With Constantine (324-337) Roman persecution2 ceased for ever. The Jews were permitted to return to Jerusalem, and the construction of the written Talmud began its career of three centuries. Julian, the last emperor on the throne before the Empire divided into east and west, had apostatised from the Christian faith{116} before his ascension, and in 361 he attempted the restoration of the temple in Jerusalem as a strength to Judaism against Christianity. But the Galilean had conquered, and it was the day of Christ. The recognition of Christianity as the religion of the State began a new era, which ran on for a thousand years in the Eastern Empire, until the siege of Constantinople changed the face of Europe in 1453. The words of Dante will often recur7 to the student of early Christian days in Palestine:—
Ah! Constantine, what evil came as child
Not of thy change of creed9, but of the dower
Of which the first rich father thee beguiled10.
The reference is to the legend of “The Donation of Constantine,” by which he transferred Rome and the states of the Church to the Papal See. Christianity in Syria has run a strange career.
Up to the time of Constantine the Church was at bay, fighting a desperate battle against the Pagan world. At C?sarea especially, but in many another Roman town besides, native Syrians were forced underground into caves and catacombs, or brought to the death in the public games. Many records of this period survive. At Sidon, searching about among the tombs which Renan has recently explored, we came upon a broken marble slab13—evidently the lintel of a church raised in memory of a local massacre14 of Christians—with the{117} word MARTURION inscribed15 on it. The martyr16 monuments of Syria are wonderfully full of peace, hope, and assurance. Like Marius the Epicurean you feel, when first you come upon them, that for the first time you are seeing the wonderful spectacle of those who believe. You understand his impression of every form of human sorrow assuaged—desire, and the fulfilment of desire working on the very faces of the aged17, and the young men obviously persons who had faced life and were glad. And the same wistful sense of a sure word of revelation comes upon the beholder18 as that which appealed to him. Surely here the earth was for once not forsaken19 of the higher powers, but visited and spoken to and loved!
After Constantine the pilgrim takes the place of foremost interest, which the martyr previously21 held. From 451, when an independent patriarchate was established at Jerusalem, pilgrimages became very frequent; and a century later there were hospices with 3000 beds in them within Jerusalem, while trade of many sorts flourished by their aid. In the oldest itineraries22 there are very curious accounts of these pilgrimages; but two, which Colonel Conder gives, are especially quaint23 and interesting. They refer to later pilgrimages, but are appropriate enough to earlier ones. The first one is from Saewulf, giving an account of his {118}landing at Jaffa: “From his sins, or from the badness of the ship,” he was almost wrecked24, and his companions were drowned before his eyes. The other is Sir John Maundeville’s—most fascinating, if most unscrupulous, of travellers: “Two miles from Jerusalem is Mount Joy, a very fair and delicious place. There Samuel the prophet lies in a fair tomb; and it is called Mount Joy because it gives joy to pilgrims’ hearts, for from that place men first see Jerusalem.”
From the first, pilgrimage seems to have had its moral disadvantages and special temptations. The Turkish proverb runs, “If your friend has made the pilgrimage once, distrust him—if he has made the pilgrimage twice, cut him dead.” And it would seem that the Christian pilgrim is not altogether in a position to throw stones at his Moslem25 brother. Apart from any sins to which the freedom of travel in a far land may be supposed to tempt6 poor human nature, there are some which are par26 excellence27 pilgrim sins. Thus we find in the seventeenth century the Armenian patriarch complaining that the seat in the Chapel28 of St. Helena in which he used to sit had been so hacked29 to pieces by relic-hunting pilgrims that he was “frequently obliged to renew it.” The case was all the harder because it was not from its association with the patriarch, but because St. Helena had sat in it, that it was so much in request! If Mark Twain be a true reporter, there are pilgrims who have inherited {119}that particular kind of moral frailty30 with remarkable31 fidelity32 to the manners of their predecessors33. Then again, the pilgrimages, which everywhere stimulated34 trade, created an amazing amount of fraud in the sale of false relics35 and other such traffic. Dr. Conan Doyle’s picture of the pilgrim in France, who takes a nail from the box of a blacksmith and sells it to unsuspecting soldiers as one of those which were driven into the wood of the true Cross, is drawn36 from the life. Even on the sacred spots themselves the simplicity37 of pilgrims has always been a temptation to custodians38. A tale is told of some one who, only a year or two ago, dropped by accident a Bible down the dry shaft39 of Jacob’s Well. The Bible was reclaimed40 within a few days, but when brought up it was a mere41 mass of pulp42. A large party of pilgrims had visited the place in the interval43, and had professed44 a strong desire to drink water from the famous well. A small stream, conveniently diverted to the well mouth, had enabled the priest in charge to gratify their desire by draughts45 of water drawn from the depths before their eyes.
The pilgrim is still extant. For well-nigh two thousand years he has come and gone, a tourist who has always had an immense commercial value for the Holy Land. The levy46 made on pilgrims at the gate of Jerusalem was one of the principal causes of the Crusades, and it is hardly more than a hundred years since a heavy tax was imposed upon every pilgrim when he reached the gate of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The greater part of those who come now are Russians. Jaffa is full of them, but they are to be seen in long caravans{120} of pedestrians47, with a donkey or two bearing all their scanty48 luggage, as far north as Samaria and Galilee. The men are typical Russian peasants, in the blouses and caps that are so familiar. Their long hair may be fair or dark, but it is always matted and coarse. The women, with their good, weather-beaten faces, are uncommonly49 like old-fashioned peasant women from the northern Scottish countrysides. Their head-dress is a simple kerchief, and their hands grasp a rude pilgrim staff polished with much wear. The privations of such pilgrimages must be very great. They involve the expenditure50 of a lifetime’s savings51, and a journey in many cases of at least six months. Most of this is done on foot, and largely by people who are growing old. There is no nation that could send forth52 such multitudes except “rough but believing Russia.” The belief is everything. They are very poor people, and very ignorant and simple. Yet many whose minds’ conflict seems only to grow sterner in this land of contradictions, may own without shame to a touch of something like envy as they see the exaltation of their childish faith. They encompass54 the walls of Jerusalem to the strains of Psalms55, and march triumphantly56 to the sand south of Jaffa for shells to authenticate57 their travels, such as those which appear on the coats-of-arms of some European families, telling of former pilgrimages. Mere children in intellect, the gleam in their eyes tells that in their own pathetic way they have entered here into a veritable kingdom of heaven.
The objects of pilgrimage are somewhat gruesome in{121}
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THE DOME58 OF THE ROCK (MOSQUE59 OF OMAR), AS SEEN FROM THE PORCH ON THE NORTH SIDE OF THE MOSQUE EL AKSA.
their way. A favourite ambition used to be that of measuring the “stone of anointing” in the Holy Sepulchre, in order to have the pilgrim’s own winding-sheet made the same length. The great goal, however, is the Jordan, whose banks at the period after Constantine used to be paved with marble. In the old time a wooden cross was erected60 in mid-stream, and the waters were blessed by a priest, after which the pilgrims tumbled in with such haste that numbers of them were drowned. Here, too, the winding-sheet is in evidence. Besides the flask61 of Jordan water which they fill, they dip their own winding-sheets and those of friends at home who have been unable to come in person, but have sent these pale substitutes. It was not our good fortune to see the merry band of pilgrims at the Jordan, though we met scattered62 groups of Russians in many places. One other pilgrim we saw, and he accompanied us through several days’ march northward63. He was a jet-black Abyssinian—a lonely and silent figure clad from head to foot in a loose robe of pure white sackcloth. He went with us to Nazareth, the destination of his pilgrimage. His only word in common with us was “Christianus,” and he always bowed and crossed himself when he said it. All day long he walked in silence in our company. He asked for nothing, but ate the meat he received in singleness of heart, and sat apart watching the loading and unloading of the baggage with the eyes of a great child.
While so many Christians paid a passing visit to{122} Palestine in the early days, there were some who came to stay. It was the time of the rise of monastic institutions, which first appear in the beginning of the fourth century. Their history from the first is peculiarly associated with Syria, into which they spread almost immediately after their start in Egypt. Some of the most famous of the early recluses64, including even St. Symeon Stylites himself, were of Syrian origin.[20] These ascetics65 were the natural successors of the martyrs66. The first hints of them are given during the time of earlier martyrdoms, for it is recorded that Christians as early as the Decian persecutions fled to the wilderness67 and led a life there which was soon to become popular beyond all possibility of forecast.
It was not, however, until Constantine’s favour had secularised the Church, or at least had made easy that life which hitherto had been so dangerous, that the reaction set in which gave monasticism its great hold on the world. This is generally explained as a matter solely68 of protest against growing worldliness, or a development of that curious kind of “other-worldliness” which finds in asceticism69 the surest means of attaining70 earthly fame and heavenly reward. No doubt both these elements are true. In the early ascetics there was a self-denial prompted by the purest desire for escape from the defiling71 society of their time into the spiritual cleanness of the faith, and from its hard and coarse materialism72 into the delicate ideality and refinement73 of Christian thought and feeling. It was{123} also, on the other hand, a refuge and an outlet74 for much of the inefficiency75 and moral worthlessness of the time, which found in its freedom from social restraint and its wide leisure things exactly to their own taste. But behind all this there is another fact which is really the most significant of all. Monasticism was “the compensation for martyrdom.” Readers of the letters of Ignatius are familiar with that mania76 for martyrdom which during persecuting77 times took possession of so many in the Church. In abnormal and extreme conditions such as these, certain minds grow hysterical78 and lose their perspective and sense of proportion altogether. In such minds a morbid79 and passionate80 delight in pain develops into a sort of lust81—a religiosa cupiditas—for suffering torture, just as in the persecutors cruelty becomes a lust for inflicting82 it. So asceticism offered itself when martyrdom could no longer be had—“a voluntary martyrdom, a gradual self-destruction, a sort of religious suicide.”[21]
The new ideal passed through several successive phases. From an unorganised and individual way of life within the Church, it developed first into anchoretism about the beginning of the fourth century. In barren and solitary83 places, where life at best was precarious84 and physical enjoyment85 impossible, every cave and den8 had its tenant86. On Mount Sinai one hermit87 is said to have lived for fifty years in absolute solitude88, silence, and nakedness. As you ride down the terrific gorges89 from Mar12 Saba to the Dead Sea, you{124} pass along precipitous hillsides and rock-faces which appear literally91 riddled92 with small caves and holes in the rock and sand. These, which now serve for a covert93 from the heat for passing shepherds, or for the lairs94 of jackals, were once populated by hermits95. Saint Saba is said to have collected the bones of no fewer than 10,000 solitary dwellers96 in this district, who had fallen victims to the Carismians. And in many parts of Syria even now, a hillside which during the day has seemed barren of all human habitation, is unexpectedly illuminated97 with hermits’ lights—those “hands praying to God”—in the dark. The enthusiasm with which this dreary99 life has filled some of its devotees may be realised in the following lines from an epistle of St. Jerome:—“O desert, where the flowers of Christ are blooming! O solitude, where the stones for the new Jerusalem are prepared! O retreat, which rejoices in the friendship of God! What doest thou in the world, my brother, with thy soul greater than the world? How long wilt100 thou remain in the shadow of roofs, and in the smoky dungeon101 of cities? Believe me, I see here more of the light.”[22]
It was in cloister102 life, however—at first in smaller communities and then on the large scale of many cloisters103 gathered under a common rule—that early Christianity reached its full development. Besides the native establishments, there was, in the first centuries after Constantine, a cloud of religieux, flying like homing doves across the sea to alight and quietly settle down{125} on holy soil. These establishments had many faults. They perpetuated104 little sectarian differences and exaggerated them into quite ridiculous importance. The very lamps that hang in the oldest churches are denominational, and are divided with a childish arithmetic among rival sects105. The insistence106 of these on their respective rights is such that a guard of armed Moslem soldiers has to be kept perpetually on the spot to keep the peace. Yet there is a splendid dash of courage in this part of Church History, which cannot possibly have been all in vain. It must have been an exciting life in some of the outpost stations in these old days. “It is true,” says Warburton of one monastery107, “the monks109 were occasionally massacred by the Saracens, Turks, and Carismians, but their martyrdom only gave fresh interest to the spot in the eyes of their successors.” No doubt these establishments drained the world of some of its best manhood, and diverted much greatly needed energy from family life and state loyalties110; yet, on the other hand, these were the soldiers of the Cross who then fought the paganism of the world and conquered it.
Monastic establishments still remain, and supply much-needed inns to many thousands of poor travellers in Syria. They vary by very wide degrees of difference from one another. By far the worst place we saw in Palestine—one of the worst perhaps that could be seen anywhere—is the convent of Mar Saba near the Dead Sea. Coming out on the high ridge111 of the Judean mountain country, we caught a glimpse of two towers,{126} which we have already described,[23] square and blind, and so pitilessly unsuggestive that they seemed, as it were, built into the desert, or part of its fantastic offspring. They were the most unhomely buildings we had ever seen, and they are the nearest point to which women are allowed to approach the monastery, lady travellers being accommodated with cells there if they have not tents. By and by we passed between them, down a road so steep as to be practically a stairway, on every step of which loathsomely113 dirty beggars sat plying114 their trade. In the courtyard to which this entrance led were two monks, fat and stupid-looking, who brought out strings115 of beads116, rosaries, and crosses of their own manufacture for sale. Having, apparently117, absolutely nothing to do, the making of these things may be taken for sign of enterprise and commercial genius, but as time is evidently valueless, they sell their work very cheap. To the right is a rock, hollowed out into a chamber118 or broad gallery, which is sacred as having been the shrine119 of Saint Saba’s devotions. The entrance is violently coloured in washes of blue and white paint, so crude and aggressive that it quite robs the pictures in the interior of their horror, and prepares you to look with unclouded eye upon the skulls120 which fill the grilled121 recesses122. One of these skulls is set in front, to receive the kisses of devout123 pilgrims. It is deeply worn and polished. When it has actually been worn through to a hole it will be replaced, as others{127} have been before it. Across the courtyard you follow narrow stairs and galleries that run irregularly along the edge of a precipice124; for the monastery has affixed125 itself to the face of a cliff four hundred feet high. It clings there, supported by huge flying buttresses127 that spring from the depths below in a fashion which, as one writer says, remind you of pictures of Belshazzar’s feast. The cells of the monks, little disconnected “lean-to” sheds or caves, have the Greek cross upon their doors, and the often-repeated inscription128, “O Christ, abide129 with us!” Here and there are a few plants in pots, or a feeble attempt at rearing vegetables in little garden patches which fill in any foot of level among the many-cornered buildings; while in one cranny grows the solitary date-palm which Saint Saba planted more than 1300 years ago. At every few yards you pause to look over a low balustrade into the gorge90, which here is a sort of yellow-ochre gulf130, with all the horror but none of the rich depth of colouring that belongs to frightful131 abysses. Over these walls the monks throw meat to the jackals which come and fight for it below. Occasionally, as we passed, a face was visible at a window, generally either wizened132 and dried up, or with a white, neurotic133 appearance that was almost more repulsive134. Everywhere dirt reigned135 supreme—unspeakable filth136 in open drains and putrid137 litter. In one place, where the smell was sickening, a monk108 was lying asleep by the side of a broken drain, covered with flies in great black masses on his face and arms.{128} In another place an abominable-looking dish of food, fly-blown and disgusting, was pushed with a spoon in it half through a hole broken in the bottom of a cell door. And everywhere throughout this palace of disgust was to be read the prayer, “O Christ, abide with us!”
That was the worst. Mar Saba is a sort of combination of prison and asylum138, where lunatics are kept under the charge of monks condemned139 to this place for heresy140 or immorality141. Other monasteries142 we saw, of a very different kind. Our tents precluded143 the necessity for our making any of these our home for the night, but in many cases it would have been very pleasant to do so. On the top of Tabor, at Tell Hum on the Sea of Galilee, and in other places, we were received and entertained with the most cordial and generous hospitality. The clean and spacious144 guest-chambers are open to all comers. They are adorned145 with photographs of various sorts, and often contain a cabinet of rare local curiosities. The brothers in charge of these establishments were fine genial146 men, courageously147 facing the risks of fever in deadly spots, or varying their hospitable148 labours on the heights by long seasons of study (for some of them are distinguished149 scholars); but always ready to meet a stranger as a friend, and to chat with him in French or German, over a pipe of Western tobacco, about the great world from which they had gone so far.
In all these ways the many-sided life of the old Christian days lingers and may still be seen. But it{129}
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THE DOME OF THE ROCK (MOSQUE OF OMAR).
From the barracks near the site of the Tower of Antonia. The north porch of the Dome of the Rock is towards the spectator; to the left is the Dome of the Chain; to the right, in the middle distance, is the Mosque of El Aksa.
lingers more impressively in the most ancient of the churches which date from this period. There is in Palestine an astonishing number of ruins of old Christian churches, many of them dating back, at least so far as their foundations go, to the Byzantine period. There are many modern churches, but they are not as a rule impressive. Even when, as in the Russian church at Gethsemane, the building is in itself rich and costly150, it is so irrelevant151 as to rouse a feeling of rebellion.
Most of the ancient churches have utterly152 vanished, like that roofless basilica which Constantine built on the supposed scene of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives. In other cases they are mere heaps of ruin, like the remaining fragments of the Church of Jacob’s Well, which was built about the middle of the fourth century, and has been several times rebuilt since then. This church takes most travellers by surprise. They go expecting an out-door scene, with all the harvest breeze of the Scripture153 story on it. They find a newly built white wall, glaring in the sunshine. Through a gate in this wall they are admitted by certain broken-down-looking persons in the greenish-black garments of the Greek clergy154. Within the gate, a few steps bring them to the edge of a sort of oblong pit full of masonry155. It is the nave156 of the old church, and the splendidly carved pillars of its white stone show how beautiful it must have been. A door in the sunk side-wall opens upon a groined vault157 newly rebuilt. In the dim light you can discern in the centre a rough stone altar, with candles and lamps and a couple of execrable pictures of{130} Christ and the woman of Sychar. On the ground before the altar is a flat stone perforated with a hole two feet in diameter. This is the cover of the well, and a second clerical person, badly marked with smallpox158, lets down a twist of lighted candles by a long rope, while a little green lamp of silver hangs above, dripping oil steadily159 down the well. Surely this is the infatuation of reverence160! If there is any memory of Jesus which is essentially161 of the open air, it is this incident of the Well of Samaria. Yet reverence must build its dark chamber, and proceed to illuminate98 with candles the spot where Jesus sat and saw the miles and miles of waving fields, white already to harvest. No doubt the church dates from the fourth century; but what right had even the ancients to build a church here, to keep men busy with their sectarianism on the very spot where they and all the world were told that the hour was come when neither in this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem would the Father be worshipped, but in spirit and in truth?
There are, however, two great churches of this ancient time which waken feelings very different from these; they have been for centuries the centres of Christian interest and devotion in the land, covering, as they are supposed to do, the sites of the birth and death of Jesus Christ. In some respects they are alike. The outsides of them are huddled162 and packed together, a heterogeneous163 mass of apparently unrelated buildings. The insides are not, like the houses, Rembrandt studies in intense light and shadow. By some skilful164 arrangement, the sunlight seems to be caught and diffused165 in a pale{131} luminous166 twilight167 that sinks gradually to darkness in chapels168 and recesses, and blends with the light of many lamps and candles not unpleasingly. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the gift of St. Helena, mother of Constantine, and was consecrated169 by her in A.D. 336. Tradition relates how, at the age of seventy-nine, she made her pilgrimage to Jerusalem, was baptized in Jordan, discovered the true Cross, and built the church upon the spot of its discovery. Our guide-book tells us of an ante-chamber “where Oriental Christians are in the habit of removing their shoes, though we need not follow their example.” Yet the Crusaders entered it barefooted, though with songs of praise, a thousand years ago; and the impulse of most Christians, however little they may be disposed to believe in the identity of the sacred sites within, will be to share the veneration170 of the Easterns. Not that what we see now is the original building. That was a rotunda171 and a basilica, the former quite other than the present rotunda, as we know from the fact that it formed the model for the Mosque of Omar. It has suffered many things from assault, from decay, from fire, and from rebuilding. In the twelfth century the whole group of detached shrines172 and monuments was included for the first time in one huge and complicated building. Probably no such patchwork173 in stone is to be seen elsewhere in the world. Yet each rebuilding found many of the older materials ready for its use, and incorporated them in the newer work. Thus the columns at the eastern door are supposed to have come from some ancient{132} pagan temple, and the present foundations of the pillars belong to the old rotunda. The capitals of many pillars are Byzantine, while the pink limestone174 column which is embedded175 in the wall to the right of the eastern entrance is also very ancient.
It is a strange conglomeration176 of imaginary associations and real value of material. The atmosphere is at times dreadful enough within to justify177 that daring little touch of realism in the French bas-relief over the door, where some of the spectators at the raising of Lazarus are holding their noses with their hands! The chapel of the Empress adjoins the altar of the Penitent178 Thief; Adam and Abraham jostle each other for standing179 ground under the sacred roof; the stone of anointing has been “often changed” according to the guide-book, and the column of scourging180 “judging from the narratives181 of different pilgrims, must frequently have changed its colour and its size”—yet pilgrims poke20 a stick at it and kiss the part that has touched the stone to-day. Every incident of the world’s great tragedy is commemorated182 there, from the footprint of Jesus to the silver socket183 in the rock where His Cross was erected. Futile184 enough all this, and even wearisome. But the worship of fifteen hundred years is neither futile nor wearisome. And that worship seems to detach itself from the legends and find its embodiment in the marvels185 of precious stone that are gathered there. As one sees the slabs186 of costly stone with which the rock is overlaid—the ruddy yellow slab of the “anointing,” the red and white polished limestone of the central shrine,{133} the green serpentine187 and the black basalt—one remembers the tomb which the Roman bishop188 ordered in St. Praxed’s, with its “peach-blossom marble,” its lump of lapis lazuli, “blue as a vein189 o’er the Madonna’s breast,” and its block of jasper, “pure green as a pistachio-nut.” But there is a difference. The stones of the Holy Sepulchre were given in love: they are the tribute of many souls whose adoration190 was the noblest feature of their times.
The Church of the Holy Nativity at Bethlehem is a simpler and, to many minds, a more impressive structure. It consists of a broad nave, entirely191 screened off from what lies beyond, with two rounded transepts and a rounded apse behind the screen—this trefoil-shaped inner building being the church proper. One of the transepts is the property of the Armenians; the other, together with the great altar in the apse, belongs to the Greeks. Below the great altar-rail (“in the breast of God,” in Dante’s language) is the cave of the Nativity, with steps leading down to it from either transept. A Mohammedan soldier stands at the bottom to keep the peace between Christians. The transepts and apse are ablaze192 with lamps and hangings. Below, the “manger” is overlaid with coloured marble, and the rock is entirely covered with yellow silk cloth, on which are stamped the insignia of the Franciscans—an arm of Christ crossed with an arm of St. Francis, both shewing the print of nails in the palms of their hands. All this, and the air of raree-show that exhibits so many spots where somebody or other stood, destroy any{134} lingering credulity of which a man may still find himself capable; they make one rather ashamed, and glad to escape. But the nave is mighty193 in its simplicity, and no less mighty in its wealth of historical association. It is a great severe oblong basilica, with four rows of massive pillars giving double aisles194. Old glass and old mosaics195 add their appropriate wealth of sombre beauty. The rafters, replacing Constantine’s beams of cedar196 from Lebanon, are the gift of Philip of Burgundy. Lead for the roof was sent by Edward IV. of England. Most impressive of all is the old plain font of polished stone, with its Greek inscription—not, like so many such inscriptions197, a record of the donor’s name, but a prayer for God’s blessing198 upon those who gave it—“whose names are known to Thee only.” Opinions differ as to the plausibility199 of the claim to the site of our Lord’s nativity; but this church was built by Constantine, and the Vulgate was written in it by Jerome. And since that time the feet of countless200 millions of worshippers have trodden its stone pavement—a consecration201 in itself worth many traditional sanctities.
In this chapter we have sought to gather the most obvious survivals of that old Christian invasion of Palestine which followed next after the Roman. Almost inevitably202 we find ourselves quarrelling with the legendary203 lore11 that has stultified204 so many venerable buildings and associations. Yet in its legends too the early Church survives, and some of them embody205 eternal truths in forms of rare beauty. Take three of the legends of the Holy Sepulchre by way of example. They show the{135} spot where the one-eyed soldier Longinus, who pierced the side of Christ, received back the lost eyesight at the touch of a drop of the blood. There, too, is the cleft206 in the rock through which blood flowed from the Cross down into the tomb of Adam, whose corpse207 came to life at once. And there, on Easter Eve, the sham53 miracle of the “Holy Fire” has been enacted208 annually209 for at least a thousand years. Who can miss the underlying210 truth beneath these legends? They are, for all but the ignorant and the gross, symbols of the eternal healing and quickening power that the love and sacrifice of Christ exert on humanity and even on His enemies. The torch-bearers, who kindle211 their fires at the blaze on Easter Eve, and speed thence to Bethlehem and other towns to light from it the candles waiting on many altars, tell their own exhilarating lesson. Two other legends may be mentioned, which the Western world owes to the Syrian Church—those of St. George and St. Christopher. St. George, who was a Roman soldier under Diocletian, was martyred in A.D. 303. His memory, mixed up with the Greek myth of Perseus and Andromeda, and with Crusader stories of Richard C?ur de Lion, stands for the victory of faith over paganism. St. Christopher would only follow the strongest, and finding that his master the devil was afraid of Christ, renounced212 his service and set out to seek Him who was strongest of all. The point of the story is that, after seeking Christ far and wide, he found Him while he was performing the humble213 task of carrying passengers across a river. It is characteristic{136} of the pilgrim point of view that legend has fixed126 this scene not by some homely112 German stream but at the fords of Jordan, where he is said to have carried the infant Christ across upon his shoulder. Even of such legends no wise man will speak with scorn. They, too, are monuments of that conquest of Christ which gives its meaning and its glory to the Christian invasion.
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INTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE OF EL AKSA, FROM THE SOUTH-EAST.
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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14
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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15
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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16
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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17
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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18
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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19
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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20
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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21
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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22
itineraries
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| n.旅程，行程( itinerary的名词复数 ) | |
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23
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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24
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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25
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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26
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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27
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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28
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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29
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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30
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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31
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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32
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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33
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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34
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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35
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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36
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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37
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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38
custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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39
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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40
reclaimed
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|
| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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42
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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43
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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44
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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45
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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46
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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47
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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48
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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49
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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50
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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51
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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52
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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53
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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54
encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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55
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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56
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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57
authenticate
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| vt.证明…为真，鉴定 | |
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58
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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59
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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60
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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61
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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62
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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63
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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64
recluses
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| n.隐居者，遁世者，隐士( recluse的名词复数 ) | |
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65
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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66
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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67
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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68
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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69
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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70
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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71
defiling
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| v.玷污( defile的现在分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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72
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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73
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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74
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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75
inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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76
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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77
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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78
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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79
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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80
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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81
lust
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|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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82
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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83
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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84
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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85
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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86
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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87
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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88
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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89
gorges
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|
| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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90
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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91
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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92
riddled
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|
| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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93
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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94
lairs
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| n.（野兽的）巢穴，窝( lair的名词复数 )；（人的）藏身处 | |
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95
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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96
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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97
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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98
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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99
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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100
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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101
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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102
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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103
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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106
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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107
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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108
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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109
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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110
loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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111
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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112
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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113
loathsomely
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| adv.令人讨厌地，可厌地 | |
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114
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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115
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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116
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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117
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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118
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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119
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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120
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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121
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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122
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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123
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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124
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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125
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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126
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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127
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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129
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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130
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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131
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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132
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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133
neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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134
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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135
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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136
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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137
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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138
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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139
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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140
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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141
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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142
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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143
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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144
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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145
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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146
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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147
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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148
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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149
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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150
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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151
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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152
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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153
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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154
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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155
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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156
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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158
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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159
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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162
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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167
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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168
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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169
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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170
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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171
rotunda
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| n.圆形建筑物；圆厅 | |
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172
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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173
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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174
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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176
conglomeration
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| n.团块，聚集，混合物 | |
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177
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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178
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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179
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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180
scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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181
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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182
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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184
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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185
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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186
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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187
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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188
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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189
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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191
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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192
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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194
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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195
mosaics
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| n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 )；镶嵌；镶嵌工艺；镶嵌图案 | |
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196
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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197
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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198
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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199
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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200
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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201
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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202
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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203
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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204
stultified
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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206
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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207
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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208
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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210
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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211
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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212
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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213
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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