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CHAPEL AT BETHLEHEM.

The distance from Jerusalem to Bethlehem is about six miles: it is a beautiful ride, and leads over the plain of Rephidim, a wild and uncultivated tract, with many an illustrious hill and monument on either side, and the bold crest of the acclivity of Bethel in front. A lonely dwelling on the left, a mean Turkish coffee-house, offers the passenger refreshment: a few miles farther on, are the ruins of the village of Rama: fragments of walls a few feet high are now the vestiges of the place where, in the touching words of the prophet, the mother "wept for her children, and refused to be comforted, because they were not." There is a spot on the plain, of yet higher interest than this ruined village, from which it is not far-the tomb of Rachel. This is one of the places where the observer is persuaded that tradition has not erred, as it fulfils literally the words of Israel in his last hour, when dwelling on the only indelible remembrance that earth seemed to claim from him. The long exile from the home of his parents, the converse with the angels of God, the wealth and greatness which gathered around him, all yield to the memory and image of the loved and faithful wife: "Rachel died by me in the way from Bethel, and I buried her there." The spot is as wild and solitary as can well be conceived: no palms or cypresses give their shelter from the blast: not a single tree spreads its shade where the ashes of the beautiful mother of Israel rest. Yet there is something in this sepulchre in the wilderness, that excites a deeper interest than more splendid or revered ones. The tombs of Zacharias and Absalom in the valley of Jehosaphat, or of the judges in the plain of Jeremiah, the traveller looks at with careless indifference: besides that of Rachel, his fancy wanders to "the land of the people of the East;" to the power of beauty, that could so long make banishment sweet; to the devoted companion of the patriarch, who deemed all troubles light for

her sake.

Bethlehem, a mile distant, stands on the brow of a rocky hill, whose sides and feet are sprinkled with olive-trees. After dining very frugally at the Franciscan convent, we visited the church built by the Empress Helena: it is large, and supported by several rows of lofty marble pillars, between which lamps are hung, and are always lighted, as well as the chandelier suspended from the roof- during the feast of Easter. The spacious interior of the church has a dull and naked appearance, with little ornament, and looked almost silent and forsaken after the crowded and exciting scenes of the Church of the Sepulchre. Descending thirteen stone steps, we were in the place that was formerly the stable, where the Redeemer was born. There is no violation of con

sistency in this, as the stables in the East are now often formed in the same way, beneath the surface. Its present appearance is that of a grotto, as it is hewn out of a rock, the sides of which, however, are concealed by silk curtains: the roof is as nature made it, and the floor paved with fine marble. A rich altar, where the lamps continually burn, is erected over the place where Christ was born: and the very spot is marked by a large silver star. The glory, of marble and jasper, around the silver star, has a Latin inscription: "In this spot Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary." Alone, in the stillness of evening, in this indelible scene, what memories steal upon the thoughts! what immortal hopes !—but for the event in this simple and rock-hewn grotto, how dark would have been our way, how despairing its close! These dim cold walls are ineffably dear: why have they covered them with silk, and the floor with marble? better have them as when the shepherds first beheld the Lord-simple and rude, as the roof still remainsmemorial of that exquisite lowliness of spirit, that ever loved the poor and gentle things of this world, better than the rich and mighty. During our second visit to this spot, we were alone: no voice or footstep broke on its stillness; the monks were either absorbed in sleep or in their devotions, and knew not of our being there: the rich lamps, ever burning, alone threw their light around. The stillness, the gloom, the light dimly falling on the dark and rocky roof, made it seem to the fancy like the burial, rather than the birth-place, of Him who took from death its unutterable sorrow, and gave immortality and glory to the lost.

At Christmas, ere the morn is breaking, how affecting is the service in Bethlehem! Some of the Christians repair to the very field where the shepherds watched their flocks, and there, beneath the two ancient trees, as the sun is rising, it is beautiful to sit and look at the hill of Engedi and the tomb of Rachel! The only stream visible, flows down the vale from the fountain of Bethlehem, of which David longed to drink; it is to this day a pure deep fountain of delicious water, at the foot of the hill.

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