Christians, to each of whom separate parts are assigned, as places of worship and habitations for the monks; but, on certain days, all may perform their devotions at the altars erected over the consecrated spots. The church is built in the form of a cross-the nave being adorned with forty-eight Corinthian columns in four rows, each column being two feet six inches in diameter, and eighteen feet high, including the base and the capital. As the roof of the nave is wanting, the columns support nothing but a frieze of wood, which occupies the place of the architrave and the whole entablature. Open timber-work rests on the walls, and rises into the form of a dome, to support a roof that no longer exists, or that perhaps was never finished. The remains of some paintings on wood and in mosaic are here and there to be seen, exhibiting figures in full face, upright and stiff, but having a majestic effect. The nave, which is in possession of the Armenians, is separated from the three other branches of the cross by a wall-so that the unity of the edifice is destroyed. The top of the cross is occupied by the choir, which belongs to the Greeks. Here is "an altar dedicated to the Wise Men of the East," at the foot of which is a marble star, corresponding, as the monks say, to the point of the heavens where the miraculous meteor became stationary, and directly over the spot where the Saviour was born, in the subterranean church below! A flight of fifteen steps, and a long, narrow passage, conduct to the sacred crypt or grotto of the nativity -which is thirty-seven feet six inches long, by eleven feet three inches in breadth, and nine feet high. It is lined and floored with marble, and provided on each side with five oratories, "answering precisely to the ten cribs or stalls for horses, that the stable in which our Saviour was born contained." The precise spot of the birth is marked by a glory in the floor, composed of marble and jasper, encircled with silver, around which are inscribed the words, "Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est." Over it is a marble table or altar, which rests against the side of the rock, here cut into an arcade. The manger is at the distance of seven paces from the altar it is in a low recess, hewn out of the rock, to which you descend by two steps, and consists of a block of marble, raised about a foot and a half above the

floor, and hollowed out in the form of a manger. Before it is the altar of the Magi. The chapel is illuminated by thirtytwo lamps, presented by different princes of Christendom. Chateaubriand has described the scene in his usual florid and imaginative style.

"Nothing can be more pleasing or better calculated to excite devotional sentiments, than this subterraneous church. It is adorned with pictures of the Italian and Spanish schools, which represent the mysteries of the place. The usual ornaments of the manger are of blue satin, embroidered with silver. Incense is continually burning before the cradle of our Saviour. I have heard there an organ, touched by no ordinary hand, play, during mass, the sweetest and most tender tunes of the best Italian composers. These concerts charm the Christian Arab, who, leaving his camels to feed, repairs, like the shepherds of old, to Bethlehem, to adore the King of kings in the manger. I have seen this inhabitant of the desert communicate at the altar of the Magi, with a fervor, a piety, a devotion, unknown among the Christians of the West. The continual arrival of caravans from all the nations of Christendom-the publie prayers the prostrations-nay, even the richness of the presents sent here by the Christian princes-altogether produce feelings in the soul, which it is much easier to conceive than to describe."

Such is Bethlehem, the humble village rendered illustrious by the grandest circumstance in the whole range of human experiences—a circumstance which brought the despised and savagely-neglected poor nearer to their Maker, and, in the course of the development of its purposes, changed the aspect of the whole world, by imparting to it that spirituality of sentiment of which before it had been wholly destitute. It was a revelation of which we have yet but the glimpses; but which, nevertheless, we can distinctly perceive, is gradually producing conditions which will not only ultimately make the inhabitants of the whole earth one family, but which now, in their cumulative action, are rendering mankind more industrious, more virtuous, more confident, more intellectual, and more happy.

Ir the tree do not bud and blossom, and bring forth fruit in the spring, it is commonly dead all the year after; if in the spring and morning of your days, you do not bring forth fruit to God, it is a hundred to one that ever you bring forth fruit to him, when the evil days of old age shall overtake you, wherein you shall say, you have no pleasure.-Brooks.

men-scarcely to be called men; the one sixteen, the other a year or two olderwalked down Cheapside, London, together.

Business was over-people kept early hours then the clumsy shutters were for the most part closed. Tradesmen lounged at their doors, pretty faces looked out of lattice windows, and apprentices played at clubs, quarter-staff, or single-stick in the road, and woke up quiet people with their clatter. While things were thus, the two young men I named before-Mark Lorimer the younger, and Edward Dawmer the elder-walked down Cheapside together. They were talking very earnestly, and did not seem to heed the boys at play, or the loud laughter that rang through the Chepe, and made the rooks upon St. Mary Arcubus come out of their homes to see what was the matter.

66

"Why," said Mark, and his face flushed crimson, "I heard, and knew it for a truth, that they burned a child not many days old in the flames with its mother; they drove another frantic, and then slew it for its mad words. They are crowding the streets with orphans, and offering up, in the fires that are daily kindled, the best and bravest of the land"

"Hush, hush!" said Dawmer; "there are ears everywhere-be careful."

"I am not afraid," Mark answered, with all a boy's heroism. "I say again that these things ought not to be."

Yes, yes, that is all very well," Dawmer returned; "but it is not a pleasant thing to be tied to a whipping-post, as more than a score of lads were, not many days ago, and lashed almost to death."

to come to you and say, 'What do you think about the bread and wine in the Lord's supper ??

"What do I think of it ?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Bread and wine."

"But after the prayers of the priest?" "Bread and wine."

"Why, don't you know," said Dawmer, "that it would be flat heresy to say so?" "Why?"

"After the priest, it is bread and wine no longer."

The young man laughed. "What is it, then?" he asked.

"The body, blood, soul, and divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ."

"That I deny," said the young man, "and always will deny."

'Well, you know it is better to be cautious," said Dawmer. "Nobody can tell what may happen in these troublous times; better, I should think, try some cunning way of getting out of it."

Mark Lorimer lived with his father on this famous old bridge, for in those days it was covered with houses, and had the appearance of a regular street. It was evening, and the sun was setting when Mark reached home. In a small room, which overhung the river, sat his old father; he was watching the stream as it flowed rapidly onward, gurgling and struggling against the piles of the bridge, as it dashed wildly under the narrow arches. The old man turned his head as Mark entered, and clasped his hands. They sat and talked together about the troubles of the period, about the cruelty of Queen Mary, and the dread that was on all those

-a

who held the reformed faith. They talked of those whom they had known, with whom they had often worshiped, but who had suffered death by fire or sword for the faith they held so dear. They sat and talked together till the last rays of the sun had glided away, and the pale moon had arisen in the heavens, and cast its flood of mellow light on the picturesque old city. Then the old man summoned his servant godly woman, stricken in years; the cloth was spread, a frugal meal spread out, and they sat down to supper. The old man asked God's blessing on their food, and as he ended there was a loud knock at the outer door. Margery withdrew to open it. A few moments more, and a tall, well-made man strode into the room. He lifted his cap as he did so with a courtly air, then, pointing to a paper which he held in his hand, said, "In Queen Mary's name."

They saw it all. The old man arose, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; Margery wept aloud; but the young man was gone. The few moments which had elapsed between the knock and the entrance had been sufficient to apprize the old man of his son's danger. The other knew and felt it, and at his sire's command had concealed himself in one of those secret closets with which old houses then abounded.

"Sir," said the officer, "I have come here, commanded to arrest your son. Let him come forth."

holy name of Jesus, and how they roughly used the venerable man, and were about to test him, as they said, by holding his hand over a burning lamp. Just at that moment the secret door was opened, and the young man came forth.

He was thrown into prison that night, and the old man, with a heavy heart, was left in his home. The next day and the next he sought to see his son, but sought in vain; on the third he was told that he was condemned—that he who had betrayed him had borne witness against himconclusive evidence, they said, of guilt. This fellow was but a lad himself; no other than Edward Dawmer-Judas that he was!-he had sold his friend for the bloodmoney, and had left him now to die.

So there was another high holiday. Crowds thronged the way again from Newgate to Smithfield; thousands gathered in that open space; and city officers and soldiers kept guard about the stakes, which were ready for the victims. Six or seven were to die that day, and huge bundles of fagots were being brought together for the burning. At the hour fixed, the prisoners were brought through the street-four men, two women; and the lad Mark Lorimer. They were exhorted by the priests to repent, but remained true to the gospel; were fastened by strong chains and iron rings to the stakes, the fagots piled about them, and at a given signal fired. So the black smoke curled up, and the fire leaped and danced, and some of the people wept. It was more than an hour before it was

"Your son was seen to enter here-he

is here now-
w-surrender him at once!"

The old man refused. The officer called aloud to his men, who waited outside, and five or six stout fellows, in leathern jerkins and half armor, came at his command. They searched, but searched in vain; and when every effort proved fruitless, they turned fiercely on the old man, who watched their every movement.

"Old blood shall pay for young blood, if you conceal him longer," said the officer. "As I live, you shall taste the rack for this!"

"Spare the green and take the ripe," the old man answered; "and God be judge between us!"

What needs it to repeat all that was said-how oaths were mingled with the

way. So perished young Mark Lorimer -a victim to the persecution of Queen Mary's reign.

If you had entered the old house on the bridge, and gone with Margery to the little room that overlooked the Thames, you would have seen the old man kneeling down. If you had touched him, you would have found him dead!

GOOD HUMOR.-Good humor is a bright color in the web of life; but self-denial only can make it a fast color. A person who is the slave of selfishness has so many wants of his own to be supplied, so many interests of his own to support and defend, that he has no leisure to study the wants and interests of others. It is impossible that he should be happy himself, or make others around him so.

The National Magazine.

DECEMBER, 1854.

EDITORIAL NOTES AND GLEANINGS. THE RELIGIOUS SCARECROW OF THE AGE.-Since our article, bearing this title, was written, the North American Quarterly has appeared with a masterly review of De Maistre, the French Catholic writer, in which views quite coincident with our own are boldly stated. Of Romanism in general the North American says:—

"To us, every prognostic indicates decay, notwithstanding some apparent counter-tendencies on the surface, such as we mentioned at the beginning of this article. The Romish Church has no sympathy with the predominating activities of the modern era, and can never be the soul of such a body. If she does not directly oppose them she is felt to be unfavorable to the natural sciences, as withdrawing man from the sphere of the priest; to commerce, as the corrupter of morals and the worship of gold; to political economy, as an earthward-pointing knowledge, withdrawing man from the things of the soul; to popular sovereignty, as the violation of all hierarchical order; to the inner light, as a fatal will-o'-the-wisp of fancy; to self-government, as mere anarchy; to progress, as an unsanctified substitute for a future heaven; and to education, as food for pride, the nurse of disobedience, and as sowing the seeds of discontent and presumption. As these great phenomena of modern life have appeared, the Church has stood aloof. To these rising influences she has succumbed for the last three centuries. And can the theology and the ideal which have fallen back, wilted, sapless, before the rising sun, abide its mid-day splendor? The honest pulsations of the common human heart do not thrill through her any more. She is the organ of no world-wide thought

and aspiration."

Of its attempts to perpetuate popular superstition by preternatural marvels-a point discussed in our article-the reviewer says:

"What more manifest evidence of decline could be given, than the attempt to revive the worst features of miraculous displays, under forms which not only science, but common sense and the deepest instincts of a religious fitness, must class with the lowest types of Fetichism and the most impotent deceptions of an expiring Polytheism? Winking eyes, bleeding hearts, charmed beads, consecrated images of the Blessed Virgin, and exorcising formulæ, are poor appeals to the earnest soul of the nineteenth century. It is by an irresistible law, that, in the declining period of a religion, its defenders are compelled to fall back upon what is peculiar to it, and thus most offensive to the rising opposite tendency. A profound thinker reckons it as one of the testimonies to the noble efforts of Catholicism, that, in its contest with Polytheism, it enlarged the field of human reason, as yet narrow, at the expense of the theologic spirit.' In its decline, it seeks to narrow the circle of reason, uniformly cast slurs upon it, and would extend as far as possible the bounds of credulous ignorance. And by the same judicial necessity, exscinding itself from the wants and work of the times, it must exert its powers in some chosen sphere, conjuring up phantoms while not discerning the real foes."

These are strong, but, we think, logical views of the subject. Popery has outlived its day; it

we do not feel ourselves justified in obtruding upon our readers our favorite ideas. In other respects, too, we deem ourselves reasonably restricted as a journal which is designed for common family use, and not especially for the collisions and contentions of the times. Meanwhile, we believe there is a wise and just way of treating even such matters-a way which may not provoke harm, but may do real good. In our editorial articles we have thus attempted to discuss several important public questionsand shall continue to do so hereafter. We must ask our readers, and especially our correspondents, to bear in mind our real position in this respect, and to accord to us and to each other all suitable liberty. It will be our editorial care that it shall not be abused.

The newspapers report that Bulwer, the novelist, has recently written to a friend in Boston this noticeable declaration:-"I have closed my career as a writer of fiction. I am gloomy and unhappy. I have exhausted the powers of life, chasing pleasure where it is not to be found." Some few years ago Bulwer startled the literary world by an eloquent but extravagant letter on the "water cure.' Extreme as its views of that remedy were, it was, nevertheless, interesting for the glimpses of the man which it afforded. It showed a previous state of mental, if not moral ill-health, which bordered on insanity. For a long while had he lived in such a condition that, except when absorbed in the labor of writing, he felt as if he were in "hell" that is about the language he uses. books and manuscripts. Such suffering is perHis daily effort was to forget himself in his haps most usually the effect of moral causes, but not always-it sometimes results from cerebral exhaustion, and is well known to medical men as a common-and we fear growingly common-affliction of men of genius and literary habits. A distinguished medical writer warns all students to fly for their lives away from their books, whenever they begin to feel that the intermission of their studies renders them restless and miserable. Madness is then at hand, and he that would escape must do so promptly and with a resolution which no temporary uneasiness can break. Recreation, and especially social enjoyment, will, sooner or later, restore the wasted nervous vitality. One curious symptom of this morbid condition, as described by medical authors who have especially studied it, is the inclination of the sufferer to selfaccusations, especially on moral points. He imputes to himself imaginary crimes-crimes that he perhaps never thought of before. He exaggerates faults into extreme vices. He misconstrues facts of his life, innocent if not even noble in their design, into matters of self-sus

A personal friend calls our attention to some sentiments deemed exceptionable in the article on George Fox, in our October number. Their appearance, without better qualification, was an inadvertence on our part, at a time of engrossing cares and absence. Ours is not a sectarian publication, and therefore we willingly forego our sectarian predilections; in politics also,

is, that these morbid self-accusations are not penitential, like the humility of true repentance, but morose and hardening.

Bulwer, if we may judge from his own intimations, considered his former morbid state to be the result of his literary labors, and pronounced himself cured at last. But here he is again dissatisfied with life, and the later portraits of him represent him as the very picture of exhaustion and discontent.