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Wirthin fashion. One lady in a scarlet opera-cloak was fanning herself in an attitude, another in a head-dress was simpering at the charming scene, which a third called upon me to find very nice.' A gentleman was assiduously uncorking soda-water, while a roar of laughter accompanied each unexpected pop and explosion. Andwhere was 'the Mary?' Standing in the porch between two young dandies, one of whom was chattering silly nothings in her ear, while the other held her forefinger in his palm, the better to fix a strip of plaster which he had strapped over a cut. There was no real harm in all this, perhaps, but still there was a je ne sais quoi which repelled and hurt. At the first possible moment I slipped away on the score of wishing to finish my sketch; and in the open road again, amongst the peasants, one breathed a better atmosphere, I thought. Mr. B., I believe, soon followed. The company we had left were all Americans. The Mary's' pure simplicity seemed to me spoilt, and in every respect I would rather have had Martha for that character, who indeed had only missed it by one vote, as her old aunt told me.

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She is a very sweet and gentle-mannered maiden. I bought her photograph, but it does not do her justice; it has not her soft expression, and it looks far too old.

She was very simple and unaffected about her part and acting. I asked her if she was nervous, and she said very quietly and smilingly, 'Not at all.' We breakfasted at seven that norning, and she was busy serving us to the last moment, not in the least anxious or pre-occupied about her dressing. Her pink and green robes, and white veil hung on a peg in the little room where we ate, side by side with those of her elder sister, a far sterner and more strong-minded young woman, who represented Queen Vashti. None but maidens are permitted to act or take any part in the Passion Play. When one marries another takes her place. Much pains and trouble are taken with the little children, and those parents who have too much to do or who are too poor to spare the time to train them, are obliged to renounce what they evidently regard as a great honour. The rehearsing begins at Christmas for all the actors, and from that time they begin to let their hair grow, I believe. It is worn long and flowing over the shoulders by all, so that in the chorus it is almost impossible to distinguish the male Genien from the female. In walking about the village beforehand it was always a source of interest to speculate which character this one or the other, whom one met, would fill. The young fair-haired, blue-eyed 'S. John' whom I saw for the first time coming in from the hay-field, with his wooden rake over his shoulder, was quite unmistakable. Johann Lang, a tall, fair man, with fine, clear cut features, represented the High Priest Caiaphas, and well he performed his part, which however he called eine undankbare Rolle, meaning that it was not a character to attract. His unaffected manner greatly charmed me, and he was at his house door attending to his guests immediately before and after and between the parts, as if

he had nothing at all else to think of. This was what one had fondly looked for, and what one found in some measure; still it was impossible not to reflect that the scene had changed with the times, since the day when, twenty years before, Dean Stanley and his one companion unexpectedly entered the solitudes of this narrow mountain valley and found themselves in the midst of a village of natural, unsophisticated actors, far more advanced in the power of representation than those cultivated by art. And what a difference in the audience then and now! Where we looked around upon a fashionably-dressed assemblage from the capitals of Europe and America, they saw none but the peasants of the surrounding villages, who had probably never left their native mountains in their lives, and never had travelled but on foot, dressed in their holiday best of homespun blue and scarlet, to be instructed in the Bible-story and its sacred mysteries by means of the Passion Play. For such was the intention of the devout performers and originators of the Passions-Spiel. It is not indeed their fault if something of a change has come over the spirit of the thing. But unless nine years of quiet can efface the effects of one year of excitement, another Passion Play will find Ammergau sadly deteriorated, I fear.

The play itself is wonderfully given one cannot say too much for the artistic effect of the scenes. The dress, colouring, and pose are just like the quaint old pictures in the Munich Gallery. The dialogues too are very well carried out, and so much more effectively, because so much more naturally than anything one knows in an English theatre. The Sanhedrim reminded me strongly of the Durbar I witnessed in India. The Eastern dress and grouping, the colouring and action, were all given to the life. One could but gaze in silent wonder. Of course they have got their costume from the old pictures, and their action and pose besides, and more still have they gathered from their simple childlike study and rendering of the Scriptures. Still one could but wonder. Amongst the so-called Vorbilder, the descending of manna in the wilderness was one of the best. And one of the most beautiful scenes was the entry of the Saviour into Jerusalem amid the multitude crying Hosanna!' One's attention was riveted throughout, and one feared to lose anything. The movements of the nineteen Genien, or members of the chorus, as they divided right and left, when the curtain drew up, were very graceful. One could scarcely realise that these were peasants, the chief part of whose lives is spent in working in the fields, or other rough labour. The singing was often very good, always pleasing, but a really good treble was wanting. You know that when the Crucifixion is represented the chorus appear draped in black over their robes, with black, starred diadems on their brows, instead of the golden circlets they have worn before. The singing changes to a sad declamatory intonation, which is very solemn, and one's heart stands still almost with expectation. One does not wish to see, and yet one is constrained to look when (the sad and

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woful story concluded by the choir) the curtain rises in deepest silence, and one beholds the three crosses raised in front of the stage |

The Crucifixion itself was to me the least impressive part of the whole Passion Play. One knew so well that the figure was a living one; and yet when the side was pierced before one's eyes, and forthwith came forth blood, it did seem terribly real. But I had been told beforehand that this was managed by a bladder inserted beneath the fleshings. The Taking Down from the Cross was a solemn moment; but the most touching scenes to me were the Leave-taking between the Mother and Son after the anointing in Simon's house, and the Agony in the garden. Tears stood then in the eyes of many, perhaps of most of the spectators, and few had probably ever before so realised the history of our Salvation and the World's Redemption. The Washing of the Disciples' Feet and the Last Supper are amongst those that one can never forget. The scene in the council when Judas receives his thirty pieces of silver is dreadful in its reality of human passion, and the assembling of the High Priests and Elders and Scribes before Pilate's house, the dialogue between them and him, and the persistent calling of the multitude for Barabbas, seemed to make one understand it all as one never had before.

But there have been so many descriptions of the Passion Play that it seems useless to attempt a less good description now. I could not resist this slight sketch of what has occupied so many of my thoughts of late, as in another ten years it will do those of others. It was pretty to see the little children, when released from their parts, running off from behind the scenes across the grass, with their little garments of many colours in their arms. Their reward is a bright new kreutzer apiece as soon as the act is over, and with this they are so delighted that the distributor cannot give out the tiny coins fast enough! On the morning of the play, some English lady sent in a sovereign to be divided between the Christus and Barabbas ! A singular idea to connect the two! 'English, of course,' said my foreign friends, when Martha told us this between the parts while we were at dinner. 'The English must always do something peculiar !'

We were allowed rather more than an hour for dinner, and then all assembled again in the theatre. Strangely enough the brilliant day had begun to cloud over, and the sky was dark at the time of the Crucifixion, so that when the mock thunder reverberated in the hills behind, one was not quite sure whether it was not real. A sharp shower broke, but the heavens were again bright and blue when the Resurrection and Ascension scenes were given, and the sun fell warm on the dripping mantles of the chorus while they sang, again draped in their rainbow tinted folds, a joyful Hallelujah! Ueberwunden hat der Held!' When they ended in triumphant unison with, 'Praise and glory to the Highest, to the Lamb that was slain. Hallelujah!' the whole audience in the Logen (boxes), which had until now been wrapt in the deepest

silence throughout, and in a fearsome, awestruck intensity of expectation, broke forth into loud clapping of applause. I had hoped that this would not be it jarred.

However, scarcely two minutes had passed when the theatre was empty, and people were already hastening to their carriages, and preparing to leave this quaint village in the mountains, where they had seen strange things, such as on the face of the wide earth they would never see again, and where, even when they could not wholly approve, the most earnest, at all events, had found deep food for contemplation.

I, too, was about to leave. Mr. B. had heard of a return carriage to Schöngau, a five hours' drive towards Biessenhofen, the nearest point on the railway line, which I was most anxious to reach. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and if I had I might have been stranded at Ober-Ammergau for days; but I must be ready to start at six o'clock at latest, the driver said.

I must not forget to tell you that services had begun that morning in the Church at three o'clock, and continued till past seven, during which time seventy masses had been said and attended by the peasants. I believe all the actors received the Sacrament.

Well! I packed my box, and changed my dress, and paid my bill, and drank a hasty cup of coffee, and said good-bye to Mrs. and Miss

who had followed me hither the day after we met at Munich, and off I drove in the little country carriage, the only vehicle I had been able to hear of, and for which I was most thankful, though it had no covering whatever, so that I had a good wetting, or should have had but for waterproofs, before we reached Schöngau. From Schöngau I went by Stellwagen to Biessenhofen, and thence, via Kempten and Lindau, to Zurich.

I was soon in the region of the Alps. They looked glorious in the summer sunlight, and the air seemed purer than any I had breathed yet. I felt thankful to have reached safely the end of so long a journey. I had come from friends in Danzig to visit friends in Switzerland, and I was received with open arms.

The days have passed, since last I wrote, uneventfully enough, which, in fact, is what I wanted and wished, for head and mind were too over-full with all the impressions of my late journey. What I needed was to be quiet and to think, as far as possible, of nothing! I fancy that the life is doing me as much good as a week's run of a farmhouse does a child whose schooling has been stopped by order of the family doctor. The family party is often of the most mixed; seldom without some foreign or friendly element. The servants sit 'below the salt,' in true old Swiss fashion, and cousins, relatives of distant degree, neighbours and acquaintance drop in to most meals, and there is always enough for all, by some marvellous process of Swiss hospitality.

FRENCH LITERATURE IN THE EARLY NINETEENTH CENTURY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ATELIER DU LYS,' 'FAIR ELSE,' ETC.

(Chap I continued.)

FILIAL piety was a distinguishing trait in the character of Ducis, even at the age of eighty he could say, 'There is not a day that I do do not think of him, and when I am fairly satisfied with myself, I catch myself saying, "Art thou pleased, father?" I could fancy that a sign of his venerable head answered me, and was my reward.' Born of a family who came from Haute-Luce (Alta Lux) he kept something of pure and heavenly inspiration in his whole life, whether in the theatre, in the loose society of the day, or when spending his Sunday with some humble curé. As Sainte Beuve remarks, the tall, ruddy old man was not unlike a gnarled and sturdy oak, in a hollow of which the bees have stored honey.* He kept his faith unshaken amid the tempest of the eighteenth century, rejected Bonaparte's advances, 'being,' as he said, a Catholic, poet, republican, and hermit,' and received with delight at the hands of Louis XVIII., that Cross of the Legion of Honour which he would not accept from a usurper. We could not wish Shakespere a better worshipper, even if we could have desired a more capable translator.

German literature, which had strongly influenced England, now began also to affect France. After having been enslaved by Louis Quatorze and the brilliant constellation of authors who clustered thickly around him during great part of the eighteenth century, Germany became hostile to all that was French, and turned to England, her ally in the Seven Years' War. Instead of Corneille and Racine, the Germans read Shakespere, and believed in Ossian; and a native literature sprang up, which became known to France through De l'Allemagne, when the Restoration allowed it to circulate in France. Goethe, though he did not by any means like its brilliant author, accorded it the remarkable eulogium that it had broken down the barrier between two nations. German thought was indeed too alien to the French mind to take deep root there, but a great impulse was given to the writers and metaphysicians of France by thus coming in contact with the works of German authors, and the desire was strengthened to cast aside rules and traditions out of which the spirit had long vanished, though their authority was still recognised. But France was to have as lyrical a singer as any German, and a new poetical era began for her with Lamartine.

* Cauries da Lundi, vol. vi.

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