At the western end of this chapel is the great rotunda of the church, measuring ninety-nine feet in diameter, encircled by eighteen colossal piers, supporting a clere-story pierced with windows, above which is the majestic dome, a hundred feet from the pavement below, with a circular opening in the top for light and ventilation, similar to the aperture in the dome of the Pantheon in Rome. In the very centre of this rotunda, and directly beneath the dome, is the reputed sepulchre of our Lord. In form it is not unlike a miniature temple, ten feet in breadth, twenty in length, and of equal height. The exterior is ornamented with semi-columns and pilasters, with rich cornices and mouldings; with a dome resembling an imperial crown, and with a thousand lamps of gold and silver, interspersed with wax tapers and vases of flowers. The entrance is on the east, through a small inclosed area, along which are rows of candles perpetually burning. Over the portal floats the banner of the Cross, and beneath its silken folds is a magnificent picture of Christ’s resurrection. It is the most spirited representation of that grandest of all events ever thrown upon the canvas. The Redeemer’s form is drawn with all the harmony of parts and the grace of action of an Apollo Belvidere. With one foot resting on the tomb, he is leaving the sepulchre with an air of triumph as majestic as it is natural. Illustration: VIEW OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE. The interior is divided into two small chapels; the first is where the angel was seen, and contains the throne on which he sat, and in the second is the Holy Sepulchre. The vault is seven feet long and six wide, surmounted with a small dome. The tomb occupies the whole length of the north side of the chamber, incased with marble, and is three feet above the floor; the upper slab is cracked through the centre, and its edges are worn smooth by the kisses of pilgrim lips. Forty-two gold lamps burn continually before the tomb, and from a golden censer clouds of incense ascend as a memorial offering. Whether accepting or rejecting its traditional identity with the sepulchre of Joseph of Arimathea, no one can approach this revered shrine without profound emotions. For fifteen centuries Christians have guarded it with a solicitude no less tender than constant. To rescue it from the hands of infidel Moslems, Peter the Hermit and the Pontiff Urban roused all Europe to war against the Turk; to restore it to the Church, kings and princes, bishops and nobles, gave their treasure, and the millions of Christendom flew to arms to perish in the daring crusade; to it longing eyes in all lands turn, and he whose lips have pressed its cold marble in devotion is esteemed a saint with a charmed life. Such is the religious reverence with which it is held, that none are allowed to approach it till hat and shoes have been removed, while the more devout drag themselves along the marble floor and fondly kiss the unconscious stone. Impelled