If you stay in the Holy City long enough to fall into anything like regular habits of amusement and occupation, and to become, in short, for the time “a man about town” at Jerusalem, you will necessarily lose the enthusiasm which you may have felt when you trod the sacred soil for the first time, and it will then seem almost strange to you to find yourself so entirely surrounded in all your daily pursuits by the designs and sounds of religion.  Your hotel is a monastery, your rooms are cells, the landlord is a stately abbot, and the waiters are hooded monks.  If you walk out of the town you find yourself on the Mount of Olives, or in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, or on the Hill of Evil Counsel.  If you mount your horse and extend your rambles you will be guided to the wilderness of St. John, or the birthplace of our Saviour.  Your club is the great Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where everybody meets everybody every day.  If you lounge through the town, your Bond Street is the Via Dolorosa, and the object of your hopeless affections is some maid or matron all forlorn, and sadly shrouded in her pilgrim’s robe.  If you would hear music, it must be the chanting of friars; if you look at pictures, you see virgins with mis-fore-shortened arms, or devils out of drawing, or angels tumbling up the skies in impious perspective.  If you would make any purchases, you must go again to the church doors, and when you inquire for the manufactures of the place, you find that they consist of double-blessed beads and sanctified shells.  These last are the favourite tokens which the pilgrims carry off with them.  The shell is graven, or rather scratched, on the white side with a rude drawing of the Blessed Virgin or of the Crucifixion or some other scriptural subject.  Having passed this stage it goes into the hands of a priest.  By him it is subjected to some process for rendering it efficacious against the schemes of our ghostly enemy.  The manufacture is then complete, and is deemed to be fit for use.

The village of Bethlehem lies prettily couched on the slope of a hill.  The sanctuary is a subterranean grotto, and is committed to the joint-guardianship of the Romans, Greeks, and Armenians, who vie with each other in adorning it.  Beneath an altar gorgeously decorated, and lit with everlasting fires, there stands the low slab of stone which marks the holy site of the Nativity; and near to this is a hollow scooped out of the living rock.  Here the infant Jesus was laid.  Near the spot of the Nativity is the rock against which the Blessed Virgin was leaning when she presented her babe to the adoring shepherds.

Many of those Protestants who are accustomed to despise tradition consider that this sanctuary is altogether unscriptural, that a grotto is not a stable, and that mangers are made of wood.  It is perfectly true, however, that the many grottos and caves which are found among the rocks of Judea were formerly used for the reception of cattle.  They are so used at this day.  I have myself seen grottos appropriated to this purpose.