CHAPTER XXXI--AMONG THE MONKS.

_From the Gates of Jerusalem to Bethlehem--A Touching Incident--Tent-Life at Bethlehem--The Milk Grotto--Its Miraculous Character--The “Doubter” Expresses Himself--The Oldest Christian Church in the World--Quarrelsome Monks--A Deadly Fight--Remarkable Conduct of the “Doubter”--Pious Pilgrims--A Christmas Festival--A Corpulent and Hospitable Monk--A Wearisome Ceremony--The Monks in Costume--The Women of Bethlehem--A Bevy of Beauties--Under Guard--Armenian Soldiers--Travelling to Saba--Among the Monks--A Curious Convent--Armed Against the Bedouins._

WE were in the Holy Land at Christmas time, and arranged to attend the Christmas eve festivities in Bethlehem. About two o’clock in the afternoon of the day before Christmas we mounted our horses and turned our attention to the southern horizon.

Out of the Jaffa gate we filed, and then past the Hill of Evil Counsel, and near the so-called Lower Aqueduct we took the road to Bethlehem.

The road was much like that which brought us to Jerusalem--a path among rocks and hills--though the latter were less abrupt, and there were in many places considerable areas of tillable land. It is a ride of less than two hours from one city to the other, and there are few objects of interest along the route Rachel’s Tomb was pointed out, and also the well, whose waters David longed for when he was in the cave of Adullam.

The Tomb of Rachel is a small building, surmounted with a dome, and possessing no peculiar features. The structure is modern, and probably in the thirty centuries that have passed

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{401}since Rachel was buried there, several buildings have crumbled to dust and been replaced by pious hands.

The authenticity of the spot is vouched for by all who have written on the subject, and the tomb is one of the few shrines which Jews, Christians, and Moslems agree about in their traditions, and have not seen fit to quarrel over. We made a short halt, and one of our party read aloud from the Bible the brief and touching narrative of Rachel’s death. It had a new and fresh interest to us, and we all listened attentively to the simple story.

Bethlehem is on a rather steep hill-side, and presents an appearance of terraces as one looks at it from a short distance. It has the low mud walls and flat roofs of most Syrian towns, and apart from its historical interest, and the possession of the Church of the Nativity, it is of little importance. As we approached it, the convent on the eastern side presents an appearance, not unlike that of a baronial castle of the Rhine or Danube, and recalls to us some of the walls that frown upon those famous rivers or overlook the lovely valleys of Western Germany. Coming nearer, the soft lines of the picture become clearly defined, and as we enter the city and thread its streets, we find that it is not unlike Jerusalem and Jaffa and other places in Syria, through which we have journeyed.

There is no hotel at Bethlehem, and the influx of strangers consequent upon the Christmas festivities had filled the Latin convent to its fullest capacity. We determined to begin our camp life here, and so sent our tents forward in the morning, to be ready for our arrival.

We found them pitched in a little field just outside the town, and close to the “Milk Grotto,” where tradition relates that the Virgin and Child hid themselves from the fury of Herod, sometime before the flight into Egypt. Here the Virgin nursed the Child, and the soft stone is said to have the miraculous power of wonderfully increasing women’s milk. Bits of it are carried to all parts of the world for this purpose. The Abbe Geramb says of it:

“_I make no remarks on the virtue of these stones, but affirm as an ascertained fact, that a great number of persons have found from it the effect they anticipate_.” {402}Of course we visited the grotto, which was a sort of chapel, j lighted with lamps. The “Doubter” asserted his lack of faith in the virtue of the stone, but nevertheless he brought away some of it, but refused to give the customary gratuity to the custodian, much to the disgust of the latter.

From the Milk Grotto we went to the Church of the Nativity, beset at every step, as we were at every moment on the streets of Bethlehem, by venders of ornaments of olive wood and mother i of pearl. The church, if we include the buildings connected with it, covers a large area, as it belongs to three rival sects of Latins, Greeks, and Armenians, and each has a convent or monastery connected with it. The church itself is about one hundred and twenty feet by one hundred and ten, and is divided into a nave and four aisles by Corinthian columns, which support horizontal architraves.

The pavement and roof are in very bad condition, and the whole church looks as if it would soon tumble to pieces. It was built by the Empress Helena, in the early part of the fourth century, and is probably the oldest monument of Christian architecture in the world.

The reason of its dilapidated condition is found in the jealousy of the rival sects of monks; any two of them will unite to prevent the third making the repairs so much needed, and no two of them will consent to allow another to have anything to do with the church. Several times the monks have had fights for the decoration or possession of the Grotto of the Nativity, and it has been found necessary for the government to station soldiers there, to preserve order.

Two or three years ago, one of the factions set fire to the decorations which another had put up, and the whole place was filled with smoke, and some of the walls were disfigured. During the fight at the fire some of the monks were killed, and up to the present time there is a continuance of the feeling of hostility. The Crimean war owes its origin, in part, to the question of the possession of the Church of the Nativity, and more than once a few square inches of the rock floor of the grotto have been very nearly the cause of war in Europe. The whole space is carefully parcelled out among the rival sects, and Turkish soldiers {403}are constantly on duty there, to preserve order! How we Christians love one-another.

Guided by a native Christian, a dealer in relics, who spoke French, and attached himself to us with an eye to business, we entered the church, and descended a flight of steps to the grotto, a low vault about forty feet long by twelve feet wide. At the eastern end is a marble slab in the pavement, and in the centre of the slab is a silver star, bearing the inscription:

“_Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christ Natus est._”

“Here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.”

Every moment pious pilgrims entered the grotto, and kneeling, kissed the star. Our guide kissed it, and so did another native Christian who followed us, and each monk, as he entered, gave a similar sign of his reverence and his faith. The “Doubter” knelt, and the rest of us were dumb with surprise, as he was a persistent scoffer at everything in the shape of religion, and had no more reverence than a crocodile. For a moment, we thought he had been the object of a miracle, and that we should have occasion to record a conversion of a most remarkable character.

But it resulted otherwise; he rubbed his hands several times over the star--a spot which all the pilgrims around us were regarding with the deepest reverence--rubbed it as one feels the texture of a piece of cloth, and then rose to his feet.

To our united enquiry as to what in the world he was trying to do, he said he wanted to. find out what the inscription was. We said nothing at the time, as the place was not a proper one for a lecture, but when we got outside didn’t we give it to him?

Sixteen silver lamps burn constantly, year in and year out, over the star, and behind them are little pictures of saints, some of them set with precious stones. Over the star is a plain altar, which belongs to all ‘the sects in common, and each must dress it with the proper ornaments, when its turn comes to celebrate mass. There is a small chapel, dedicated to “The Manger,” on the south side of the grotto, and at the other end of the grotto is the Chapel of the Innocents, dedicated to the children slain by Herod. There are several other grottos beneath the church, and all of them are of a sacred character.

It was dark when we left the church and returned to our tents to dine and take a short rest, preparatory to a vigil long after {404}midnight, to witness the ceremonies of Christmas Eve. Table was set in one of the tents, and we dined better than at any of the Syrian hotels. We had brought a bottle of champagne from Jerusalem and finished the meal with a Christmas glass to friends at home.

Before leaving Jerusalem for Bethlehem, we found that our Consul, Dr. De Hass, was going there with his wife, and had secured quarters in the Armenian convent. We saw them soon after our arrival, and arranged to call on them about ten o’clock in the evening, and while away some of the time previous to the ceremony.

Taking our dragoman to guide us, we found the convent, and after wandering through several corridors, were shown into the waiting room, where two or three men were asleep on divans. One of them was the janizary of the Consul, and after rousing him and waiting till he rubbed his eyes into the proper position of openness, we sent a message to Dr. De Hass.

He came at once to meet us, and behind him was a stout, rosy, well-fed monk, of the Armenian brotherhood, with a heavy bunch of keys dangling at his waist. Evidently, a monastic life agreed with him. He was the very picture of health, with possibly a trifle more flesh on his bones than most of us would desire. He could speak no language that we knew, but he motioned us to seats, and in a few moments served us some excellent tea, which we found quite refreshing. In tea-drinking and conversation, half an hour passed away. A little before eleven o’clock we entered the church, which was rapidly filling up for the service.

We decided not to go into the innermost part of the church, as we would be unable to get out, in case the ceremonies were prolonged to a very unusually late hour, and so we halted in the vestibule, while the consular party went forward to take seats among the dignitaries.

The priests were busy with the mass, and the church was rapidly filling, so that in a little while it was difficult to find standing room. Most of those present were young girls, and I judge by their similarity of dress, that they came from a school, or were under some general management. They were in white Turkish trowsers and overskirts, and their head-dresses were quite richly

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{407}decorated with coins and mother-of-pearl ornaments. They knelt on the ground, and maintained their kneeling position for a longtime without apparent fatigue, though some of them who were doubtless accustomed to early hours, fell asleep, or looked very drowsy.

Bethlehem has some celebrity for the beauty of its women, and in looking over that congregation I think I saw more pretty faces than I had seen elsewhere in all Syria. In the vestibule, there were two confessionals, and at each of them there was a line of young women and girls, waiting for their opportunities, as a crowd waits at a post-office, or the ticket-box of a theatre. To judge by the attendance at the confessional, I should suspect that these young misses were not the models of all that is good in the world.

The church was blazing with candles, and the Christmas decorations were pretty, but there was nothing unusual in this part of the service. What we had come to see was the procession to the Grotto of the Nativity, and we were anxious to know when this was to come off.

The heat of the candles and the bad atmosphere rendered the church quite uncomfortable, and so we wandered off into the Greek portion, where there was no service and only a few people. Turkish soldiers were standing around, ready to suppress any tumult, and other soldiers were within call.

We loitered around here for awhile, and then descended to the grotto, which was hot and full of foul air, like the church. Between the church, the grotto, and the Greek church and the corridors of the Armenian Convent, we whiled away the time until two o’clock in the morning, when we descended the stairs to take seats on a stone bench in front of the Grotto of the Manger and not more than ten feet from the sacred silver star.

Here we sat nearly an hour, watching occasional pilgrims, descending the stairway and kissing the shrine, and the preparations for the grand procession. There are two stairways, one belonging to the Latins, and the other to the Greeks and Armenians. The latter staircase was most of the time crowded by Greek and Armenian monks, but they were not allowed to descend into the grotto, except on one occasion, when a Greek priest, clad in rich robes, carried a censer in front of the shrine and repeated {408}a prayer. I fancy that he did it less out of reverential feeling than to show the Latins that he had a right to perform service there.

A long service was read in the Grotto of the Manger, called also the Grotto of Adoration, and finally the floor was cleared, and a heavy carpet was spread in front of the shrine. When the carpet was brought, the grotto was filled with people, who were pushed back with considerable rudeness, all except the strangers--a dozen or more, including ourselves. These were all treated with great respect, and allowed the best places for witnessing the ceremonies.

All this time the soldiers stood there with fixed bayonets, and once in the progress of the service the guard was changed, with a good deal of the clang of arms, that had a strange sound at such a time and place.

Finally, when it was near three o’clock, we heard the sound of a chant proceeding from the church, and coming nearer and nearer. Soon the sound reached the head of the Latin stairway, and craning our heads around, we saw the front of the procession. Now it descended, and slowly and slowly it came into view.

Eight boys carrying candles, and robed in the white vestments, familiar to those who attend the Catholic service, led the way, and behind them were priests and monks, to the number of twenty or more, all richly dressed in the appropriate robes.

I regret to be unable to give the ecclesiastical rank of all the personages in the procession, and can only say that they included all the dignitaries of the Latin church in this part of Syria, and I was told that two persons, high in office, had been sent from Rome, to be present on this occasion.

Behind these holy men were the Consuls of France, Italy, Austria, and other Catholic countries, and some French and Italian military and naval officers, who happened to be in Jerusalem in time for the ceremonies. The forward part of the procession entirely filled the grotto, so that the Consuls stood on the stairway near the bottom while the service was going on.

The service was short, and was read slowly and distinctly, with many genuflections and obeisances of adoration. The service lasted less than fifteen minutes, and ended with the presentation

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{411}of a doll in a cradle. Then the procession slowly retired, as it had entered, and the solemn chant died away in the distance. We returned to our tents, and as I took out my watch to wind it, I found that the time was half-past three in the morning. Rather a late bed-time in a country where early hours are the fashion.

We did not hurry in the morning, but paid another visit to the church, where we found the grotto full of people, as on the day before. About ten o’clock we started for our day’s ride to Mar Saba, where our tents had been sent forward. We halted on the way at the Grotto of the Shepherds, the place where the shepherds were told of the coming of Christ.

The route from this point lay over a rough country, and in some places we could look far down into glens several hundred feet deep. Some parts of the way the path was along the edge of these steep hillsides, and was not very wide. I didn’t like it over much, as my horse had an inexplicable desire to walk as near the edge as possible. I argued with a whip, to cure him of this habit, but he would not be cured, and I had to trust to luck. Happily, no accident befell any of us.

We reached Mar Saba a couple of hours before sunset, and found the tents near the convent. St. Saba is reported to have come here in the fourth century and entered the cave of a lion, who kindly got up and left when the holy man entered. To remove all doubt upon this point, they show you the cave. The convent is built in a peculiarly wild and rocky locality, overlooking the precipitous valley of the Brook Kedron.

From one part of the wall you can drop a penny or a pebble in a sheer fall of five hundred feet. The building is an extraordinary one, as it is stuck against and over a cliff, full of natural and artificial caves in such a way that it is impossible to tell what is masonry and what is natural rock.

To visit the convent, one needs a permit from the Superior at Jerusalem. We had the proper document, and it was delivered; the monks carefully surveyed us from a wall far above our heads, and then gave orders for the opening of a massive and strongly-bolted door.

No woman is allowed, under any circumstances, to cross the threshold of Mar Saba. Harriet Martineau says the monks are {412}too holy to be hospitable, and another has added that they are too pious to be good. We were not admitted until the one lady of our party had walked a sufficient distance away to prevent the possibility of her darting in when the door was opened.

There are sixty monks in all at Mar Saba. The convent is reported to be rich, but the monks are not a corpulent lot, and have a general indication of living in a bad boarding-house. They never eat flesh, and their exercises are very severe. One of them showed us about, and a dozen or more of the rest spread out on the pavement of the court, a quantity of canes, beads, crosses, shells, and olive-wood ornaments, in the hope of selling some of them.

We gave our guide a couple of francs for showing us around. He was particular to ask if it was for himself or the convent. Of course we told him it was personal, and he thereupon asked us again, in a voice sufficiently loud to make his companions hear and understand the situation.

There is a very old palm-tree, said to have been planted by the saint in person; they showed us the tomb of St. Saba, two or three chapels, and a quantity of bones, belonging to the monks that lived there in the seventh century, and were massacred by the Persians, There is a curious picture of the massacre, and it hangs over the skulls and arm-bones of the unhappy victims. The convent was captured two or three times during the crusades, but for several centuries it has rested in peace. It is in the midst of the country of the Bedouins, but the monks never permit the Bedouins inside the door, and the walls are strong enough to resist any attacks they might make.

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