Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
THE CHRISTMAS CITY
BETHLEHEM ACROSS THE AGES
[Illustration: HOLY NIGHT
_From the painting by Zenisek_
]
THE
CHRISTMAS CITY
BETHLEHEM ACROSS THE AGES
BY
LEWIS GASTON LEARY, PH.D.
AUTHOR OF “THE REAL PALESTINE OF TO-DAY”
[Illustration: Decoration]
New York
STURGIS & WALTON
COMPANY
1911
Copyright 1911
BY STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1911
THIS LITTLE BOOK ABOUT THE
CITY OF DIVINE MOTHERHOOD
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO MY OWN MOTHER
[Illustration: _CONTENTS_]
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE 17
I THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM 21
II THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE 25
III THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN 35
IV THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING 43
V THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL 51
VI THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS 59
VII THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM 67
VIII THE STORY OF THE STABLE 73
IX THE EPITAPH OF THE LADY PAULA 83
X THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE 93
XI THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION 105
XII SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS 117
XIII THE LONG WHITE ROAD 129
XIV THE HOUSE OF BREAD 145
XV THE CHURCH WHICH IS A FORT 155
XVI THE SACRED CAVES 165
XVII THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR 175
XVIII THE SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN 181
XIX ACROSS THE AGES 187
[Illustration: _ILLUSTRATIONS_]
ILLUSTRATIONS
Holy Night, _from the painting by Zenisek_ _Frontispiece_
PAGE
The Tomb of Rachel 31
The Church of the Nativity 79
The South Transept of the Church of the Nativity
and one of the Stairways leading
down to the Sacred Caves 97
St. Jerome and the Lion 123
The Bethlehem Road 133
Bethlehem Girls 137
Bethlehem 149
Interior of the Church of the Nativity 161
The Altar of the Nativity 169
[Illustration: _THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE_]
THE CHARTER OF PRE-EMINENCE
Micah 5: 2-5
“But thou, Bethlehem Ephrathah, which art little to be among the
thousands of Judah, out of thee shall one come forth unto me that
is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth are from old, from
everlasting.... And he shall stand, and shall feed his flock in the
strength of Jehovah, in the majesty of the name of Jehovah his God: and
they shall abide; for now shall he be great unto the ends of the earth.
“And this man shall be our peace.”
[Illustration: _THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM_]
THE CHRISTMAS CITY
I
THE WELCOME TO BETHLEHEM
St. Paula, A. D. 386
“With what expressions and what language shall we set before you the
cave of the Saviour? The stall where He cried as a babe can best be
honored by silence; words are inadequate to speak its praise. Where
are the spacious porticoes? Where are the gilded ceilings? Where are
the mansions furnished by the miserable toil of doomed wretches? Where
are the costly halls raised by untitled opulence for man’s vile body
to walk in? Where are the roofs that intercept the sky, as if anything
could be finer than the expanse of heaven? Behold, in this poor crevice
of the earth the Creator of the heavens was born; here He was wrapped
in swaddling clothes; here He was seen by the shepherds; here He was
pointed out by the star; here He was adored by the wise men....
“In our excitement we are already hurrying to meet you.... Will the day
never come when we shall together enter the Saviour’s cave?
“Hail, Bethlehem, house of bread, wherein was born that Bread that came
down from heaven! Hail, Ephrathah, land of fruitfulness and fertility,
whose Fruit is the Lord himself.”
[Illustration: _THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE_]
II
THE GRAVE BY THE ROADSIDE
The history of Bethlehem is the romance of Bethlehem; a story of love
and daring, of brave men and beautiful women. We do not know that
story in great detail; but here and there across the centuries, the
light breaks on the little Judean town and we catch a fleeting glimpse
of some scene of tender affection or chivalrous adventure. And it is
striking to notice how many of these incidents involve womanly devotion
and self-sacrifice, both before and after the Most Blessed of Women
suffered and rejoiced in Bethlehem.
Long, long centuries before that first Christmas was dreamed of, the
story of Bethlehem begins. And lo, the earliest episode has to do with
a birth day.
In the yellow evening light a little band of nomadic shepherds is
straggling along the dusty road past the high, gray walls of the outer
fortifications of Jerusalem—not Jerusalem the Holy City, but Jerusalem
the Jebusite stronghold, which is to remain heathen and hateful for a
thousand years until, in that far-distant future, the arrogant fortress
shall fall before the onslaughts of the mighty men of David.
At the head of the long line of herds and pack-animals and armed
retainers walks the chief, Jacob ben-Isaac. A generation before, he
had passed along this same ancient caravan route going northward; but
no one would recognize that frightened, homesick fugitive in the
grave, self-confident leader who travels southward to-day. For now he
is Sheikh Jacob, full of years and riches and wisdom; Jacob the strong
man, the successful man and, in his own rude way, the good man.
An hour’s journey beyond Jerusalem there appear shining on a hilltop to
the left the white stone houses of Bethlehem, at the sight of which the
tired herdsmen grow more cheerful and the slow-moving caravan quickens
somewhat its pace; for close under those protecting walls the tribe
of B’nai Jacob will shelter its flocks for the night, safe alike from
wolves and from marauding Arab bands.
But just as they reach the spot where the road to Bethlehem branches
off to the left from the main caravan route, there is a sudden change
of plan. The hope of camping at the town is abandoned, and one of the
low, black, goat-hair tents is hastily set up right by the roadside.
Then there is an excited bustling among the household servants, and a
time of anxious waiting for Sheikh Jacob, until Bilhah, the handmaid,
puts into the old man’s arms his son Benjamin, his youngest boy, who is
long to be the comfort of the father’s declining years.
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF RACHEL
In the background the town of Beit Jala]
Soon, however, the cries of rejoicing are hushed. From the women’s
quarters comes a loud, shrill wail of grief. And before the B’nai Jacob
break camp again the leader raises a heap of stones over the grave of
Rachel—his Rachel—a gray-haired woman now and bent with toil, but still
to him the beautiful girl whom he loved and for whom he labored
and sinned those twice seven long years in the strength of his young
manhood.
Many years afterward, when Benjamin was a grown man and Jacob lay dying
in the distant land of Egypt, the thoughts of the homesick old sheikh
dwelt on the lonely grave by the roadside.
“I buried her there on the way to Bethlehem,” he said.
Her tombstone remains “unto this day,” the Hebrew narrator adds.
Indeed, even to our own day, a spot by the Bethlehem road, about a mile
from the town, is pointed out as the burial place of Rachel. Probably
no site in Palestine is attested by the witness of so continuous a line
of historians and travelers. For many centuries the grave was marked by
a pyramid of stones. The present structure, with its white dome, is
only about four hundred years old. But there it stands “unto this day,”
revered by Christians, Jews and Moslems, and the wandering Arabs bring
their dead to be buried in its holy shadow.
Such is the first Biblical reference to Bethlehem. A son was born
there! More significant still, there was a vicarious sacrifice—a laying
down of one life for another.
[Illustration: _THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN_]
III
THE GIRL FROM BEYOND JORDAN
In the Book of Judges are recounted the adventures which befell certain
Bethlehemites in those lawless days when “there was no king in Israel
and every man did that which was right in his own eyes.” But the people
mentioned in this history were no longer dwelling in the city of their
birth; and we are glad of an excuse to pass by the tale of reckless
crime and merciless vengeance. Yet here, too, if the story were not too
cruel to repeat, we should find a woman dying for one whom she loved.
Even in that rough frontier period, however, there were interludes of
peace and kindliness; and like the cooling breeze which blows from
snow-capped Lebanon upon the burning brow of the Syrian reaper, is
the sense of grateful refreshment when we turn from the heartrending
monotony of scenes of cruelty and lust and treachery to the sweet,
clean air of the whitening harvest fields of Boaz of Bethlehem.
* * * * *
When the two strange women entered the square there was great
excitement among the chattering busy-bodies who were waiting their turn
to fill their earthen jars at the public well; for one of the travelers
was seen to be no other than old Naomi, who long years before had gone
away across Jordan with her husband Elimelech to better their fortunes
among the famous farm-lands of Moab. Now the wanderer has returned to
the old home, poor and widowed and childless—no doubt to the secret
gratification of the more cautious stay-at-homes, who had never dared
tempt fortune by such an emigration to distant Moab, and who were still
no richer and no poorer than their fathers’ fathers had been.
The other woman was younger, a foreigner, a widow, so the gossip ran,
who had married Naomi’s dead son. The women at the well smiled at her
quaint accent, for the dialect of Moab is quite different from that of
the Bethlehem district. But many a stalwart young farmer dreamed that
night of the lonely, appealing eyes of the stranger from beyond Jordan.
Even middle-aged Boaz is stirred when the next morning he finds the
slender Moabitess among the women who are gleaning in his barley field;
for romance is not always dead in the soul of a mature and wealthy
landowner. Boaz, for all his grizzling hair, is a hero who makes us
feel very warm and comfortable about the heart. He is so generous,
so thoughtful, so humble in his final happiness. He has already been
touched by the story of the faithfulness of the young widow who said to
her mother-in-law,
“Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after
thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I
will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
So the rich man drops a hint to his servants to let fall carelessly
little heaps of grain where the new gleaner can easily gather them. He
remembers the rough, dissolute character of the itinerant harvesters,
and warns them to treat the young woman with respect and courtesy.
At noontime he invites her to share the simple luncheon provided for
the farm-hands. A few weeks later the lonely rich man discovers her
affection for him, and our hearts beat in sympathy with his as, with
characteristic modesty, he exclaims,
“Blessed be thou of Jehovah, my daughter: thou hast shown more
kindness in the latter end than at the beginning, inasmuch as thou
followedest not young men, whether poor or rich.”
But as well might one attempt to retouch the soft colorings of the
Judean sunrise as to re-tell the beautiful idyll of Ruth. Old Josephus
quite misses the delicate beauty of the story; for he concludes his
smug paraphrase by saying, “I was therefore obliged to recount this
history of Ruth, because I had a mind to demonstrate the power of God,
who, without difficulty, can raise those that are of ordinary parents
to dignity and splendor.”
They lived together happily ever afterward. Even sad Naomi found a new
interest in life when she took into her lonely old arms the form of
little Obed. For this bit of Bethlehem history, like the first, and
like the greatest later on, ends with the coming of a baby boy. And
doubtless, if the whole of the tale were told us, we should some day
see grandmother Ruth crooning over Obed’s son Jesse, who was to be the
father of a king.
[Illustration: _THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING_]
IV
THE BOY WHO WAS TO BE KING
An ancient Hebrew commentary on First Samuel says that Jesse became “a
weaver of veils for the sanctuary.” This may be why the story of David
and Goliath compares the giant’s staff to “a weaver’s beam.” Whatever
his occupation, the grandson of rich Boaz must have been a man of some
means, and influential in Bethlehem society. Also he had seven fine,
stalwart sons. Indeed, he had eight sons; but, as we all know, the
youngest was out tending the sheep when Samuel came.
The rough and ready era of the Judges, when every man did that which
was right in his own eyes, was now gone forever. Israel had a king;
and a tall, handsome figure of a man King Saul was. And for a while
he was a king who defeated foreign invaders on every side. But Saul’s
character could not stand the test of the sudden elevation to a
position of power and responsibility. His strength lay in brilliant,
spectacular efforts, rather than in a patient, well-organized rule.
Quarrels arose between the jealous tribes of Israel. Conquered foes
prepared new and better equipped forays against the poorly protected
frontier of the new kingdom. Worst of all, Saul broke with his tried
advisers and became prey to an irrational, suspicious melancholy, which
prevented him from coping with dangers which a few years earlier would
only have aroused his ambitious energy.
Saul had failed; so Samuel, the veteran prophet, judge and king-maker,
went quietly to Bethlehem to select a new leader who should direct the
troublous destinies of Israel.
It was doubtless the same farm where the young stranger from beyond
Jordan had gleaned the sheaves of barley almost a century before. How
proud Naomi would have been if she could have lived to see those tall
great-grandchildren of Ruth and Boaz! How excited we boys used to get
as we saw the seven sons of Jesse standing there in a row, and waited
for old Samuel to tell us which one was to be the king! Surely it must
be the eldest, Eliab, who is so tall and handsome, the very image of
what Saul was in his youth. No, it is not Eliab, perhaps just because
he is too much like King Saul. Abinadab is rejected and Shammah, too;
and the prophet’s eye passes even more rapidly over Nethaneel and
Raddai and Ozem.
Then Samuel turns to the father with a perplexed frown.
“Are these all your sons?”
“Yes—that is, all that are grown up. David is only a boy. He is taking
care of the sheep this morning.”
“Call him, too,” commands Samuel. “Let Abinadab mind the sheep for a
while.”
So in a few minutes David is brought in. He is fair in complexion, like
so many Judean Jews to-day, but his skin is burnt to a deep tan by the
sun of the sheep pasture. His eye has a captivating twinkle, and he can
hardly keep from humming a tune even in the presence of the prophet.
We guessed it all the while! This is indeed a royal fellow; and the
old prophet touches the thick brown hair of the shepherd lad with a
strange, loving reverence as he tells him that some day he must be his
people’s king.
This time I think that Josephus is probably right. For he tells us that
while they were all sitting at dinner afterward, Samuel whispered in
the boy’s ear “that God chose him to be their king: and exhorted him to
be righteous, and obedient to His commands, for that by this means his
kingdom would continue for a long time, and that his house should be of
great splendor and celebrated in the world.”
Surely wise old Samuel must have given the boy some such advice as
that.
[Illustration: _THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL_]
V
THE ADVENTURE OF THE WELL
It was a long while, however, before David really became a king. As his
frame grew into a sturdy manhood, he fought with lions and bears and
Philistine champions. His sweet singing brought him to the notice of
Saul and he became the king’s favorite musician, until the jealousy of
the half-crazed monarch drove the young man into exile. Then for years
the former shepherd lived a wild, half-brigand life among the caves of
the rugged steppe-land south of Bethlehem, gradually gathering around
him a company of intrepid outlaws, administering rough justice over a
number of villages which put themselves under his protection, making
sudden forays into the Philistine country just to the west, and again
so hotly pursued by the soldiers of the relentless Saul that he was
forced to seek an asylum among the enemies of Israel, who were always
glad to forget old scores and welcome this dauntless free-lance and his
redoubtable band of warriors.
* * * * *
It may have been during this outlaw period, or it may have been shortly
after David’s accession to the throne, when his kingdom was still
disorganized, and an easy prey to foreign invaders. At any rate, David
and his band were hiding in the cave of Adullam, a few miles from
Bethlehem. The little company was for the moment safe, but the country
all around was overrun by foreign troops, and even Bethlehem, the
scene of so many happy boyhood memories, was occupied by a Philistine
garrison.
No wonder that David felt very weary and discouraged as he thought of
the old home town in the hands of heathen soldiers. No wonder that he
sometimes became irritable and petulant, and wished for things that he
could not have. There was a spring right by the cave of Adullam. The
inhabitants of Palestine, however, can distinguish between water drawn
from different sources, in a manner which seems marvelous to our duller
taste. Yet we need not believe that the water in the City of David was
any better than that of the cave of Adullam in order to sympathize with
the tired, homesick cry—
“Oh, that one would give me water to drink of the well of Bethlehem,
which is by the gate!”
Then there was a little stir among David’s bodyguard. One soldier
whispered to another, who nudged a third; and soon three dark forms
slipped quietly away from the circle of lights around the campfire. For
those rough outlaws idolized their fair-haired young leader, and they
had been worried and grieved by his recent fit of melancholy.
At midnight there was a sudden rattling of the well-chain in the square
by the Bethlehem gate—then a challenge from the startled Philistine
sentry—a rush of soldiers along the stony street. But the three
seasoned warriors slipped easily through the camp of the half-awakened
army. They turned and doubled through the familiar maze of narrow,
winding streets until they came to the steep terraces at the south of
the town, where they dropped out of sight among the perplexing shadows
of the olive orchards, through which they made their way swiftly back
to the wild steppe-land and the mountain fastness where the band kept
watch over their sleeping chief.
Mighty men they were, these three, and it is no wonder that their
exploit became one of the favorite tales of Hebrew history. But when
they offered David the water for which he had longed, there came a lump
into his throat and he said, “I can’t take it. My thoughtless wish
might have cost too much. It would be like drinking my brave men’s
blood, to drink that for which they have endangered their lives. It
is too precious to drink. I will pour it out on the ground—so—as an
offering to Jehovah.”
Surely the God of Battles esteemed that simple libation as holy a thing
as holocausts of bullocks and rams, and forgave many of the sins of
those rough, hard outlaws because of the loving devotion they showed
toward one whom He had chosen to be the deliverer of Israel.
* * * * *
An old legend says that after the mystic Star had guided the Wise Men
to the Saviour’s cradle, it fell from heaven and quenched its divine
fire in “David’s Well.” And surely, if the Star had fallen, it could
have found no more fitting resting place than the Well by the Gate,
whose water had been won by such unselfish adventure and dedicated with
such tender gratitude.
[Illustration: _THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS_]
VI
THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS
In the short twilight of the winter evening a husband and wife are
trudging wearily along the road which winds past the high gray walls
of Jerusalem—no longer Jerusalem the proud capital of the dynasty of
David, but a mere provincial town of the mighty Roman Empire, whose
streets are dizzy with the shouting of a dozen languages and thronged
with crowds of Greeks, Romans, Persians, Armenians, Ethiopians, and
travelers from even more distant lands, who rub shoulders carelessly
with the fanatical Pharisees and intriguing Sadducees whose mutual
bickerings make them a laughing-stock to their Gentile masters; while
there sits upon the throne of David a half-breed underling Edomite,
through whose diseased veins flow the cruelty and lust and cowardice
and treachery of turgid streams of unspeakable ancestry—Herod, called
in grim jest, “the Great.”
December in Judea is a cold, dreary month, with penetrating storms
of rain and sleet. It may even snow; and sometimes the drifts lie
knee-deep on that highroad from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. So they hasten
their steps, these footsore travelers who have come all the way from
distant Galilee at the command of their Roman rulers; for darkness is
coming on, and this night, of all nights, they must find a safe, warm
resting-place.
But when Bethlehem is at last reached, their cheerful anticipation
changes to utter, weary dejection; for the village inn proves to be
already overcrowded with other Bethlehemites who have returned to their
birthplace to be registered there for the census.
Only in the stable is there room; and this is a low, dark place, half
building, half cave. In front, it is walled up with rough stones; but
at the rear it extends far into what seems to have been originally a
natural opening in the hillside. Around three sides of the stable runs
a low, level shelf, with an iron ring every few feet, to which the
beasts are tied as they eat the fodder spread before them on the stone
ledge. This manger is not an uncomfortable resting place for the hardy
muleteers, who often sleep there on the straw. But it makes a hard bed
for Joseph—and for Mary.
The sky has cleared now, and through the open door can be seen a square
of twinkling stars, one of which shines with unusual brilliancy.
Within, however, it is very dark; for the lantern of the night-watchman
shines only a little way through the sombre shadows of the stable. The
cattle and horses have finished munching the grain. The last uneasy
lowing ceases. It is very still, except in one far corner where the
strangers cannot sleep.
And then there is a baby’s cry. And the bright star shines with
glorious radiance over David’s City. And upon the drowsy shepherds in
the fields where the Moabitess gleaned, there bursts a wondrous light
and the sound of heavenly singing.
For the fullness of time has come. Upon the humble Judean town has
burst that glory sung by the prophets of old. The long line of Rachel
and Ruth and royal David has at last issued in the King of kings.
[Illustration: _THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM_]
VII
THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM
But even at that first Christmastide, Bethlehem must again be the scene
of innocent suffering in another’s place, as for the Christ-child’s
sake some twenty baby boys in the little town are put to death by order
of King Herod, whose diseased, suspicious mind trembles at the thought
of even an infant claimant for his throne.
Five hundred years before, when the strong young men of Bethlehem had
been sent away into Babylonian exile, the loud wailing from bereaved,
heart-broken homes had recalled to Jeremiah that other sad mother
buried there by the lonely roadside. So now again, the awful outrage,
perpetrated almost within sight of that venerable tomb, seems to be
linked across the long centuries with the first Bethlehem grief; and
once more, in the words of the Lamenting Prophet, there is
“Weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children;
And she would not be comforted,
Because they are not.”
The Blossoms of Martyrdom—so a fourth century poet calls these little
ones who were the first of all to suffer death for Christ’s sake.
And in that countless throng of those who “have come out of great
tribulation” there must surely stand in the foremost rank the little
band of Bethlehem children whose blood was shed because an infant
Saviour had been born into an unwelcoming world.
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
[Illustration: _THE STORY OF THE STABLE_]
VIII
THE STORY OF THE STABLE
Between the years 1480 and 1483, Brother Felix Fabri, a learned German
monk of Ulm, made two voyages to Palestine, during the course of which
he collected information of all sorts about the holy places, which he
later published in a large and important book. Some of his statements
about Bethlehem are very accurate. Others do not strike us as quite so
convincing.
According to these stories told by Brother Felix, Boaz inherited
from his father Salmon, who had married Rahab of Jericho, a large
mansion built at the very edge of Bethlehem, so that part of the house
projected outside the town wall. In the rock underneath the main
building was a natural grotto which was used as a cellar, and also as
a dwelling room during the hot months. The house passed in due time
into the possession of Boaz’ grandson Jesse, whose son David was born
in the lower room. After David became king, however, the family removed
to Jerusalem, the deserted homestead gradually came into a state of
disrepair, and finally the part in the rock was used as a public
stable. This degradation of the once splendid mansion was permitted
by Providence, so that at last the great Son of David might be born
amid humble surroundings, and yet in the very place where His famous
ancestor first saw the light.
After our Lord’s Ascension, His mother lived for fourteen years,
dwelling in Jerusalem, whence every month she and her friends made a
pious pilgrimage to Bethlehem, that they might worship at the cave of
the Saviour’s birth. This so enraged the Jews that finally they defiled
the stable and blocked up its entrance with stones.
Following the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus, in A. D. 70,
Christians were again allowed to dwell in the Holy Land and to visit
the place of the Nativity, which they cleansed from the Jewish
defilement and hallowed by their worship. But in the year 132, the
Emperor Hadrian laid waste the city of Bethlehem, placed in the sacred
cave a statue of Jupiter and, as a crowning insult, instituted in the
very Grotto of the Nativity the iniquitous rites of the Adonis cult,
which continued to be celebrated there for almost two hundred years.
This, however, was the last heathen desecration of the holy spot.
In the year 326 the pious Helena, mother of the Christian emperor,
Constantine, “cleansed the place of the sweet Nativity of our Lord,
cast out the abominations of the idols from the holy cave, overthrew
all that she found there, and beneath the ruins found the Lord’s manger
entire.” In the manger she discovered the stone on which the Blessed
Virgin had placed the Babe’s head, and the hay and the swaddling
clothes and Joseph’s sandals and the long, loose gown which Mary wore.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY]
These were all carried to the capital, Constantinople, and remained
five hundred years in the Cathedral of St. Sophia, until Charlemagne,
returning from the conquest of Jerusalem (so says Fabri), begged
the relics as the reward of his holy labors and took them with him to
the West. The hay was bestowed in the church of Sta. Maria Maggiore in
Rome, the manger in St. John Lateran, and the garments in the cathedral
of Aix-la-Chapelle.
After St. Helena had purified the place of the Nativity, she erected
above it a church of wondrous beauty, but in such a manner that the
rock beneath and the cave in which the Saviour was born should remain
untouched. Whereupon the Jews of Bethlehem in derision nicknamed the
saintly empress “the Woman of the Stable.”
But by the time we reach St. Helena and the building of the Bethlehem
church, legend is beginning to merge into history.
[Illustration: _THE EPITAPH OF LADY PAULA_]
IX
THE EPITAPH OF THE LADY PAULA
The church at Bethlehem is crowded to the doors with a reverent
assemblage, which overflows into the public square and fills all the
nearby streets with silent, sad-faced worshippers. It is four hundred
and four years since the blessed Nativity of our Lord, and the slow,
solemn music which sounds faintly from within the heavy walls of the
ancient church is the requiem of the noblest, sweetest, saddest lady
who ever made her home in Bethlehem for Christ’s sake.
The funeral procession had seemed like a triumphal march. The bier
was borne upon the shoulders of bishops, whilst other bishops carried
candles beside it and led the antiphonal singing of the choirs. Beside
these dignitaries walked the sweet-faced sisters from the great convent
which the dead woman had founded, and barefooted brothers from the no
less famous monastery which she had endowed. Strange figures followed
in the procession: wild, shaggy hermits who for the first time in
years had come out of their caves in the wilderness of Judea, and nuns
bound to perpetual self-immolation, whose unnatural pallor told of
incessant vigils broken this once only, that they also might have a
part in the final honors shown to their beloved and godly benefactor.
Aged Jerome was there; the foremost scholar in all Christendom, but
now bent and weary with the realization that world-wide fame is but a
paltry substitute for the companionship of a faithful friend. Beside
him walked the proud bishop John of Jerusalem, not long since the enemy
of Paula and Jerome and at bitter strife with the convent of Bethlehem;
but now, it seems, a sincere mourner of one before whose pure and
devoted spirit even mighty hierarchs must bow in humble reverence.
But those whose hearts grieve most sincerely cannot all gain admission
to the church. The square before the entrance is crowded with the poor
and the sick and the outcast who are waiting patiently until the long
ceremony shall end. Then these humble folk will slip into the quiet
church at eventide and pray beside the coffin of their beloved friend,
while unrestrained tears roll down their haggard faces—tears for her,
and them, and Bethlehem.
* * * * *
It hardly seems seventeen years since the coming of the Lady Paula
stirred the quiet life of Bethlehem. All the world knew of the young
Roman widow, of noble family and enormous wealth, who had renounced the
luxurious life to which she had been accustomed and had aroused the
gossip of the capital by her coarse dress and incessant devotions and
the menial duties which she performed in her efforts to relieve the
condition of the crowded slums of the city. And then the wealthy lady
had broken the last ties of her old life, so the rumor ran, and had
left Rome forever in order to dwell in holy Bethlehem with her daughter
and their friend and teacher, the reverend presbyter Jerome.
For a time Paula and her daughter lived quietly in a small rented
house, until the completion of a convent which was erected at her
expense. A monastery was next built, of which Jerome was made the head,
and in connection with this, a hospice for the entertainment of the
strangers who in greater and greater numbers came hither to visit the
holy places and to study under the famous teacher.
Thereafter Paula was the very spring of Bethlehem life and Christian
activity. She managed the affairs of her various establishments with
patience, tact, and great executive ability; and yet found time to
perfect her Greek and to learn Hebrew, so that under the guidance
of Jerome she might read the entire Bible in the original tongues.
Pilgrims from far and near taxed the resources of the famous hospice,
and gifts to innumerable charities at last exhausted even the large
fortune she had inherited, so that she became not only poor, but in
debt. And reading between the lines of his own correspondence, we can
see that not least among the godly woman’s worries was the care of
the great, but somewhat crabbed old man whom later centuries were to
honor as “Saint” Jerome. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say
that Christendom is indebted to a woman for its most important and
influential version of the Bible; for it is easy to conceive that the
Vulgate translation might never have been completed by Jerome, without
the constant aid and encouragement which were so freely bestowed on the
aged author by his friend.
All these varied and exacting tasks were undertaken by one who
never enjoyed robust health. Paula was often prostrated by serious
illness and she further overtaxed her strength by incessant fasts and
mortifications, until at last the life of the eager, self-sacrificing,
loving, faithful woman burnt itself out at the age of fifty-six.
* * * * *
The funeral service is over now. The long procession has left the
church, and for three days the poor whom Paula loved can worship at her
bier. Then the tender, weary, faithful heart will be laid at rest in a
vault beneath the church, “close to the cave of the Lord,” and above
her cavern sepulchre lonely old Jerome will inscribe these lines:
“Seest thou here hollowed in the rock a grave;
’Tis Paula’s tomb, high heaven has her soul,
Who Rome and friends, riches and home forsook
Here in this lonely spot to find her rest.
For here Christ’s manger was, and here the kings
To Him, both God and man, their offerings made.”
[Illustration: _THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE_]
X
THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE
One of the caves beneath the church at Bethlehem has a window; but
the small opening is so high up in the wall that very little light
enters, and it is some time before the outlines of the room can be
clearly distinguished. It is a square cell, about twelve feet across.
The window is on the north side. At the west a narrow stairway goes
up to the monastery. At the south a door leads through a series of
other caves to the Grotto of the Nativity. On the eastern wall hangs a
crucifix. In the center of the cell is a roughly-made desk, cluttered
with books and papers, while other heavy volumes and thick rolls of
manuscript are piled here and there upon the floor.
In front of the desk sits an old, old man, whose lean, emaciated form
is clothed in a long, brown robe which, though of very rough material,
is neat and clean. His hair is sparse and gray, and his flowing beard
is white as snow. His face is thin and pale, seamed by deep wrinkles
worn by physical suffering and spiritual anguish; but about the mouth
are other lines which tell of a stern, unconquerable spirit. The eyes
are kind, but very weary, and reddened by much study, and he rests them
now upon his long, thin fingers as he ceases his work for a moment and
listens reverently to the muffled music of the service in the church
above.
[Illustration: THE SOUTH TRANSEPT OF THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY AND ONE
OF THE STAIRWAYS LEADING DOWN TO THE SACRED CAVES]
It is sixteen years since Paula died. The old man is the presbyter
Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, better known as St. Jerome; the most
famous scholar of his age and by far the greatest man whose name has
been associated with Bethlehem during all the Christian era. His little
cavern cell is the literary center of the world.
For more than a generation Jerome has pursued his scriptural studies
here, under the ever-present inspiration of the holy associations
which cluster so closely about the cave. Here he has often spent long
night hours in gaining that perfect mastery of Hebrew and Aramaic
and Greek which enables him to grasp the most subtle meanings of the
sacred writings. Here his pen has moved with such feverish activity
that more than once he has completed the translation of an entire Book
in a single day. At this rude desk have been written words that shook
Europe; for Jerome has been the friend of popes and the adviser of
councils. From this humble cell have gone forth learned commentaries,
controversial articles, translations of the Greek Fathers, a voluminous
and widely-circulated correspondence, and that which future generations
will value most highly of all, the splendid revision of the entire
Latin Bible—the Vulgate. This tremendous literary activity has won for
its author the reputation of being the foremost writer of the age, and
has made Bethlehem the goal of innumerable pilgrimages by admiring
students.
The death of Paula, however, seemed to mark the turning point in
Jerome’s career. During the long, lonely years since then he has never
enjoyed the same scholarly quiet, and he has had to cope with repeated
and varied misfortunes. The very winter she died was one of unusual
severity, which sorely tried his physical powers, already weakened
by disease and by long-continued privations. The Isaurians came down
from Asia Minor and devasted northern Palestine, so that the monastery
was overcrowded with fugitives; and with Paula gone, the supervision
of the various religious establishments in Bethlehem was thrust more
and more upon Jerome, who we may believe was not especially gifted
as an executive. Heartrending tidings came from Italy, telling of
Barbarian invasions which at last culminated in the sack of Rome by
Alaric. Jerome became involved in bitter theological controversies,
which resulted in an estrangement from some of his oldest friends and
once at least endangered his life, when a mob of angry partisans set
the monastery on fire, killed one of the inmates, and forced the aged
scholar to flee for refuge to a neighboring fortress. Recently the care
of the monastery and hospice has occupied all the day, and although he
has tried to work on his commentaries at night, his failing eyesight
has finally become so weak that he can hardly decipher the Hebrew
letters by candle-light.
Jerome’s spirit, however, is unbroken by defeat. His last works may
show something of the irritability of illness and age, but there is
never any thought of relaxation or compromise, or any weakening of
faith. And perhaps the great man never seems greater then when we see
him at the age of eighty, sitting here in his cavern cell, so sick
and lonely and indomitable. His translation of Scripture is not yet
accepted as the Bible of all Western Christendom, his sainthood is as
yet undreamed of, his dearest friends are dead or alienated, the dread
advance of the Barbarian hordes is threatening the very existence of
civilized Europe, and the brilliant era of ecclesiastical literature of
which he has been the brightest light is already fading into a dull,
spiritless gloom.
The evening shadows deepen upon the little cave at Bethlehem, as upon
the vast, dying Roman Empire. The chanting of the priests in the church
above ceases. The familiar square characters of the dearly-loved
Hebrew manuscript grow faint and blurred before the scholar’s eyes. He
puts away his pen with a sigh. No disciple takes it up. “There is no
continuation of his work; a few more letters of Augustine and Polinus,
and night falls over the West.”
So they bury him there in the cave, close to faithful Paula, close to
the birthplace of his Lord.
[Illustration: _THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION_]
XI
THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION
In the year of our Lord 1101, on the very birthday of the Saviour and
at the birthplace of the King of kings, Bethlehem is to witness the
most gorgeous, striking scene in all its varied and dramatic history;
for the long, cruel centuries of Moslem domination are over at last,
the banners of the victorious Crusaders now float proudly above the
ramparts of Jerusalem, and the mighty Baldwin, Count of Flanders by
inheritance and Prince of Edessa by right of conquest, is to be crowned
this Christmas Day the first Christian king of Palestine.
Two years earlier, when the Saracens heard that the Western armies were
approaching, they destroyed the Christian quarter of Bethlehem, leaving
standing only the Church of the Nativity; but the gallant Tancred came
promptly to the rescue of the frightened, homeless citizens with a
hundred picked knights, and, as a reward of their valor, it was this
little band who, looking northward from a hill near Bethlehem, were the
first of all the Crusaders to gain the longed-for view of the Holy City.
As soon as Jerusalem was taken and the Moslem army put to rout, the
Crusaders set to work to rebuild the nearby City of the Nativity,
and now that a ruler has been chosen for the new Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem, the coronation ceremony is to take place at Bethlehem;
for Baldwin, with a modesty not entirely in harmony with his previous
ambitious and selfish career, has refused to be crowned in the Holy
City where great David had his throne. Doubtless also the shrewd Count
of Flanders is not blind to the dramatic possibilities of a Christmas
coronation in the Christmas City.
So to-day the plain, sombre interior of the Church of the Nativity is
all ablaze with brilliant coloring. Along the walls of the nave are
battle-worn standards, blessed by pious bishops in distant counties by
the Rhine and the Rhone and the Northern Ocean, and sanctified since
by many a gallant exploit before the walls of Nicea and Antioch, so
that their escutcheons now bear crimson quarterings which were not
embroidered there by the lovely ladies in the lonely palaces across
the sea.
At the rear of the church are ranks of sunburnt men-at-arms in
battered chain-armor, whose stern, self-possessed demeanor throws into
greater contrast the nervous, curious excitement of the Bethlehemite
Christians, who have put on their brightest tunics in honor of their
valiant deliverers from thraldom to the Saracens. The transepts are
crowded with bishops and the great feudal lords who have thrown in
their lot with the new kingdom, for the sake of the rich fiefs which
are at Baldwin’s disposal. The garments of the nobles glisten with
jewels, and the dignitaries of the church are resplendent with gold and
laces. Here and there upon the gorgeous scene the high windows of the
church cast narrow, slanting beams, and the tinted lamps shed their
soft glow upon the mass of variegated, orient hues, which are yet held
in one color harmony by the insistent repetition of the crimson crosses
which shine on every breast.
Where the lamps are most numerous and the light from the windows of
the transepts shines brightest, Baldwin of Flanders kneels before the
great altar and bows his proud head in a semblance of humility as the
jeweled crown is placed upon his brow by the noble Daimbert, archbishop
of Pisa, patriarch of Jerusalem and temporal lord of many a broad fief
and populous village in Judea.
Surely now the veteran warriors chant again that martial Psalm
with which they have advanced so often to the assault of infidel
strongholds, “Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered.” And the
loud battle-cry of the Crusade, which has echoed above many a desperate
conflict, now rolls back and forth from wall to wall of the ancient
church with deafening reverberations, “God wills it! God wills it!” And
this Christmas Day the glad music of the _Gloria in Excelsis_ rings
with a new note of triumph. For the Holy Land is at last reconquered.
The Sepulchre and the Manger are cleansed. A Christian king is to reign
in millennial peace and prosperity over the sacred hills of Palestine.
During the century following the successful issue of the First Crusade,
Bethlehem took a leading part among the cities of the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem. In 1110 it was elevated to the rank of an episcopal
see, whose fiefs included large tracts of land scattered all through
Palestine. The Church of the Nativity, which the Crusaders found to
be somewhat bare and dilapidated, was thoroughly restored and adorned
by rich gifts. The Byzantine emperor, Manuel Comnenos, had the walls
beautified with magnificent mosaic pictures, made of colored glass
cubes set in a background of gold. Among the other mosaic saints, the
artist Edfrem was allowed to introduce the portrait of the generous
emperor. More modest donors presented the church with a baptismal font
which bore the simple inscription that it was given by “those whose
names are known to the Lord.”
Now that Palestine was no longer under Moslem rule, pilgrims thronged
from every Christian country to visit the holy places, and Bethlehem
was crowded with even greater multitudes than during the days of St.
Helena or St. Jerome. At Christmas time the vast concourse of clergy
and nobles and pilgrims celebrated the festival with gorgeous pomp in
the restored and now magnificent church. There were peals of ringing
bells, and triumphant choruses of praise, and swinging of priceless
censers, and above the great throng of worshippers a golden star was
pulled across the church, while young men on the roof chanted the song
of the angels.
“In those days,” Brother Felix tells us, “Bethlehem was full of people,
famous and rich. Christians of every country on earth brought presents
thither, and exceeding rich merchants dwelt there.”
But with peace and wealth, the Christian population of Bethlehem
became more and more enervated and corrupt, until it is said that at
last one of the leading men of the town planned to commit a deadly sin
within the very precincts of the sacred Cave of the Nativity. When this
was reported to the Moslems, they saw that virtue had departed from
their Christian rulers, so they were not afraid to rise up against
them, and soon they drove them out of all Palestine.
This is only a tradition; but it sounds almost like an allegory of the
actual issue of the Crusades and the lamentable fate of the short-lived
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.
[Illustration: _SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS_]
XII
SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS
Numberless traditions have sprung up concerning the sacred places in
and about Bethlehem and the holy persons who dwelt there. Many of these
tales are really beautiful, and even when they will not bear a too
critical inspection, there is often a moral overlaid by the extravagant
details of the narrative.
* * * * *
The story of the First Roses is told in the words of Sir John
Mandeville, who heard it in Bethlehem in the year 1322, except that
the spelling of the old knight has necessarily been modernized.
“And between the City and the Church is the Felde Floridus, that is
to say, the Flowery Field: forasmuch as a fair Maiden was blamed with
wrong and slandered; for which cause she was doomed to the Death; and
to be burnt in that place, to the which she was led. And as the Fire
began to burn about her, she made her prayers to our Lord, that as
truly she was not guilty of that Sin, He would help her and make it
known to all men, of His merciful Grace. And when she had thus said,
she entered into the Fire, and anon was the Fire quenched and out: and
the Brands that were burning, became red Roseries; and the Brands that
were not kindled, became white Roseries, full of Roses. And these were
the first Roseries and Roses, both white and red, that ever any Man
saw. And thus was this Maiden saved by the Grace of God.”
* * * * *
The chapter of the Koran entitled “Mary” tells how a palm tree near
the birthplace of Jesus miraculously let fall its ripe dates in order
to satisfy His mother’s hunger. Practically all early Moslem visitors
to Palestine speak of seeing this tree and note the fact of its being
the only one of the kind growing in the district. This made the
miracle even more marvellous, as date-palms have to be artificially
cross-fertilized before their fruit will come to maturity.
* * * * *
A twelfth century pilgrim tells us that “every year in the middle of
the night, at the hour when Christ was born, all the trees about the
city of Bethlehem bow their branches down to the ground toward the
place where Christ was born, and when the sun rises, gradually raise
them up again.”
* * * * *
About a mile outside of Bethlehem is still pointed out the “Field of
Peas,” but the story of the origin of these small, round stones has
undergone a number of variations. This is the way it was told to Henry
Maundrell, who visited Palestine about the year 1700.
[Illustration: ST. JEROME AND THE LION
From the painting by Rubens
]
“Near this Monument (Rachel’s Tomb) is a little piece of ground in
which are picked up a little sort of small round Stones, exactly
resembling Pease: Concerning which they have a tradition here, that
they were once truly what they now seem to be; but the Blessed Virgin
petrify’d them by a Miracle, in punishment to a surly Rustick, who
deny’d her the Charity of a handful of them to relieve her hunger.”
* * * * *