest thou here hollowed in the rock a grave;
    ’Tis Paula’s tomb, high heaven has her soul,
    Who Rome and friends, riches and home forsook
    Here in this lonely spot to find her rest.
    For here Christ’s manger was, and here the kings
    To Him, both God and man, their offerings made.”

[Illustration: _THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE_]




X

THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE


One of the caves beneath the church at Bethlehem has a window; but
the small opening is so high up in the wall that very little light
enters, and it is some time before the outlines of the room can be
clearly distinguished. It is a square cell, about twelve feet across.
The window is on the north side. At the west a narrow stairway goes
up to the monastery. At the south a door leads through a series of
other caves to the Grotto of the Nativity. On the eastern wall hangs a
crucifix. In the center of the cell is a roughly-made desk, cluttered
with books and papers, while other heavy volumes and thick rolls of
manuscript are piled here and there upon the floor.

In front of the desk sits an old, old man, whose lean, emaciated form
is clothed in a long, brown robe which, though of very rough material,
is neat and clean. His hair is sparse and gray, and his flowing beard
is white as snow. His face is thin and pale, seamed by deep wrinkles
worn by physical suffering and spiritual anguish; but about the mouth
are other lines which tell of a stern, unconquerable spirit. The eyes
are kind, but very weary, and reddened by much study, and he rests them
now upon his long, thin fingers as he ceases his work for a moment and
listens reverently to the muffled music of the service in the church
above.

[Illustration: THE SOUTH TRANSEPT OF THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY AND ONE
OF THE STAIRWAYS LEADING DOWN TO THE SACRED CAVES]

It is sixteen years since Paula died. The old man is the presbyter
Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, better known as St. Jerome; the most
famous scholar of his age and by far the greatest man whose name has
been associated with Bethlehem during all the Christian era. His little
cavern cell is the literary center of the world.

For more than a generation Jerome has pursued his scriptural studies
here, under the ever-present inspiration of the holy associations
which cluster so closely about the cave. Here he has often spent long
night hours in gaining that perfect mastery of Hebrew and Aramaic
and Greek which enables him to grasp the most subtle meanings of the
sacred writings. Here his pen has moved with such feverish activity
that more than once he has completed the translation of an entire Book
in a single day. At this rude desk have been written words that shook
Europe; for Jerome has been the friend of popes and the adviser of
councils. From this humble cell have gone forth learned commentaries,
controversial articles, translations of the Greek Fathers, a voluminous
and widely-circulated correspondence, and that which future generations
will value most highly of all, the splendid revision of the entire
Latin Bible—the Vulgate. This tremendous literary activity has won for
its author the reputation of being the foremost writer of the age, and
has made Bethlehem the goal of innumerable pilgrimages by admiring
students.

The death of Paula, however, seemed to mark the turning point in
Jerome’s career. During the long, lonely years since then he has never
enjoyed the same scholarly quiet, and he has had to cope with repeated
and varied misfortunes. The very winter she died was one of unusual
severity, which sorely tried his physical powers, already weakened
by disease and by long-continued privations. The Isaurians came down
from Asia Minor and devasted northern Palestine, so that the monastery
was overcrowded with fugitives; and with Paula gone, the supervision
of the various religious establishments in Bethlehem was thrust more
and more upon Jerome, who we may believe was not especially gifted
as an executive. Heartrending tidings came from Italy, telling of
Barbarian invasions which at last culminated in the sack of Rome by
Alaric. Jerome became involved in bitter theological controversies,
which resulted in an estrangement from some of his oldest friends and
once at least endangered his life, when a mob of angry partisans set
the monastery on fire, killed one of the inmates, and forced the aged
scholar to flee for refuge to a neighboring fortress. Recently the care
of the monastery and hospice has occupied all the day, and although he
has tried to work on his commentaries at night, his failing eyesight
has finally become so weak that he can hardly decipher the Hebrew
letters by candle-light.

Jerome’s spirit, however, is unbroken by defeat. His last works may
show something of the irritability of illness and age, but there is
never any thought of relaxation or compromise, or any weakening of
faith. And perhaps the great man never seems greater then when we see
him at the age of eighty, sitting here in his cavern cell, so sick
and lonely and indomitable. His translation of Scripture is not yet
accepted as the Bible of all Western Christendom, his sainthood is as
yet undreamed of, his dearest friends are dead or alienated, the dread
advance of the Barbarian hordes is threatening the very existence of
civilized Europe, and the brilliant era of ecclesiastical literature of
which he has been the brightest light is already fading into a dull,
spiritless gloom.

The evening shadows deepen upon the little cave at Bethlehem, as upon
the vast, dying Roman Empire. The chanting of the priests in the church
above ceases. The familiar square characters of the dearly-loved
Hebrew manuscript grow faint and blurred before the scholar’s eyes. He
puts away his pen with a sigh. No disciple takes it up. “There is no
continuation of his work; a few more letters of Augustine and Polinus,
and night falls over the West.”

So they bury him there in the cave, close to faithful Paula, close to
the birthplace of his Lord.

[Illustration: _THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION_]




XI

THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION


In the year of our Lord 1101, on the very birthday of the Saviour and
at the birthplace of the King of kings, Bethlehem is to witness the
most gorgeous, striking scene in all its varied and dramatic history;
for the long, cruel centuries of Moslem domination are over at last,
the banners of the victorious Crusaders now float proudly above the
ramparts of Jerusalem, and the mighty Baldwin, Count of Flanders by
inheritance and Prince of Edessa by right of conquest, is to be crowned
this Christmas Day the first Christian king of Palestine.

Two years earlier, when the Saracens heard that the Western armies were
approaching, they destroyed the Christian quarter of Bethlehem, leaving
standing only the Church of the Nativity; but the gallant Tancred came
promptly to the rescue of the frightened, homeless citizens with a
hundred picked knights, and, as a reward of their valor, it was this
little band who, looking northward from a hill near Bethlehem, were the
first of all the Crusaders to gain the longed-for view of the Holy City.

As soon as Jerusalem was taken and the Moslem army put to rout, the
Crusaders set to work to rebuild the nearby City of the Nativity,
and now that a ruler has been chosen for the new Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem, the coronation ceremony is to take place at Bethlehem;
for Baldwin, with a modesty not entirely in harmony with his previous
ambitious and selfish career, has refused to be crowned in the Holy
City where great David had his throne. Doubtless also the shrewd Count
of Flanders is not blind to the dramatic possibilities of a Christmas
coronation in the Christmas City.

So to-day the plain, sombre interior of the Church of the Nativity is
all ablaze with brilliant coloring. Along the walls of the nave are
battle-worn standards, blessed by pious bishops in distant counties by
the Rhine and the Rhone and the Northern Ocean, and sanctified since
by many a gallant exploit before the walls of Nicea and Antioch, so
that their escutcheons now bear crimson quarterings which were not
embroidered there by the lovely ladies in the lonely palaces across
the sea.

At the rear of the church are ranks of sunburnt men-at-arms in
battered chain-armor, whose stern, self-possessed demeanor throws into
greater contrast the nervous, curious excitement of the Bethlehemite
Christians, who have put on their brightest tunics in honor of their
valiant deliverers from thraldom to the Saracens. The transepts are
crowded with bishops and the great feudal lords who have thrown in
their lot with the new kingdom, for the sake of the rich fiefs which
are at Baldwin’s disposal. The garments of the nobles glisten with
jewels, and the dignitaries of the church are resplendent with gold and
laces. Here and there upon the gorgeous scene the high windows of the
church cast narrow, slanting beams, and the tinted lamps shed their
soft glow upon the mass of variegated, orient hues, which are yet held
in one color harmony by the insistent repetition of the crimson crosses
which shine on every breast.

Where the lamps are most numerous and the light from the windows of
the transepts shines brightest, Baldwin of Flanders kneels before the
great altar and bows his proud head in a semblance of humility as the
jeweled crown is placed upon his brow by the noble Daimbert, archbishop
of Pisa, patriarch of Jerusalem and temporal lord of many a broad fief
and populous village in Judea.

Surely now the veteran warriors chant again that martial Psalm
with which they have advanced so often to the assault of infidel
strongholds, “Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered.” And the
loud battle-cry of the Crusade, which has echoed above many a desperate
conflict, now rolls back and forth from wall to wall of the ancient
church with deafening reverberations, “God wills it! God wills it!” And
this Christmas Day the glad music of the _Gloria in Excelsis_ rings
with a new note of triumph. For the Holy Land is at last reconquered.
The Sepulchre and the Manger are cleansed. A Christian king is to reign
in millennial peace and prosperity over the sacred hills of Palestine.

During the century following the successful issue of the First Crusade,
Bethlehem took a leading part among the cities of the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem. In 1110 it was elevated to the rank of an episcopal
see, whose fiefs included large tracts of land scattered all through
Palestine. The Church of the Nativity, which the Crusaders found to
be somewhat bare and dilapidated, was thoroughly restored and adorned
by rich gifts. The Byzantine emperor, Manuel Comnenos, had the walls
beautified with magnificent mosaic pictures, made of colored glass
cubes set in a background of gold. Among the other mosaic saints, the
artist Edfrem was allowed to introduce the portrait of the generous
emperor. More modest donors presented the church with a baptismal font
which bore the simple inscription that it was given by “those whose
names are known to the Lord.”

Now that Palestine was no longer under Moslem rule, pilgrims thronged
from every Christian country to visit the holy places, and Bethlehem
was crowded with even greater multitudes than during the days of St.
Helena or St. Jerome. At Christmas time the vast concourse of clergy
and nobles and pilgrims celebrated the festival with gorgeous pomp in
the restored and now magnificent church. There were peals of ringing
bells, and triumphant choruses of praise, and swinging of priceless
censers, and above the great throng of worshippers a golden star was
pulled across the church, while young men on the roof chanted the song
of the angels.

“In those days,” Brother Felix tells us, “Bethlehem was full of people,
famous and rich. Christians of every country on earth brought presents
thither, and exceeding rich merchants dwelt there.”

But with peace and wealth, the Christian population of Bethlehem
became more and more enervated and corrupt, until it is said that at
last one of the leading men of the town planned to commit a deadly sin
within the very precincts of the sacred Cave of the Nativity. When this
was reported to the Moslems, they saw that virtue had departed from
their Christian rulers, so they were not afraid to rise up against
them, and soon they drove them out of all Palestine.

This is only a tradition; but it sounds almost like an allegory of the
actual issue of the Crusades and the lamentable fate of the short-lived
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.

[Illustration: _SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS_]




XII

SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS


Numberless traditions have sprung up concerning the sacred places in
and about Bethlehem and the holy persons who dwelt there. Many of these
tales are really beautiful, and even when they will not bear a too
critical inspection, there is often a moral overlaid by the extravagant
details of the narrative.

       *       *       *       *       *

The story of the First Roses is told in the words of Sir John
Mandeville, who heard it in Bethlehem in the year 1322, except that
the spelling of the old knight has necessarily been modernized.

“And between the City and the Church is the Felde Floridus, that is
to say, the Flowery Field: forasmuch as a fair Maiden was blamed with
wrong and slandered; for which cause she was doomed to the Death; and
to be burnt in that place, to the which she was led. And as the Fire
began to burn about her, she made her prayers to our Lord, that as
truly she was not guilty of that Sin, He would help her and make it
known to all men, of His merciful Grace. And when she had thus said,
she entered into the Fire, and anon was the Fire quenched and out: and
the Brands that were burning, became red Roseries; and the Brands that
were not kindled, became white Roseries, full of Roses. And these were
the first Roseries and Roses, both white and red, that ever any Man
saw. And thus was this Maiden saved by the Grace of God.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The chapter of the Koran entitled “Mary” tells how a palm tree near
the birthplace of Jesus miraculously let fall its ripe dates in order
to satisfy His mother’s hunger. Practically all early Moslem visitors
to Palestine speak of seeing this tree and note the fact of its being
the only one of the kind growing in the district. This made the
miracle even more marvellous, as date-palms have to be artificially
cross-fertilized before their fruit will come to maturity.

       *       *       *       *       *

A twelfth century pilgrim tells us that “every year in the middle of
the night, at the hour when Christ was born, all the trees about the
city of Bethlehem bow their branches down to the ground toward the
place where Christ was born, and when the sun rises, gradually raise
them up again.”

       *       *       *       *       *

About a mile outside of Bethlehem is still pointed out the “Field of
Peas,” but the story of the origin of these small, round stones has
undergone a number of variations. This is the way it was told to Henry
Maundrell, who visited Palestine about the year 1700.

[Illustration: ST. JEROME AND THE LION

 From the painting by Rubens
]

“Near this Monument (Rachel’s Tomb) is a little piece of ground in
which are picked up a little sort of small round Stones, exactly
resembling Pease: Concerning which they have a tradition here, that
they were once truly what they now seem to be; but the Blessed Virgin
petrify’d them by a Miracle, in punishment to a surly Rustick, who
deny’d her the Charity of a handful of them to relieve her hunger.”

       *       *       *       *       *

According to a mediæval biography, St. Jerome was one day studying in
his cell at Bethlehem, when there entered an enormous lion, limping
from an injured paw. The tender-hearted saint bound up the wound,
which speedily healed, whereupon the great beast was overwhelmed with
gratitude and attached himself permanently to his deliverer.

The lion followed Jerome about everywhere like a dog, and slept at the
feet of the holy man while he was pursuing his Scriptural studies.
Upon occasion, however, the complacent creature was not above minding
the monastery donkey when it was put out to pasture, or even acting
as a beast of burden; while at night the fearful roar of the saint’s
protector brought terror to the hearts of any evil-doers who might be
prowling near the monastery grounds.

The story was accepted without question during the Middle Ages, and
many a valiant Crusader was willing to make oath that he had seen the
ghosts of the saint and his attendant lion strolling silently among the
hilltops of Judea in the midnight shadows.

       *       *       *       *       *

A whole group of legends tell of the miraculous deliverances of the
Church of the Nativity from destruction by the Moslems.

At one time the Sultan gave orders to dismantle the interior, and carry
off the precious marble slabs from the floor and walls of the church.
But when the workmen prepared to tear away the wall near the stairways
which go down to the sacred cave, suddenly there came out of the solid
stone a serpent of enormous size, who struck at the piece of marble
before which the Moslems were standing. And lo, the rock split under
the force of his fiery tongue! Swiftly the reptile glided to the next
slab, which he likewise cracked; and so he passed through the church,
splitting in all no less than forty pieces of marble, after which he
disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. The Sultan and his helpers
were stricken with terror at the apparition, and gave up their purpose
to deface the church.

The cracks in the marble apparently disappeared as soon as the danger
was past; but in substantiation of the truth of the story, mediæval
pilgrims were shown traces of the serpent’s path, which appeared as
though the stones had been marked by an intense flame.

[Illustration: _THE LONG WHITE ROAD_]




XIII

THE LONG WHITE ROAD


The Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem opens out upon two historic highways. The
one which gives its name to the gate leads westward to the sea; the
other, which we are to take, passes southward along the Valley of
Hinnom between the Sultan’s Pool and the western wall of the city, and
then climbs over the brow of a steep hill on its way to Hebron, beyond
which the caravan trail leads farther on to the South Country and the
desert and the land of the Pharaohs.

A good walker could go from Jerusalem to Bethlehem in a little more
than an hour, for the distance is hardly five miles; but it will be
more pleasant to stroll along leisurely, studying the other wayfarers,
and stopping now and then to admire some rugged old olive tree or to
watch the changing colors on the distant hills.

[Illustration: THE BETHLEHEM ROAD (To the Right)

From the Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem]

As soon as we are fairly started down the Hebron road, we begin
to pass little companies of men and women who are coming up from
Bethlehem to the Holy City with their merchandise. There is a striking
difference between the appearance of these people and that of the other
inhabitants of Judea; a difference not only in dress, but in feature.
The men wear large yellow turbans, and have full lips, long noses, and
high, sloping foreheads, so that they fit in very closely with our
common idea of the Hebrew type. They are not Jews, however, but
Christians, and it is said that in the veins of many of them flows the
blood of the Crusaders. The boys we meet are frank and independent,
tramping merrily along, with little caps on their heads, their one
long, loose garment tucked up into the leather belt, and their brown,
bare legs ending in tremendous slippers which flop clumsily with every
step.

The women of Bethlehem are known throughout Palestine for their
peculiar headdress. Over a high cap is thrown a large white kerchief
or veil, which falls behind the shoulders and often reaches below the
waist. Seen from behind, the Bethlehemite woman is a square of blue
skirt, topped by a tall triangle of white; from the front she looks
like a nun of some unfamiliar order. It is a singular costume, but
you soon come to like it, and when the clean, white headdress is seen
in the distance, it is pleasant to be able to recognize its wearer as
a woman of Bethlehem. As we pass one little company after another, we
cannot help looking rather closely to see what kind of women these are
who are coming out from the town of Ruth and of Mary.

[Illustration: BETHLEHEM GIRLS]

Outside of poetical romances, one does not find many examples of
Oriental beauty. There are multitudes of pretty children, and the
girls of twelve or fourteen have large, soft eyes, regular features
and graceful figures; but early marriages and the subsequent drudgery,
combined with a lack of proper dentistry, usually turn them into
toothless, wrinkled hags at an age when they should be most
attractive. There are exceptions among the richer classes and among
girls who have been educated in schools connected with European or
American missions; but on the whole there are very few fine-looking
women over twenty-five years old to be found in Palestine.

We are therefore surprised to notice that many of these Bethlehem
women are really handsome; not with the rich, voluptuous beauty which
is usually associated with the East, but with a matronly dignity
which appeals more strongly to our Western eyes. We enjoy watching
that young mother who is carrying the baby upon her shoulder; she is
such a straight, slender woman, with clean-cut features and honest
eyes. We like the old woman beside her; an old woman who looks like a
grandmother, not like a withered witch, and who carries herself with a
dignity that wins our admiration.

It may be due to nothing more than good food and pure water, or to
the great headdresses which make it necessary to stand so erect; but
whatever the cause, it seems to us that not even in Nazareth have we
seen so many self-respecting, motherly-looking women as in this town
which once witnessed the apotheosis of motherhood.

As we stroll along the well-paved road, we pass one spot after another
which is not only connected by tradition with the sacred history, but
which has been noted by such a long succession of pious pilgrims that
even the most trivial fables seem to bind us more closely with the
innumerable throng which for nineteen centuries has been treading with
reverent feet this ancient highway to the birthplace of our Lord.

Off to our right is the Wâdi el-Werd, “The Valley of Roses,” which
recalls the quaint tale of Sir John Mandeville. At the left of the
road is a well by which Mary is said to have rested on her way to
Bethlehem, and in which a few days later the Wise Men found again the
reflection of the guiding Star. Some distance further on, near the
venerable monastery of St. Elijah, the “Field of Peas” is still strewn
with its little, rounded stones. A sudden rise in the road broadens our
horizon so that we can see, off to the left and very far below us, the
dark blue waters of the Dead Sea. Six or seven miles to the southeast
there rises the striking profile of the Frank Mountain, shaped like a
truncated pyramid, upon whose platform lie the ruins of Herod’s famous
castle. Glimpses of Bethlehem itself are caught now and then between
the surrounding heights. We pass the tomb of beautiful, warm-hearted,
impulsive Rachel, the sadness of whose lonely burial by the roadside
has touched the hearts of passers-by for nearly forty centuries.

Here we leave the main road, which goes on southward to Hebron,
and turn in to the left to Bethlehem. “David’s Well” has long been
identified with a series of cisterns hewn in the rock some distance
before we reach the modern city. Somewhere in the fields below us Ruth
gleaned among the harvesters of Boaz. Somewhere among those same fields
the youthful David tended his father’s sheep. Somewhere above them rang
the glad music of the angelic Gloria. Somewhere on the long hilltop,
now covered by the white, closely-built houses of the town, the Saviour
of the world was born.

The heart must be dead to romance as well as to religion, which does
not beat with a strange, solemn excitement upon entering the Christmas
City.

[Illustration: _THE HOUSE OF BREAD_]




XIV

THE HOUSE OF BREAD


Bethlehem Ephrathah, which was once “little to be among the thousands
of Judah,” is now one of the largest and wealthiest Christian towns in
all Palestine.

The Hebrews called it _Beth Lehem_, “the House of Bread”; and its
modern Arabic name is no less significant—_Beit Lahm_, “the House of
Meat,” that is, of course, the Prosperous City. The soil takes on
a greater fertility as Jerusalem is left behind; but we are hardly
prepared for the beautiful greenness that is seen when a sudden turn
in the road brings into view the two large Christian towns of Beit Jala
and Beit Lahm. One is on an eminence to the right of the Hebron road;
the other is on an elevation to the left; and they both look very clean
and white and well-to-do, in the midst of their vineyards and orchards.

[Illustration: BETHLEHEM

The massive buildings at the left are all connected with the Church of
the Nativity]

Bethlehem, which is the larger of the two, is built along the summit
of a crescent-shaped hill, about two-thirds of a mile long, with its
concave side toward the north, so that practically the entire town
is spread out before us as we approach it from Jerusalem. At the
right-hand horn of the crescent are large, square buildings belonging
to various Latin monastic orders. At the left are the dark, heavy walls
of the Church of the Nativity, with its low, open belfry. Between these
larger structures is a confused mass of closely-built white houses,
whose profile is broken only by the tall, slender spire of the chapel
of the German Mission. Immediately in front of us the steep slope of
the hill below the town is carefully terraced, and planted here and
there with small olive and fig orchards.

The town is the market of all the district around, which is rich in
agricultural products. For many centuries Bethlehem has also been
famous for the manufacture of souvenirs, which are sold to pilgrims
and tourists, not only here, but in Jerusalem and Damascus and Beirût.
Rosaries, paper-cutters, cigarette holders and stamp boxes are made
from olive wood, the bituminous “Moses-stone” from the Dead Sea is
shaped into little vases and paper weights, and mother-of-pearl is
carved into elaborate bas-reliefs of sacred scenes. The shop-keepers
are busy and energetic, and a prosperous self-respect seems
characteristic of everything about the place.

The inhabitants number eight or nine thousand, nearly all of whom
are Christians; adherents of one or other of the Oriental Catholic
churches. The population seems to be increasing; for we found some of
the streets almost impassable because of the piles of stone and lumber
for the new buildings. The modern Bethlehemites have lived up to the
ancient reputation of their town for fierce and reckless courage; and
until comparatively recent times there were frequent and sanguinary
clashes between the Christian and Moslem residents. The latter,
however, were completely driven out of Bethlehem about seventy-five
years ago, and their houses destroyed; and though some few have
returned, the Moslems still number only three or four per cent of the
population.

In Palestine to-day there is much that is unclean and unhealthy,
poor and degrading; and many sites that should be hallowed by the
most sacred memories have been profaned by the hands of idolatry and
oppression. Even Bethlehem and Nazareth have not entirely escaped; yet
these two have somehow kept a peculiar dignity; and, indeed, it seems
fitting that the place where our Lord was born, and the place where He
made His earthly home, should maintain a certain pre-eminence among the
cities of the Holy Land.

[Illustration: _THE CHURCH WHICH IS A FORT_]




XV

THE CHURCH WHICH IS A FORT


The Church of St. Mary in Bethlehem or, as it is more commonly called,
the Church of the Nativity, was built about the year 330, during the
reign of the Emperor Constantine; and, as we have already seen, a very
ancient tradition ascribes its erection to the emperor’s mother, St.
Helena. Through all the wars which have raged over Palestine and during
which the city of Bethlehem has again and again been devastated and its
houses and castles and monasteries overthrown, the old church alone
has escaped destruction. It is no wonder that its preservation has so
often been ascribed to miraculous interventions. Although the building
has been slightly altered and restored from time to time, its essential
features have not been changed, and there can be little doubt that this
is the oldest church in the world.

Except for the single low belfry, the heavy, confused mass looks more
like a fort than a religious edifice. Besides the central church,
there lie practically under the same roof three large monasteries,
belonging to the Greek Orthodox, Gregorian Armenian, and Roman Catholic
communions. The collection of buildings is at the extreme eastern
end of the town, so that while the front faces the public square of
Bethlehem, the rear is at the very edge of a steep cliff, below which
stretches the open country. Viewed from the east, the massive pile
resembles a great feudal castle overlooking the farm lands of the
vassals in the valley beneath.

There are very few windows in the thick stone walls, and the main
entrance from the square is by a single narrow door, so low that one
must stoop in passing through. The two other doorways at the front
have been walled up and this one purposely made so small, for fear of
attack by the Moslems. Yet to-day we find just inside the vestibule a
half-company of Turkish infantry. It seems strangely incongruous that
Moslem soldiers should be encamped in a Christian church, but we shall
see later that there is a good reason for their presence here.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY

Showing the high stone wall which separates the nave from the choir and
transepts]

The church proper is only about one hundred and twenty feet long and
the whole interior cannot be seen at one view; for, as an additional
protection in case of conflict with the Moslems, the transepts and
choir are concealed by a high wall built right across the church, so
that from the entrance only the nave is visible. This is plain to the
point of bareness. Except for a few dimly burning lamps, the only light
comes from small windows set high up in the wall, just under the roof.
Above the reddish limestone columns which separate the nave from the
aisles can still be seen the remains of the famous mosaics given by
the Emperor Comnenos; but these are so badly defaced that it is often
difficult to determine the subject of the pictures. To the right a
small door leads to the Greek monastery; another door at the left opens
into the buildings belonging to the Latin monks. The dividing wall
at the back is pierced by three doors. Two of these can be entered by
no priests except those of the Greek Orthodox Church, but the use of
the third is shared also with the Armenian clergy. The Roman Catholic
monks enter the transepts directly from their adjoining monastery: they
have little to do, however, with the part of the building which is
above ground.

These entrances bring us abruptly from the impressive simplicity of
the nave to the transepts and choir, which are well lighted and are
almost oppressive in their lavish ornamentation. The great altar facing
us belongs to the Greeks, and in front of it are the stalls of the
Greek clergy and the tall patriarchal throne. The smaller altar of
the Armenians is off at one side in the northern transept. Lamps of
gold and silver swing from the ceiling; bright-colored pictures hang
here and there; tawdry, tinsel decorations glitter everywhere; and on
the upper part of the walls are portions of quaint mosaic pictures
representing scenes from the life of Christ. All that we have yet seen,
however, is a mere antechamber to the holy places which lie in the rock
beneath the church.

[Illustration: _THE SACRED CAVES_]




XVI

THE SACRED CAVES


At each side of the central altar of the Church of the Nativity a
narrow stairway leads down to a series of six underground chambers,
which undoubtedly were originally natural caverns, although they have
since been somewhat enlarged and the native rock in many places has
been overlaid with marble slabs. In one of these caves St. Jerome is
said to have lived; in the next he is buried, near to the tomb of his
friend and pupil, Paula. In other chambers the monks point out the
exact spot where the worshipping Magi stood, the opening in the wall
from which a spring miraculously gushed forth out of the solid rock
for the use of the Holy Family, the place where the angel appeared to
Joseph and commanded him to go down into Egypt, and the corner where
the soldiers of Herod massacred a number of children who had been
brought here for refuge.

The largest cave, and the first we enter from the church above, is
about forty feet long. At one end of it there is let into the pavement
a large silver star with the inscription, _Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus
Christus natus est_, “Here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.”

[Illustration: THE ALTAR OF THE NATIVITY

In the floor beneath is seen the Silver Star]

If the inscription is true, there is no other spot on earth so sacred
as this, save only Calvary and the Garden Tomb. And it is quite
probable that the stable was really in a cave; for in hilly Judea it
often happens that a house or an inn is built on a slope, with the
living quarters entirely above ground, but with the stable beneath
partly excavated in the rock. Sometimes, indeed, there is a natural
cavern which, with very little alteration, can be used for housing the
animals.

Tradition concerning the place of the Nativity goes back to the very
early ages of Christianity. In the middle of the second century Justin
Martyr states that Christ was born in a cave. In the third century
Origen says, “There is shown at Bethlehem the cave where He was born,
and the manger in the cave where He was wrapped in swaddling clothes.
And this site is greatly talked of in surrounding places, even among
the enemies of the faith, it being said that in this cave was born
that Jesus who is worshipped and reverenced by the Christians.” In the
fourth century Eusebius tells of the building of this very church by
St. Helena, who “dedicated two churches to the God whom she adored,
one at the grotto which was the scene of the Saviour’s birth, and the
other on the mount of His ascension. For He who was ‘God with us’ had
submitted to be born even in a cave of the earth, and the place of His
nativity was called Bethlehem by the Hebrews.” And from the fourth
century on, there is an unbroken chain of testimony concerning the
identification of this particular cavern with the scene of the Nativity.

The star is in a little recess at the end of the cave, and above it is
an altar, small but very richly furnished. Of the fifteen altar-lamps
of gold and silver which hang around the star, six belong to the
Greek, five to the Armenian and four to the Latin monks, who divide
in this way the ownership of most of the shrines in the church. The
floor of the entire cave is of marble, upon its walls are marbles and
rich tapestries, and many lamps hang from the ceiling; yet, on coming
from the bright transepts above, the first impression is one of deep
gloom. The low roof can hardly be distinguished, and the back of the
cave is lost in impenetrable darkness. The smoking lamps give to the
atmosphere a heavy, reddish color. The chanting of the priests in the
choir overhead is heard only as a dull murmur. We are the only visitors
to-day, except that in front of the little altar there kneel four
French nuns, great tears rolling down their pallid faces as they pray
in a frightened whisper.

_Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est!_

[Illustration: _THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR_]




XVII

THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR


Our eyes are now growing accustomed to the subdued light, and off in
one corner of the cave where the gloom is very deep, a form is slowly
coming into view. Dark, indistinct, immovable; it would be possible
for a worshipper to come and go, and never see that shape at the end
of the altar; but by day and by night it is always there—the Moslem
guardian of the Silver Star. That is why there is a garrison in the
church above. The soldier is half-fed and paid not at all, and his blue
uniform is ragged and dirty; but he holds a modern repeating rifle in
his hand as he stands there by the hour without moving a muscle, ready
when need comes to face valiantly any odds in the performance of his
duty.

He needs to be brave; for when the Christmas season comes round,
Bethlehem is thronged with worshippers of the Prince of Peace. They
fill the church to overflowing. They rush down the narrow stairways
that lead to the little cave, and there they crowd and curse and fight
for a glimpse of the Silver Star; so that sometimes the air grows foul
and the lamps burn even more dimly and women faint and strong men fall
down and are trampled to death in the horrible confusion.

And quiet does not come with the passing of the Christmastide; but all
through the year the monks from the convents above quarrel over the
possession of the little shrine, and open warfare is not uncommon.
Then the rival parties snarl and scratch; they seize heavy lamps and
holy candlesticks from the altars, and priestly garments are torn and
priestly heads are broken, until soldiers from the Turkish garrison
come down and assist the sentry in clubbing the unruly ones into
submission.

I often wonder what the silent sentinel thinks about as he stands there
hour by hour, watching the smoky lights that glow above the Silver
Star.

[Illustration: _SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN_]




XVIII

THE SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN


We turned in sadness of heart to shake the dust of Bethlehem from our
feet. Up out of the cave and out of the transept we hurried; but then
we took the wrong door, and instead of reaching the public square,
we found ourselves in the church of the Franciscans. It was the time
of the vesper service, and among the shadows of the unlighted nave
there stretched long lines of kneeling women. They were all natives of
Bethlehem, with the tall white headdress whose spotless cleanness is in
such contrast to the costumes of most Palestinian villagers.

It was a service of song, and every woman seemed to be taking part.
After the officiating priest chanted each brief stanza, the loud chorus
was taken up by the full volume of sweet soprano voices. As the light
died away, and the white-veiled forms of the kneeling worshippers grew
indistinct and dreamlike, the music of the oft-repeated chorus sank
into our hearts, and we stayed on and on, until our anger against the
sham and idolatry in the caves below had all been driven away and there
remained only the Bethlehem calm.

None of us knew the name of that evening hymn. It was very simple, yet
one of the sweetest melodies we had ever heard. We shall never forget
the song, or the calm faces of the women who sang it. I have listened
for it since in many cathedrals. Two years later I went back to the
Bethlehem church in the hope of hearing it again; but there seemed to
be no vespers that evening. We could not understand the words of the
song; we could not even tell whether it was in Latin or Arabic, but I
like to believe that it was a hymn about the Babe of Bethlehem. And
now, when I think of that village among the beautiful hills of far-away
Judea, the bigotry and jealousy do not seem so very important. I am
even ready to forgive the Moslem guardian of the Silver Star, for the
sake of that nameless melody of the women of Bethlehem.

[Illustration: _ACROSS THE AGES_]




XIX

ACROSS THE AGES


Night falls. The stars shine brightly through the clear Judean air. We
walk very slowly down the winding road, and often stop to look back to
the hilltop where the thick-clustered houses of the little town stand
so clear and white against the blue-black sky. Yonder lies Bethlehem,
bathed in soft, silvery starlight which cleanses it from every trace of
violence and bigotry and crime, and paints only pleasant memories of
love and valor and hope.

There the lonely heart of the Moabitess found its haven. There the
sweet singer of Israel set to melodious measures the story of the
fields and the mountains and the divine Shepherd’s care. There a
wondrous Child was born, for whose sake wise men and tender women
left home and friends across the sea, that they might dwell near the
hallowed, humble spot of His Nativity. Within the vague, dark shadow
of that ancient church, the noblest-born of earth have gathered to do
homage to the Lord of lords and King of kings. And across the stillness
of the night there seem to echo again the sturdy shouts of dauntless
warriors who made the mountains ring with their triumphant cry of
faith, “God wills it! God wills it!”

Yes, God has willed it all, even in the hardest, darkest hour of
Bethlehem’s long history. Before our lingering steps lie the noisy
bazaars of Jerusalem and the busy, practical, modern world to which we
must so soon return. But we have been to Bethlehem; and across all the
troublous ages, bursting from every shining star, and drowning with its
sweet music the perplexities of our own weary lives, there rings the
glad refrain of the Angel’s Song—

  GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON
  EARTH PEACE, GOOD WILL TOWARD
  MEN.





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