subject of much amusement for the people. During the play his constant pursuit of those condemned, and his most fortunate escape from his own well-merited deserts, occasioned constant merriment. He was far more in the treatment of these dramatists the Mephistopheles of Faust, than the Lost Spirit of Milton.

When the Reformation shook all Europe, these plays became the battle-ground of the opposing forces, and many plays still exist written by Protestant pastors and acted by their people, in which the triumph of the new religion over Rome is portrayed, and in which the Pope appears in most ridiculous guise. Yet when the Reformation had cleared the minds of men, and nations had grown through childhood to manhood, they outgrew this manifestation of their faith, and little by little these dramas lost their hold upon the people, until like the snows which when hidden in quiet valleys escape the heat of summer, they are now only to be found in those corners of the earth which the sun of civilization has not reached.

Let us turn from one of these mediæval dramas held with all pomp and splendor in the quaint market-place of some walled city, where the windows of the gabled houses are crowded with courtly knights and ladies who await the plumed and jeweled herald, who upon horse-back shall announce the beginning of the play, to this little pine-built theatre hidden in the Bavarian mountains, whose actors are the peasants and whose audience is the world. How happens it that these mountains have preserved this relic of a past civilization, as the rocks guard the imprint of a fern-leaf which fell many thousand years ago?

Yet let us dismiss from our mind the thought that what we witness here draws its interest alone from the fact that it is the work of simple peasants. It is because in Ober-Ammergau there have been minds keen and bright enough to bring the culture and the skill of Munich to bear upon the ductile nature of the peasantry, that we have so wonderful a representation here. Not upon any stage in Europe are masses grouped with more skill or managed with greater dexterity.

Never in Vienna, where the chorus is most celebrated, have I seen such perfect attention to minor details, and although the fact is reluctantly acknowledged by the peasants, it is the advice

of Munich artists, which has attained this result. It is only by this strange combination of the artistic skill of Munich and the simple unquestioning obedience and fervid faith of the peasantry of Ober-Ammergau, too far from the outside world to partake of its sympathies, that we are able to witness a Passion Play performed with the devotion of the middle ages and the dramatic skill of the nineteenth century.

The tradition of the village in regard to their play ́is this. In 1633 a pestilence ravaging the neighboring villages, finally reached the village of Ober-Ammergau, where eighty-three persons died of the plague. The villagers, assembling in great distress, made a solemn vow every ten years to perform this Passion play. Until the beginning of the present century they followed the ancient custom, and the play was not only performed in the church-yard, but many of its more absurd features were preserved, as the dance of the devils about Judas, after he has yielded to temptation. In the early part of this century, the whole play was revised by Father Ottmar Weiss, a member of the Benedictine Convent at Eltal, who removed all unsuitable passages. Father Weiss died in 1843, and since his death its constant improvement has been the life-work of the pastor of the parish, the present Geistlicher Rath Daisenberger. He is now a man of eighty-four, and his calm benignity and gracious presence show well why he is so much beloved by his people. It is to him more than to any one else that the Passion play owes its great success, and its freedom from all that can offend good taste. I saw him in his simple home, calmly benignant while a crowd of people urged their separate claims and interests, and wondered less at the beautiful simplicity of the people's life, with such an example before them. It is only when one has lived among these simple villagers that he realizes their utter devotion to their life-work. Entering a low-ceiled kitchen dimly lighted, with the stonepaved floor dark with the wear of years, I saw two flaxenhaired little children, one six, the other three. Addressing the elder, I said: "Spielest du im Passion - Spiele ?" She answered quickly: "Ja, gewiss." "Was spielest du denn?" "Ein Engelein." Whereupon her little brother who could hardly walk, tottled across the room, and folding his chubby hands,

said: "Ich spiele auch, schau nur," and kneeling down he stammered the first words of a hymn. Is it strange that, beginning thus in babyhood, they attain perfection in riper years?

Let us enter now the theater. Already the sound of the cannon has announced the readiness of the actors to begin the play, and before the curtain rises we can survey the audience. Before us is a building uncovered, save a small portion at the rear, and with the greater part of the stage open to the sky. This stage is divided into three parts, the center with movable scenery, representing the different localities of Christ's sojourn upon earth; and the side scenes immovable, representing the houses of Caiaphas and Pilate, and the two streets of Jerusalem. While we wait the chorus enter from each side. They are men and women clad in white, with a colored toga thrown across the shoulders, and a circlet of gold about the head. Their voices are strong and well-trained, but the music which they sing demands little from them. They advance to the front of the stage, while the leader, the choragus, explains the object and meaning of the Passion play, in man's fall and Christ's Redemption. The chorus then begin their song, and dividing and retreating, allow the curtain to rise, and the tableaux to appear. These tableaux are scenes from the Old Testament, illustrating the relation of many of its incidents to the life of Christ, and the chorus is the golden chain which binds the Old and New together. The rehearsals for the chorus begin early in November, and continue constantly until the first of May. They are conducted by the schoolmaster of the village, one of whose essential qualifications must be that he is a good musician.

The music was composed by a native of Ober-Ammergau, and is sweet, plaintive, and in thorough good taste. In several of the choruses the use of the violins is especially fine. I tried to obtain the score, but found that it was not printed and could not be procured.

After the two tableaux, representing Adam and Eve's temptation and the adoration of the cross, a sound of tumult and shouting is heard, the chorus sing "All hail," and from the side scenes issue a vast crowd of people, men, women, and little children, bearing palms and crying also: "All hail to Jesus of Nazareth," who rides in their midst upon an ass.

It is in the treatment of such masses in such a scene as this, that the villagers of Ober-Ammergau show their power. There are nearly five hundred persons upon the stage. Their grouping is constantly varied, and yet even the little children know their rôle so perfectly that, as they meet and separate, the lines are all graceful, all harmonious, and there is no confusion. The dresses are rich in color, and the constant shifting of place forms an artistic picture which is rarely surpassed. Two of the tableaux illustrate the same thing, the fall of manna, a tableau used before the breaking of bread by Christ with his disciples, and the raising of the brazen serpent, typical of Christ's healing of nations by his crucifixion. They both represent scenes in the desert in the first Moses stands in the center, dignified in figure and pose, while around him are grouped the families of Israel, who have paused in their usual vocations, and with outstretched hands grasp after the manna, which flutters slowly down upon them through the sunlight,-mothers with sunnyhaired little children (my little angel among them, perhaps), strong bearded men and aged women, all with eager hands reaching in glad surprise for the golden manna.

The same

The second scene is one of terror and distress. families are in the desert, sick and dying. Anguish is stamped on every face and is in every gesture. In and out among the tortured, lie curled the cruel serpents, while in the center of the picture Moses bows his head in prayer to God to stay this bitter plague.

There are nearly three hundred persons in each of these tableaux, and although the curtain remained raised one moment and a half, not even one muscle moved among the little children. So vivid and real was the picture, that it was a relief to look at the green and smiling hills beyond the stage over which the cloud shadows flitted, and know that God's mercy still existed.

Let us now speak of the central figure of this play,—of him who is but foreshadowed by these types, of the Jesus of Nazareth of Joseph Maier. And first let us confess that there is nothing undignified in it, but neither is there aught that is God-like. It is the work of a simple peasant, upon whom an ideal of character has been stamped, as a religion, by other minds,

A strongly intellectual man would have impressed his own individuality upon it, and it is perhaps for this reason that the Christ of Joseph Maier is so unobjectionable, so free from all which can offend. In the scene in the garden, and also in the judgment-hall, he fails in divinity. He is a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief; he is led as a lamb to the slaughter; he is mildly submissive, but he is at no time conscious of his Godhead. He does not turn upon his accusers, and like a king say: "Know ye not that I could summon legions of angels?" and in the judgment scene with Pilate, in his "Ye have said," there is no consciousness of divinity.

In his conflict in the garden, when he asks his disciples: "Could ye not have watched with me one hour?" there is a craving for human sympathy, but no anguish which will not pass; and in the scene upon the cross, there is the same quiet submission to a will higher than his own. Yet while we feel the need, the want of this, there is a simple, dignified quiet in the personation, which, however it may fail in satisfying our ideal, appeals strongly to our sympathies. We pass through all the sad scenes of the Passion-week with our hearts touched and softened, if not deeply moved, and we perhaps find the Bible story more divine, because so humbly personated, and with such reverence.

Far different is the acting of Judas. He is the only real actor among them all. He is covetous, bold, and treacherous, and in it all his by-play is most excellent. Especially fine is the scene in the temple, where he first entertains the idea of his treachery. You are sure that here you have to do with a man of strong individuality, who has been allowed to act as he would, and one is not surprised to learn that he is the best wood-carver in the village.

The acting of Pilate is also most excellent. He is the proud Roman, yet conscious of the power of the Jewish crowd, and his acting shows that in some way he has been made sensible of the strength of the Roman empire, and of the power of a civilization so different from the simple life to which he is accustomed.

The apostles, with the exception of Judas, are merely common-place, except that it is far from common-place to fill so difficult a rôle without offense.