The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1877-03-17

IuSS, uOu uldhc Il lndnUer CldI Jne nCart
will break or eyes grow dim with looking
on. Somehow you get used to the dusk
of the grotto, and then you search il
from end to end and are unable to make
anything of it, for it is thousand times
yelled in trappings; but as you pass
from corner to corner in the wee little
place your eyes fall upon great silver
star sunk in the marble floor. The soft
rays of score of splendid lamps fall
upon it; you draw near to it, filled with
awe and wonderment; you stop to read
the legend that is engraved upon it. An
irresistible impulse compels you to your
knees in the radiance of these holy cen
Sers that swing above your head. In the
intense, the exquisite pause that reigns
in that hallowed nook you trace the let
tiers with bewildered eyes over and over
again before you begin to comprehend
them, for they are these:
He de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus
est,
How your heart leaps nowl How your
cheeks flush and grow pale by turns, and
your throat contracts as if you were
seized in the relentless grasp of the angel
Of doubts, who fears that you may for
get yourself and soften your heart at last.
After that you turn back into the town,
caring to see nothing else, for you were
never before so near conviction; and you
say to yourself at intervals--at least |
did" Lord, believe; help Thou mine
unbelief."
The Greek Convent at Bethlehem-we
tried the Greek for change-gave US so
comical repast that | must record it.
In charming cell, which might have
hidden itself among the smaller cham
beers of almost any hotel without fear of
detection and discharge, we sat at table
and were entertained by very intelli-
gent monk, who spoke admirable French
A lay brother brought us basin of wa
ter and towel, holding them before US
while we dipped and dried our fingers.
Coffee black and thick, accompanied by
the nargileh, kept us IN good humOr for
fifteen minutes. Rosewater and pre-
serves followed; then, after an interval
came the bread of Bethlehem looking
very much like enormous pale pancakes.
They were as thick as my thumb, spongy,
lukewarm, and very good eating. Then
pigeons, figs, more coffee, fresh rosewa-
ter, and another sort of preserves-I
should say this last dish might have been
sparrows' eggs boiled in honey. A fresh
coal was placed in the nargileh, bottle
of Bethlehem wine set before us, and we
were left to our siesta, or such other mild
diversions as are native to conventual
life!
Did you ever have vision of fair gar
den grown to seed-a grove of gaunt gray
olives, with boughs that look like smoke
clouds in the moonlight, and like sprays
of silver in the sunshine? A garden not
over visited, flooded with tall, rich grass.
through which narrow path is scarcely
broken under the low-hanging boughs,
leading on and on through silence and
solitude to the mother tree in whose
messy lap you are wont to sit and dream;
a garden where the sparrows brood and
the rocks speak in hoarse whisper, and
the lizard is unafraid; garden where
the sunshine falls more softly than ever,
where the wind is never rude, where the
rain descends in showers, mellow and
seek repose and find it unaware; where
the faint take heart and the boisterous
become gentle, because angels sit and
watch unseen at the four corners there
of, with slender fingers pressed upon
their lips. The wall of this garden is
broken and overwhelmed with myrtles.
You are free to enter and depart at what
ever hour you will, but there you sit in
the midst of it, and look out under the
bOughs, seeing upon the hill
top not far away that city before whose
walls the kingdoms of the earth are
and whose story is forever eel
ebrated in glorious and triumphant songi
That is the Gethsemane | have longed
for; this is the Gethsemane have found:
An Enclosure about seventy PAGES in
circumference, surrounded by a high
stone wall with small door on the up
per side, against the Mount of Olives. A
knock at this door summons a Franciscan
monk, who unlocks it and admits you to
a prim garden with asphaltum walks and
stiff tlower-plats carefully fenced in.
Seven olive trees, torn almost to shreds,
with their feeble limbs propped up and
bound together, stand in the center of
the grounds. The stations of the cross
are ranged about the wall. The monk
admits you, if you desire it, into the
inner garden so that you can approach
the trees. The venerable olives seem to
have known something of the agony of
that awful night, and to show it in every
line of their rent and ragged bodies.
The monk gathers a few flowers of the
many that he carefully cultivates. You
pay him franc and withdraw, because
there is another knock at the gate and
he does not like to leave you alone in the
tlower-beds and within reach of the old
trees. You may see, if you like, with
out the walls the spot where Peter,
James and John slept when they should
have watched, and near to it the column
in memory of Judas kiss. Yonder is
the cavern of the sweat of blood, and
close against it, far down in the bowels
of the earth, is the tomb of the Blessed
Virgin, and of st. Joseph and of the
parents of the Virgin.
Over the wall on one hand you see
T y Al. ~