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what they call the cell of St. Jerome.-But you do not linger. The Franciscan precedes you to the Grotto of the Nativity, and there can be no reasonable doubt of its identity.

He opens the door. A gleam of soft light, and a warm odor of incense stream outward. In that moment there is no more Franciscan, nor Italian church, nor taper. Your knees bend beneath you and your eyes close.

They open upon the Grotto, gorgeous with silver and golden lamps, with vases and heavy tapestries, with marbles and ivories-dim with the smoke of incense, and thick with its breath. In the hush of sudden splendor it is the secret cave of Ala-ed-deen, and you have rubbed the precious lamp.

Then your sense is seized in the voluptuous embrace of the odors, of the brilliant flames, motionless in the warm air,-of the sheen of tapestry, and the flexile richness of the monks' robes at the altar, and your dazzled sense reels, an intoxicated Roman, through this Bethlehem grotto, which the luxurious Hadrian, after Rome had conquered Jerusalem, consecrated to Adonis.

But you see that it is low and irregular, that the ceiling and walls are rock-that it is only a rough place of refuge, if you strip away gold and tapestry. You see human figures stretched motionless upon the ground, kissing a small circle of jasper with silver rays,—the shrine of all Christendom. The figures do not rise. They lie for long, long minutes speechless,-tears streaming from their eyes, and a sob vibrating at intervals through the Grotto. As you gaze, the vision of the Bethlehem

landscape returns to you lonely, solemn, bare.

The

warm sweet air in which you stand is filled with strange music,

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And its measures, like the waving of palms in the moon- . light, breathe through your heart, "on earth peace, goodwill to men."

These are your mingled emotions in the Grotto of Bethlehem. Romance and Religion blend there more closely than at any other spot in the Holy Land.

Climbing again into daylight, you look from the lofty windows of the refectory of the convent, down upon the field of the shepherds. It is a steep mountain-side, dotted with olives. It is not glad and gracious, as if that music, like heavenly dew, kept it fresh forever. Sad are the landscape and the day at Bethlehem.

The glory of the sunset strikes across the mountains as you return. Silent and pensive, your talk is no more of pictures. You ride along the "fulle fayre waye, be pleynes and wodes fulle deletable," as good Sir John Mandeville found the road to Bethlehem. And if a solitary rose redden the sunset in the fields, you remember his story of the maid who was martyred here, and as the fire began, she prayed, and the burning brands became red rose-trees, and the unburnt, white rose-trees, full, both, of blossoms and the first roses that ever bloomed.

IX.

Life in Death.

"YES," said Leisurlie, "I am convinced of the truth of the proverb. At least, whatever may be the fact of the Muslim at Mecca, there is no doubt that the Christians in Jerusalem are the worst of all Christians."

"Heaven help us, then," commented the Pacha.

It was in the warm twilight, and we had been riding all day outside of the city, down in the valleys among the olive groves, delighting in the many points far below the walls, whence we looked up through nearer trees, vineyards, and fig groves, and saw the battlements of Jerusalem looming along the verge of the abyss.

Grand and endless material of picture is here. Bartlett, in his picture of the Pool of Siloam, shows its form. But in all the Eastern illustrations of that accomplished artist, the desert and river are too much adapted to the meridian of the drawing-room. The views represent the rude, and majestic, and desolate country, too much as the fancy of Laura Matilda figures it. The grand pathos of the Syrian landscape is not there, except to those in whose minds the forms of the pictures refresh the feeling of actual experience.

Returning at sunset to the city, we passed Wind and Shower, accompanied by a half-dozen friars, sallying forth upon a walk toward the Garden of Gethsemane. The good fathers were very snuffy, and shambled vigorously along. The gentlemen of eclectic costume and creed, glided sentimentally at their sides.

And thus, we mused, the world over, sturdy superstition leads sentiment by the nose.

But the sun had set while we climbed the hill, and the gates of Jerusalem were closed.

We rode up to them and knocked. There came no response, and as the shadows deepened, the desolation of the stony hills became more desolate as we thought of passing the night in a tomb.

“We must open a parley," said Leisurlie, and by way of prelude, we all thundered in unison upon the gate of St. Stephen.

There came no reply. But over the city walls floated the cry of many Muezzin, like melancholy music in the air. Al-la-hu-Ak-bar, Al-la-hu-Ak-bar, sighed the wind along the valley of Jehoshaphat. Jerusalem was an enchanted city, in that moment, a vast palace of Blue Beard, and we heard the moaning cry of the victims, heedless of their deliverers thundering at the gate.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends," cried Leisurlie," and this time keep it up until consequences of some kind ensue."

Holding the horses, we battered the gates again, nor desisted, until we heard a voice within. The words we could not distinguish, but could easily imagine them to

be in harmony with Blue Beard's Castle,-"What ho! without there," in Turkish.

"What ho! within there," cried the dramatic Leisurlie.

We paused to hear the undoing of bars and bolts. But we did not hear them. Only a reiterated Turkish "What ho!"

"We must communicate with them," said the valiant Leisurlie, rather vaguely, for we were alone, and our supply of Arabic, Turkish, Syriac, or of any available tongue, hardly equalled the Italian of Khadra's mother.

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Precisely," said the Pacha, who had sadly bruised his knuckles in the onset, "we must communicate with them." "Oh, certainly, let's communicate," perorated I.

We paused. After a few moments, Leisurlie, as if rehearsing and composing a speech, began

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Howadji Ingleez," (English travellers.) Then he paused, and the Pacha added

"Bucksheesh," (Reward.)

"Bukara," (To-morrow,) I struck in.

"Täib Kateir," (Very good,) concluded Leisurlie; and we left the riddle to the reading of the guards inside. We meant to say with oriental brevity, " Admit the English gentlemen, and be well paid to-morrow."

The negotiation was successful. The everlasting gates of Jerusalem lifted up their heads, and as we clattered over the pavement, through streets which, like those of Pompeii, are only stone ruts between elevated walks, we saw crowds of pilgrims thronging the streets, and remembered that it was Good Friday evening.

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