CHAPEL LEADING TO THE CAVE IN WHICH THE CROSS WAS FOUND.

BY JOHN CARNE.

THE anxious hope of the traveller, to behold the place of the

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Sepulchre," urges him thither without delay, even within a few hours after he has entered Jerusalem. In this he is not wise, and should rather wait till the first tumultuous feelings are calmed, till curiosity has fastened on other and minor objects— on hill, vale, and precipice around. Let him wait till Jerusalem is grown, in some measure, familiar to his eye; till he has seen the sun rise and set on her waste and ruinous places, on her memorials of unutterable glory and despair; where the hand of the Lord was visible in vengeance and in dread: a meet preparation for the resting-place of his inexpressible Love. He who would wish his visit to the sepulchre to be indelible, like a sweet and appealing voice heard at times through his future life, should come there at midnight, with the spirit of the world hushed within him, and even its memories yielded to the memory of his Lord. If he desires a communion of worship, to weep with them that weep, let him join at morn, noon, or eve the bands of pilgrims, and kneel amidst a multitude of the repentant and redeemed; but if he would be alone on Calvary, and earth has no loneliness so purifying and sublime, let him be there when the city is buried in sleep, and there is no witness near.

Previous to entering the great rotunda with its lofty dome, whose light falls on the tomb, you pass through, on the left, a very interesting apartment, paved with marble, and lofty; it is said to be the spot where Christ appeared to Mary in the garden : during Easter the pilgrims love to come here, and kneel around

the middle of the impressive chamber, where flowers are spread and perfumes burned, and where, tradition says, were uttered the beautiful words "Touch me not, Mary! why weepest thou? go, and tell my brethren." Yet the floor of the rotunda was to an observer of the human heart a rich and hourly treat; in the presence of princes, in the halls of pleasure and beauty, in the marts of business, men do not care to unveil the secrets of the spirit, the thoughts, the workings, the conflicts known only to themselves and their God. Who can bid them come forth to the light? Here, as by the voice of the angel, they came forth, as the pilgrims of all ranks stood or knelt, trembled or were bowed utterly, their eyes fixed intensely on the sepulchre; the "covering of all hearts was taken away." The rich and the poor were alike subdued as the infant; the proud man and the mighty man were as the moth; some beat their breasts, some wept passionately, others unconsciously, as the tears fall sometimes in sleep, as if their past life was opening like a long and dim reverie; many leaned on their staff, with clasped hands and pale faces, as if, in pain and unresolved, they waited for the "troubling of the waters."

How beautiful the evening falls through the lofty dome on this scene of penitence, hope, and sorrow; evening, so welcome in every Eastern home, but here tenfold welcome in its soft, cool, gorgeous light, as if it bade the mourners weep no more, and drew its veil over the sad and guilty past. From many a lip the hymn is breaking, to many a bosom the cross is pressed with raptures and the name of Christ murmured. Many women were here, some of them ladies whose sunken features told of great fatigues and long journeyings; but the smile of exquisite comfort and hope that gathered there—could they have found it in their saloons, and in the bosom of their families, they had not then come so far to seek it. Was this religion in its power and purity: yet who would have stretched

forth his hand in that hour, and plucked the beautiful illusion away. All was not illusion; there was much of brokenness of heart, of sincere repentance, of attachment to their Lord.

The Greek church, adjoining, is ornamented in a rich and costly style, and covered in many parts with gold; in the Armenian church a Persian carpet covers the floor; where comfort, and even luxury, blends with devotion; the dresses of the priesthood, and more especially of their, dignitaries, was during Easter rich and magnificent; the incessant and inharmonious chanting, the clouds of perfumes, the ceaseless processions, at last wearied the senses, and drove the wanderer forth into the loneliness of nature. No temple made with hands can so lift the thoughts to heaven as the side of Olivet or Bethany, the glens of Zion or Bethlehem: the aged rocks, the rushing of the streams of thousands of years; there is a voice of wail even in the winds, as of the wailing for those we love. From the tomb of Rachel to that of Zacharias-how dark is the valley of the dead! but the earth has not covered her prey; the judges, the kings, the warriors of Judah! their ashes are scattered to the winds; a few fragments of stone coffins and broken sarcophagi are all that now remain; the chambers of death are open, and swept by the blast and rain. They stood in a wild waste, the day was sultry in the extreme when we visited them, no grove was near, no shadow, no flowers, no footstep or voice but our own; we turned weary and unfeelingly away, for we had no sympathy with the scene. As we entered again the streets of the city, and, after some rest and refreshment, visited the church— how beautiful and vivid was the transition! It was evening: the massy silver lamps mingled their rich glare with the dying light of day; the fine chant of the Franciscans, with the swell of the organ at intervals; the busy, excited features of the pilgrims, their voices of congratulation to each other. This daily and hourly excitement is kept up by their own faith, and the address

of the monks, who multiply miraculous places like the widow's cruse of oil. Not only is the very spot pointed out where the cross was fixed, but even where it was discovered, dug up, and restored to the world. We one evening were invited to join a procession of the monks, and, with each a taper in hand, made the tour of the places of peculiar and miraculous fame, till at last they descended into the vault where the cross was found, and chanted there with a fine effect for some minutes.

The fathers who inhabit the Franciscan monastery appear to feel the monotony and dreariness of their life; they are relieved by occasional arrivals of brethren from Italy, when a few of them have a chance of returning home. It is not easy to maintain the enthusiasm of piety, or even an interest in these hallowed scenes, from year to year, and day to day :—was their home or altar, like that of the prophets, on the side of the lake or stream, on the inspiring plain or mountain, the wheels of life could not drive thus heavily, nor their aspects be thus pallid and joyless. Inclosed within strong walls and gates, with small and gloomy cells, in dirty and unwholesome streets, and visited at times with heavy exactions. The inmates of a monastery in the wilderness, where we spent some time, appeared to us far more happy than those of the "church of the holy sepulchre ;" yet this monastery was in one of the most frightful solitudes imaginable: a land, sublime and terrible, with no other habitation, far as the eye could roam; and its glance roamed far and wide over sand-hills, rocks, and ravines. Tower and battlement protected the recluses from hostile attacks, lofty terraces afforded them a safe and magnificent walk; there was no garden, but there was health in the desert-breeze, energy and elevation in the desert aspects; no man was lord over them, their noble convent was their castle; many comforts were within the walls; wine and cates, carpets and couches; each cell of the traveller was furnished