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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

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