And is not that grief the grief of love which deşires the holy blessedness of the sinner? Yes, it is the grief of love. God created man to be the image of God and holiness and blessedness. And God did this because God is love, not to amuse Himself. And this purpose of God towards man hath not changed, but has followed every individual man through every moment of his life, desiring that he should yet be the image of God. And God hath revealed this purpose fully in Jesus Christ, who, by the grace of God, tasted death for every man, and was raised from the dead unto glory, that every man might have confidence in God's purpose, and might yield himself unto God to have that purpose accomplished in him." In another letter, written to Mr. Craig :"I believe that love and righteousness and justice in God mean exactly the same thing, namely, a desire to bring His whole moral creation into a participation of His own character and His own blessedness. He has made us capable of this, and He will not cease from using the best means for accomplishing it in us all. When I think of God making a creature of such capacities, it seems to me blasphemous to suppose that He will throw it from Him into everlasting darkness, because it has resisted His gracious purposes towards it for the natural period of human life. No; He who waited so long for the formation of a piece of old red sandstone will surely wait with much long-suffering for the perfecting of a human spirit." In a letter to Madame de Staël he adverts to his views of human sorrow. "The history of every family and of every individual," he says, "is deep tragedy; for sin is in the world, and there is no other deliverance from sin but by the way of sorrowsorrow administered by love and received in love, so that this hope is given up to the development of the sacred mystery of sorrow. It is by sorrow that God calls the prodigal to think of his true home, and it is by sorrow that He perfects His saints." When writing to Lady Augusta Stanley on the same subject, he says, "It would seem sometimes as if all that the sufferer can arrive at is mere submission, a mere bowing of the head and heart to a will which is not understood; but something higher and happier than this is to be aimed at. The loving purpose of our Father in it is to be known and felt as love. Our Father is to be met in it and sympathized with in it. Love seeks sympathy, and can be satisfied with nothing else." The tone Erskine's forte was consolation. of his mind rendered it far easier to his keen and large capacity for sympathy to weep with those that weep than to rejoice with those that rejoice. "He had, besides," to use Dr. Hanna's words, "a gospel of consolation to impart," which he lost no opportunity to apply, a gospel which embodied itself in one of his favourite hymns-a copy of which he was in the habit of sending to his friends: I say to thee, do thou repeat As broad as the blue sky above. * And ere thou leave him say thou this Yet one word more: They only miss The winning of that final bliss Who will not count it true that love, Blessing, not cursing, rules above, And that in it we live and move. And one thing further make him know, That to believe these things are so, This firm faith never to forego. Despite of all that seems at strife We cannot forbear saying that whatever may have been Mr. Erskine's personal character, there is, and especially during the last twenty years of his life, much evidence of a morbid tendency. There is a rather unhappy development of otherworldliness which spoils the symmetry and beauty of religious life. He dwelt in too sombre a way upon death-beds and bereavements. Time, as he wrote of it, and the world, were too little pervaded by the sentiment of trust and joy. He probably suffered from the want of definite aim and occupation. In 1825 he said, in writing to his friend Mr. Montague, "I sometimes regret that I have not some fixed necessary employment. There is much time lost when one has to consider every day how the day is to be spent." He unquestionably bordered upon spiritual ennui. His heart seems ever to have been taken up with a desire to know and love as perfectly as he could the Great Father, who, he believed, had sent forth a gospel for all mankind. The spiritual life appeared to him to be so great a necessity and blessing, that he yearned to show its value to all with whom he came into contact. He and his two friends, Campbell and Scott, aided marvellously, each in his own way, in modifying and directing the religious thought of his day. "They are all gone into a world of light." Brave and simple and true were they in their day and generation. Much misunderstood and often misrepresented, they still bore their testimony. There was that in the character and spirit of Erskine which gave to him a peculiar fitness for influencing the spirits of those whom he received into his friendship. He gave sweetness and solemnity to their thought, and led them quite naturally to cherish unstinted reverence for himself, and devout regard for truth. MODERN BETHLEHEM. By W. C. PROCTER, AUTHOR OF "LIGHTS AND SHADOWS ON THE HILLS OF Galilee.” THE touch of association transfigures the natural features of a scene more strangely than either sunlight or mist. Under its magic, mere mounds of rubbish strewed with broken potsherds become objects of awe; an old moss-covered stone hushes us to silent reverence. I remember once walking out from Penzance in search of Lanyon Quoit, that inscrutable monument of a vanished race. Sunny and hot the white road lengthened out before me as I walked by harvest fields that glittered and rustled on either hand. Then, as the first sombre thought of evening fell upon the day, I reached a brown moor into which agriculture had made some straggling inroads. And as the moor swelled up before me against the rapidly cooling sky, I saw it crowned by the dark grey stone and its unhewn pillars, of which I was in search. It seemed low and squat, the pale northern light scarcely peering through between the table and heath. But its solitude on the sky-line, its shadowy ghostliness, its weird uncouthness, seemed all to merge in an unspeakable impression of abysmal age; and even before the dome of Mont Blanc I could not realise my own insignificance more. Yet what was it? One big rough stone set upon three smaller rough stones in the midst of a commonplace bit of moorland! But then I came to it with the traditions of two thousand years upon me, and the vague wonder of fifty past generations fluttering in my heart. Whose were the strong, rude hands that set this dumb memorial here? And what was life in that nebulous past, that measureless chaos of dim ghosts, out of which the bright, keen, intense present has been evolved? No; it is not the tender, solemn grey upon the rich brown moor; it is not the pensive glimpse of evening light between that table and the heather which makes the charm. It is the power of association, trailing millenniums along, and flinging their shadow like a garment of majesty on the altar of stone. Perhaps there is no land in the world But where this glamour of association is so vividly Were it not for such associations, the modern town of Bethlehem would have little attraction for the traveller. It is not, indeed, without some natural advantages, such as a strong position, surrounded by patches of fruitful soil, with a fair supply of water. But in picturesqueness of site it is far inferior to Nazareth. Its main street straggles along the summit of a detached ridge, running eastward at right angles to the central chain of the "hill country of Judæa;" and from this irregular street narrow and crooked lanes diverge down the slopes on either hand. The houses are of rough, rude masonry, with heavy, projecting balconies, and deep, dark archways, grateful beneath the hot sun. The love of shadow characteristic of Eastern towns is here carried to such an extent that here and there the narrower lanes are completely arched over. The population being entirely Christian, there are no minarets to break the monotony of the flat roofs, and from a little distance the houses look as if they were huddled together without any plan. Yet there is one massive and striking feature in the view. For toward the eastern extremity of the ridge, and separated from the town by a broad esplanade, there rises the ancient Church of the Nativity, with three monasteries, Roman, Greek, and Armenian, abutting upon it. These buildings are not represented in the accompanying engraving, which gives only the town. But in the actual scene this great church and its accessories tower over and subordinate the rest of Bethlehem, as York Minster and Canterbury Cathedral dominate the view of the cities they adorn. Yet in the external architecture of the Church of the Nativity there is little indicative of Christian art. It is encumbered with buttresses and obscured by its surroundings. But it is clothed upon with the veneration and the longing of fifteen centuries. There hangs still about it, like the glow of a departed day around some mountain peak, the memory of crusading zeal, with all the heroic passion that it recalls. And the predominance of this one feature in the landscape is an outward symbol of the supremacy which the Christian associations of the place have asserted over all its long train of earlier memories. So far as the natural features of the place are concerned, the best time to see Bethlehem is the spring, or early summer. Then the terraced vineyards wreathe the whole hill with lines of greenery. Then the broad, velvety fig-leaves alternate with the grey, willowy olive, and the pomegranate sparkles out with scarlet blossom. Then crimson-tipped daisies and the "white star of Bethlehem" are a welcome relief to the eye, from the blaze of wild tulips and poppies. And somewhere near there is a happy valley where the exquisite blush of the rose suffuses all the ground, and reflects a kindly glow even on the mouldering greys above. Then shepherds lead out their flocks among the pastures of thin grass mingled with aromatic shrubs, and we could fancy that the morning had been gladdened by the angels' song of "peace on earth, good-will to men." Such is the scene in the spring. But as the summer advances, "the grass withereth, the flower fadeth," the radiant colours die off from valley and hill-side, the vine-leaves shrivel while the fruit ripens, and Bethlehem is left with the wrinkled face of age, sitting amidst desolation. But the occupations of the inhabitants are not wholly dependent upon the seasons. They are, as we said, all Christians, at least in name. They are probably of Syrian rather than Jewish or Arab descent. Or it is not impossible that there may be some slight infusion of Western blood dating from the crusades. However that may be, the Bethlehemites have a character of their own, which in some respects is not unworthy of its most ancient memories. Industry and energy must have characterized it, when such men as Boaz, Jesse, and David, were its natural representatives; and in their own way the modern inhabitants keep up the tradition. They are a spirited sort of people, and occasionally turbulent. But they know how to take care of themselves, and when there was a local rising against Mehemet Ali they managed to secure the whole town to themselves, free from Mahommedan partnership. They work with some skill and considerable industry at the manufacture of crucifixes, beads, models of sacred places, and such like objects, which secure a ready sale amongst pilgrims. The rude and apparently ruinous aspect of the town is therefore not an indication of abject poverty. Bethlehem is still, as its ancient name suggests, a place of comparative plenty -"the house of bread." Indeed, its modern name signifies rather an increase of luxury, for it is now called by the Arabs Beitlahn, which in their language means "the house of flesh." Perhaps the inhabitants owe something of their liveliness to their comparative prosperity. When their primeval town was first invaded by the coach or omnibus which we believe runs now between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, the craftsmen would leap from their benches and the shopkeepers from their carpets to run for a mile along the road after so wonderful a novelty. Although the ancient associations of the place are venerable and for the most part unchallenged, yet Western pilgrims, at least from Protestant countries, find the special objects that they are invited to venerate at least of uncertain authenticity. One of the earliest and most pathetic memories of the town is that of David's longing for the water from the well by the gate, the devotion by which it was obtained, and his refusal to drink it, as being too sacred for anything but an offering to God, since it had been procured at the risk of his faithful followers' lives. There is no well by the gate now; but one is pointed out about a mile to the north which is said to be the same. It is not impossible that the town may have somewhat shifted its position, and that the tradition may be correct. But it seems more likely that superficial changes and accumulations of rubbish have choked the old watercourses and perhaps opened up new ones. The dispute of chief interest, however, is concerned with the Church of the Nativity and the sacred grotto beneath. This church is far more magnificent within than without. The nave, used in common by the three communions, is of noble proportions, in the style of the basilicas or imperial courts that formed the first model for Christian places of worship. It has two double rows of Corinthian columns supporting the roof, which used to be gorgeously decorated, but which now shows bare cedar beams. The walls are still lined with mosaics, but the colours have considerably faded. In this church one of the successful crusaders was crowned king of Judæa, a vain title, and an anachronism for ever more. But its chief interest lies in the fact that the nave is, so far as known, the earliest extant building that ever was erected for Christian worship. It was but by the mother of Constantine in the earlier half of the fourth century, at the time when Christianity was first endowed with the splendours and the dangers of state. The reason for her interest in this site was the steadfast tradition that a grotto or cave in the rock here was the veritable stable in which Christ had been born. There is no doubt that this tradition was of great antiquity. Justin Martyr, writing in the middle of the second century, assumes it as the universal opinion that the scene of the Nativity was a cave just outside the town; and the same account is given in more than one apocryphal gospel of very early date. There is nothing in the canonical writings absolutely inconsistent with this tradition, though clearly they do not suggest it. The plain meaning of St. Luke's narrative may be rendered thus: There was a well-known "inn," or khan, or caravanserai, at Bethlehem, which even from the time of Jeremiah, and perhaps earlier, had been used by travellers between Egypt and Palestine or Syria; not of course that the building was the same, but the establishment remained on the same spot for centuries. This "inn" or caravanserai was so crowded on the occasion of the Roman census described by St. Luke, that Joseph and Mary found every chamber, and probably the whole of the courtyard, occupied. Where were they to go? The most natural course, according to the simple manners of the time, was to seek refuge in one of the outhouses or sheds for the cattle of travellers. It is not to be supposed that a single cave could afford stable accommodation proportionate to the number of travellers for whom such a place provided. The "inn" probably consisted of an open court surrounded on three sides by ranges of apartments affording shelter, but nothing more, for each company carried its own furniture and food. The cattle were left outside, in sheds leaning against the outer walls. And the obvious suggestion of the sacred narrative is that the Nativity took place in one of these sheds. It is not to be supposed that travellers in such circumstances would go any farther than they could help. As they left the outer gate a vacant stall caught their attention, and this afforded at least the shelter that they required. While, therefore, it cannot be said that the story told to pilgrims in the Church of the Nativity is plainly contrary to Scripture, yet on the other hand it certainly has no support from the New Testament narrative. Nay, in one point there is perhaps a marked discord; for at the Christian era the grotto of Nativity would be outside the town of Bethlehem. But the fact that the birth was actually in the town itself is stated in the Gospel to be a necessary fulfilment of prophecy. Such doubts, however, could not safely be expressed in the hearing of the monks who guide us to the sacred cave. Descending from the church, we find ourselves in an irregular vault hewn out of the limestone rock. It is lighted, but not brilliantly, by silver lamps, the rays of which glitter on a silver star that distinguishes the holiest spot of all. Here a recess in the side of the cave is said to have held the rough couch on which the most blessed among women lay. On the opposite side, and at a lower level, is another recess, where it is alleged that the identical manger was found in which was laid the infant Saviour. This relic is deposited at Rome, in the Basilica of Sta. Maria Maggiore, where it is, or used to be, exhibited by the Pope amidst the solemnities of Christmas. Could we be sure that we indeed stood where first Divine love began its supreme appeal through Jesus Christ to human sin, we should be ready to cry with awe-stricken Jacob, "Lo, God was in this place and we knew it not. This is none other than the house of God and the gate of heaven!" But in the intellectual degradation of our attendants, and in the formal superstition combined with real heathenism R characteristic of the neighbourhood, we learn the powerlessness of any religion dependent on sacred objects or appeals to the senses. And we are thankful that the critical spirit of Protestantism has compelled us to learn the lesson taught to St. Paul when he said, "Yea, though I have known Christ after the flesh, yet henceforth know I Him no more;" or again," the Lord is the spirit, and where the spirit of the Lord is there is liberty." To the present hour nine-tenths of those who bear the name of Christ are impervious to His meaning when He said, "it is the spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing; the words that I speak unto you, they are spirit and they are life." We naturally feel as though it would be a priceless privilege to watch and pray where first the Son of God shared the cries and tears of our struggling human life. But we forget that too eager a dependence on special places, times, and seasons is apt to make all the rest of the world and life barren of divine influence for us. Better far that we should feel the all pervading spirit of Jesus with us at all times, and so realise the promise, "Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." There was one, however, whose spirituality of mind no one will dispute, but who gladly left behind him the comforts of European civilisation to spend the last thirty years of his life near this sacred grotto. From the vault a winding passage leads through the rock and terminates in a second chamber. Here Jerome, one of the greatest fathers of the Western Church, took up his abode and planted the first Christian monastic community that Palestine had seen. Here he translated the Scripture into that Latin version which has been to the Roman Church what our vernacular Bible has been to the Anglican communion. And here he pursued those Hebrew studies which made him on all matters of Old Testament scholarship the oracle for centuries of the whole world. About his habitation of this cave there is no uncertainty; and we can imagine him leaving his narrow cell morning, noon, and night, to |