XI.

Idolatry.

Thy Silver is become dross, thy Wine is mixed with water."

THE REV. Dr. Duck declined to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, this Good Friday evening, to see the "Romish mummeries." He had been attending evening prayer at the English chapel upon Mount Zion, and had been kneeling and praying, "From pride, envy, malice and all uncharitableness, Good Lord deliver us!" Between the courses at dinner, he blandly exposed the "absurd Romish traditions of the sacred spots in and around Jerusalem."

Among other doubts, he had disputed the authenticity of the tomb at Bethany, called the tomb of Lazarus. "I have been to-day to Bethany," said the Rev. Dr. Duck, "and I saw there the cave which the Romanists call the tomb of Lazarus. It is an excavation in the rock, and we descended several steps before we reached the spot where Lazarus is said to have lain. But, my dear Sir, how very absurd to suppose that this could have been the tomb mentioned in holy Scripture, for our Saviour

is distinctly stated to have said—-‘Lazarus, come forth.' Now would he have used that word if he had meant come up?"

This reasoning sufficed to the Rev. Dr. Duck's mind. to destroy the identity of the traditional religious places. Decidedly he could not go to see the "Romish mummeries."

But as we passed into the court of the house, upon our way thither, we heard the Rev. Dr. Duck reading aloud to his family. And these were the words he read.

"The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself. God I thank thee that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterous, or even as this Publican:

"And the Publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying-God be merciful to me a sinner!"—

The church of the Holy Sepulchre is possessed by the Latins, Greeks, Armenians, Copts and Abyssinians. The Greeks are the richest, and are under the immediate protection of Russia, and they monopolize all the best places in the church, except the Sepulchre itself. The exterior of the building is Byzantine. The interior has no architectural pretension or beauty. The whole middle space is inclosed, forming a church within a church, and the inclosure is the Greek chapel. In front of this is the small temple built around the Sepulchre itself, and upon the sides of the Greek chapel are broad passages in which are shown several spots of traditional interest-as that

where the Post of Flagellation stood-which post you may see, and that where the clothing was divided. Finally, you ascend a steep staircase and reach a small upper chapel, which is Calvary, and a circular spot under the altar is the exact site of the cross.

The interior of the church is bare and desolate. The scant and dirty hangings and trappings, the miserable pictures, the soiled artificial flowers, the entire dearth of grace and delicacy are very mournful. There is not a solemn spot in the building, but the tomb itself. A motley crowd is constantly swarming through the passages, and there is the perpetual scuffling of many feet and the hum of hushed voices. The finest figures are the Bedoueen from the desert, who stand in postures of natural grace and dignity, and who, with the flowing robes and brilliant Mecca handkerchiefs, wreathed around their heads, make the only picturesque and pleasing

groups.

The Greek pilgrims are the most numerous, and entirely surpass the Latin in the fervor of their devotions. I have never seen any thing so abject as their conduct before the altar in the Calvary chapel. You can scarcely recognize them as men, so sunken do they look in degraded ignorance. Their genuflexions are remarkable for their magical suppleness. They stand, rapidly repeating prayers before the altar, and then fall to their knees, and upon their faces, touching their foreheads, and kissing the floor. Then up again, and down, with incredible celerity. This continues sometimes for a half-hour, and they then stroll away through the church, buying

crosses, beads, and mother-of-pearl shells made at Beth

lehem.

Directly under the dome of the church, is the Sepulchre itself. It is inclosed in a small temple, divided into two parts, of which the first is an anteroom, and the other a small cabinet, in which is the marble tomb. The anteroom is hung with lamps, and a Priest stands at the door, shuffling the crowds of worshippers to and fro, and taking snuff in the intervals. But he has great respect for persons; for when we appeared, although he said that we were heretics, he hustled an unwashed company from the door, and greeting us as English, smilingly ushered us in.

The air of the outer room was warm and odorous with incense. The faithful were kneeling on the floor, weeping, kissing the pavement and muttering prayers. From the interior room the pilgrims were coming out backward and with bent heads. They paid no attention to our Frank costume, they were wrapt in emotion.

We entered the interior cabinet, half of which is occupied by the tomb. It. is covered with a marble slab, smooth with the myriad kisses of generations; over it is a narrow marble shelf, along which are arranged artificial flowers. It is hung with golden lamps, a Priest stands silent in the corner forever, and the warm air is faint with perpetual incense.

Before the tomb was a figure which is among the saddest in my memory. It was an old man, a Bulgarian, deformed, and covered with scanty rags. His emotion had passed into idolatrous frenzy. Throwing himself

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back upon his knees, he contemplated the tomb with streaming eyes,-then stretched his arms over it, and laid his face against the marble with idiotic delight. Seized by a delirium of devotion, he poured out a series of aspirations with inconceivable rapidity. He grasped frantically at the tomb, he touched his forehead to it,-his words became a bubbling at the mouth, his head fell to one side, and he sank at full length, motionless, upon the floor. The Priest presently touched him. He stared wildly for a moment, then rising to his knees and clutching at the tomb, he shuffled out backward, still kneeling, still stretching out his hands, covering the threshold with passionate kisses and drenching it with tears.

We withdrew from the Sepulchre humiliated by that spectacle. It was not the ecstacy of piety-it was the frenzy of superstition. The spirit which had sent and torn the poor Bulgarian was the same that plunges crowds beneath the car of Juggernaut, and beats drums while children burn in the arms of Moloch.

We turn away. The night advances, and the church rapidly fills. The brain is dizzy with the incessant genuflexions, crossings and kissings on every hand. Wearied and mortified, you long for one sight, one sound that might suggest to you the grave serenity of Jesus,-when suddenly the door communicating with the convent opens, and the procession enters.

The superior of the convent, mitred, richly draped, and bearing a candle, is followed by all the monks. The pious pilgrims crushing toward the priests, seize lighted tapers and swell the train. It winds, a motley and

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