An event so great and memorable has rendered the city of the Savior’s birth a holy shrine, at which the devout of all ages and countries have bowed with unspeakable delight. And, in commemoration of the event, and to rescue the site from oblivion, the Emperor Constantine, in the commencement of the fourth century, ordered the erection of a magnificent basilica over the “Grotto of the Nativity,” which is now the oldest monument of Christian architecture in the world. Separated from the town by a long esplanade, the church occupies the eastern brow of the hill on which the city is built, and, together with the three convents abutting from its sides, forms an enormous pile of limestone, vast in dimensions, irregular in outline, and, though it is destitute of external architectural grandeur, the size, strength, and commanding position of the edifice render it the chief attraction of the place. The Greeks, Latins, and Armenians hold joint possession of the basilica, and adjoining it are the monasteries for the entertainment and devotion of their respective orders. It was late one evening in the month of April that I rapped for admission at the iron door of the Latin convent. The Franciscans received me kindly, and, after a generous meal, an aged monk led me to my apartments for the night. The convent bell called me early from my slumbers, and, ascending to the broad, flat roof of the monastery, I enjoyed an extensive view of the surrounding country. The sky was soft, the air pure, and the sun was just rising above the mountains of Moab. The shepherd’s shrill voice mingled with the tinkling of bells as he led his flock in search of pasture, and the leaves of orange, fig, and olive trees shone like jewels as the dew-drops thereon reflected the morning light. Far away to the east are the Plains of the Jordan, the mountains of Gilead, Moab, Ammon, and Seir; on the north the Hills of Judea are bleak; on the west they are green as far as the eye can reach toward the “Great Sea;” on the south are the Gardens of Urtâs and the Pools of Solomon. With a mind attuned by such a scene, I read the romantic story of Ruth and Boaz, the history of David’s coronation, and the more tender narrative of the Savior’s birth. The past returned with all the reality of the present, and history repeated its wondrous deeds before the eye of a sublime faith. But the charm was broken in a moment by the chant of a funeral dirge. Just beneath me, and near the convent wall, a long procession of women was approaching, following to its final rest the lifeless form of some daughter of Bethlehem. It was a singular hour for a burial. Except the men who bore the corpse, there were no others present. Fifty women robed in white gathered about the grave, and, as a symbol of the abundant happiness of departed spirits, each one bore upon her head a basket of bread, and, leaving it upon the tomb, they all retired.