others of the Sanhedrim who sat in the court just below.

The bearing and the acting of this man in his glorious high-priestly robe was throughout most remarkable. The assessor or counsellor who sat on his right hand, clad in green and red, was not a whit behind him. The Rabbis, with their impassioned eloquence, alike with the ruffians who entered with the ordinary Bedouin headdress (kephiyeh and argal) upon their heads, and who undertook to bring false witness or to secure the capture of Christ, gave a startling reality to a scene which from first to last was full of movement. One could hardly believe that these stately men of the Sanhedrim, with their courtesy to their high priest, their vehement earnestness against the Christ, were yesterday making watches in the factory hard by. You might uаve supposed them away in Palestine, nurtured in all the aristocratic traditions of the cultivated rabbi.

The curtain fell, and we were by the next tableau carried away from the storm of the Jewish Sanhedrim, away to the quiet countryside, and the parting of Christ from all he loved and all who loved him at Bethany. There was such sadness over all, and yet such full and silent acceptance of the truth, that so it must be, upon the faces of those who bade farewell, that one almost entered into the cloud as one gazed.

Between this and the following picture the chorus sang a chorale from "St. Paul" with great effect; and when the curtain rose, it rose upon a really remarkable presentation of the Last Supper.

Not a single face but was a study, not a hand or arm uplifted but seemed to say, "Is it I?" And here for the first time the face of the Christ seemed to be full of deep meaning and to speak unutterable things. Judas, clad in black, was not the least well-featured; St. John in green, and St. Peter in grey brown, struck one as remarkable.

Jesus was next seen in the garden of Gethsemane. The players had evidently studied the old pictures, and while in every attitude of helpless

drowse the disciples lay below him on the rocky ground, an angel, on the top of the rock to which Christ lifted his face, was seen holding a silver cup, the cup of agony and glory Christ must drain, which shone brightly through the dusk before his eyes. Then the curtain rose, after two sad solos and choruses had been sung, upon "The Betrayal." Christ in his grey garment and red cloak was confronted by the black-cloaked traitor Judas; and never, since I gazed upon the face that Giotto drew in the chapel at Padua, have I seen such dignity of reproach as was seen upon the face of the Christ as Judas kissed him.

In the following picture-"The Capture of Jesus"-one was somewhat confused by the crowd, but one was able to note how the least moved in all that motley throng was the brave and selfsurrendering Saviour. One could also see how Peter, having struck the high priest's servant and cut off his ear, looked himself astonished at his own rashness and readiness for fight. This was the ending of the first part of the Passion Play.

The second part, beginning with the scene of "Christ before Caiaphas," and ending with the closing scene of "Christ before Pilate," comprised seven tableaux, of which the first three were perhaps the most remarkable of the whole representation. It should be understood that in this part of the Passion Play the actors acted and spoke, and that in the "Scourging" and "Crowning with Thorns" use of the tableaux vivants and chorus was made to link on scene to scene, or to express that which required more than words.

Here in the scene before Caiaphas nothing could exceed the swift denunciation of the Sanhedrim, nor the almost imperiousness of appeal from the stately priest to the seemingly insignificant prisoner in the right-hand foreground.

There seemed to be a blunder in the way in which the Christ, instead of looking towards Caiaphas, only looked at the audience. With this exception, the seventh scene was well conceived

and well carried out. The marvellous unanimity of the Sanhedrim, the one voice with which they spoke in their wrathful vehemence and terrible earnestness, was most striking.

The curtain fell to the sound of a double chorus, and rose upon the scene of Christ's first appearance before Pilate.

There was nothing of the ordinary stately sitting in his governor's seat. Pilate, summoned from his palace, does not invite their high priest or his company within, but stands on the steps of his pillared portico, clad in his golden cuirass and crowned with circlet of gold. He listens, but with evident disdain, to the high priest's answers, and coldly but astutely reasons, and almost rébukes. But there was, if one may say so, just a little too much self-consciousness about this haughty Roman governor. All other players were natural; he had studied his pose, perhaps had overstudied it, and was in consequence constrained.

The next two scenes were tableaux vivants horrible in their reality,-the "Scourging" and the "Crowning with Thorns." In the latter, two brutal soldiers, not content with the pain of the thorn-crown for him they mocked, pressed the spikes into their prisoner's flesh with the midribs of the great palm-fronds they carried in their hands.

The next picture showed a stormy scene in front of Pilate's house. Brought thither for the third time, Christ stood between the soldiers, answering nothing, while the high priest and the people raved, and the Bedouins, who had been hired as spies, came and gave false witness. The curtain fell, and rose upon the last scene before the Roman governor. Christ this time stood by Barabbas, who in brown convict dress was chained between two soldiers; and again he seemed the one person in the crowd who cared not for what man should say of him or could do unto him.

"Fetch me water!" said Pilate, out of all patience; and there, in front of the furious mob, he washed his hands of the iniquity, while the people cried,

"His blood be on us and on our children." A fine chorus brought une sor rowful scene to an end.

of

The third part opened with a tableau vivant of "Christ on his way to Golgotha." The picture had been carefully studied, and reproduced one of Albert Dürer's representations Christ fallen beneath the weight of the cross. The soldiers steadied the transom beam, and waited till the fainting Christ should rise and resume the burden.

Then in the following tableau of "Christ meeting his sorrowing Mother," while one could not help being struck with the agony of the women, and especially with the beautiful face of the young girl who represented Mary Magdalene, one also noted with surprise the way in which the principal figures-the mother and the beloved disciple-had been put somewhat into the background. The uplifted hands of the Christ hid St. John's sad face entirely from view; whilst on the other hand the place of honor had been given to Saint Veronica, who, holding the handkerchief before the face of Christ, was evidently the centre of the picture. This, of course, may have been done for some local purpose of local tradition, but it marred the general effect of the tableau.

In the following tableau, which was prefaced by a duet and chorus of women voices, and to which the Prologue, dressed now in black, lent pathos by her kneeling in agony on the stage as the curtain rose, one saw the pitiful "nailing of Jesus to the Cross."

One felt that it would have been better had the figure of Christ been unclothed, with the simple waistcloth about the loins. Modern clothing was out of place, and detracted from the dignity and naturalness of the representation. A recitative followed. Then came, through the lips of the chorus, a plaintive cry from the cross, "My people, my people, how have you rewarded me! Have I ever deceived you? Have I not always loved you as mine own? Oh, speak, my people! What compels you to such hate that thus you leave

of woe.

In plaintive tone the chorale told how the seraphim were touching men's hearts with their sad strain, and called upon man "to speed the story to stars and ocean flood," of how to-day in bitterness upon the cross had died God's Son, Jesus Christ the Lord.

A simple, sweet strain sang of the mother of Christ as she stood weeping there in the shadow of death, and told how a sharp sword had pierced her heart.

Then the curtain rose upon another scene. Christ's head, which before had gazed upon his weeping mother, had sunk upon his breast, and as the curtain fell upon a picture terrible in its reality of death and doom, the chorus sang a song of hope, a song of gratitude, and joined the hosts of angels praising God and saying:

Now let Thy sorrow find its sure reward; Thou bringest love to earth, my Saviour Lord!

The next picture represented the "Taking down from the cross." It was one of the most effective bits of color and grouping of the whole series. The body of the Lord had been quietly let down by means of the folds of fine linen that had been brought for his burial; and while this fell like a banner of purity over the transom of the cross, a figure from above had gently lowered the body into the hands of the friends who had begged the body from Pilate. The posing was really wonderful, and the careful study of the old masters was apparent.

The solemn effect of this tableau was enhanced by the appearance of the chorus upon the stage in black instead of red draperies. The Prologue also

The tableau that represented the burial of the body of the Lord seemed to depart entirely from any conventional representation of the sepulchre: it failed by the pressing up into one side of the scene of all the main actors in it.

At the end of the chorale that bade farewell to the body as it entered the white upstanding portal of the tomb, a duet spoke plaintively to all in the assembly to think on Christ as "the Forgiver of sins," and called on all "to wash and be cleansed of their sin," "only to trust, to hope, and to believe, and heaven would be their reward;" and as the singers ceased, the Prologue, in her dark draped robe, fell on her knees, and all the people were moved.

The glorious Resurrection of Christ also seemed to break with tradition. As the first words "Alleluiah!" sounded upon our ears, the curtain rose and discovered Jesus issuing from the white gate of his tomb with a bright light upon his robes and face-Jesus the Conqueror. But the soldiers did not fall and become as dead men: they had only, it would appear, stepped back, and were standing in stupefied movelessness.

Then the last scene followed. The

disciples were seen in a crowd with women and children upon a rocky mountain-side, and a red glory appeared in heaven. It played upon the body of our Lord till he seemed almost to melt into the rosy sky, and, as he stood with hands uplifted in attitude to bless, the clouds moved towards him, and by their downward movement seemed to give to him an upward one. The glory grew and grew, and, while we wondered, the shouts of an alleluiah chorus-"Honor, praise, glory

be unto Him forevermore!"-filled the place and the curtain for the last time fell. The Lord had ascended up into the heaven of heavens, whither our hearts seemed also to ascend; and the Passion Play was over.

We came out of the theatre and joined the people sitting at their tables of simple refreshment beneath the walnut-trees; but little or nothing was said. They took their long glasses of Swiss beer in silence. "Wunderschon!" ("Wonderful!") was heard from table to table, but there was no ordinary flow of conversation.

So we rose and passed from the village, up by the white school and the whiter church tower; up by the shady barns to the sunny orchard bowers; away from the village of born actors and singers; away to the quiet cornfields, where that born singer the lark sang its own alleluia still. As we climbed to the heights of Weissenstein that evening, we turned many a time to think of the humble village we had left, and of its mission of religious reverence, and its simple recall to simple faith, for those whose good fortune or whose will should ever lead their steps to the Selzach Passion Play.

H. D. RAWNSLEY.

From The Cornhill Magazine. THE VILLAGE OF OLD AGE.

Far away from the noise and fret of men's business I had lived, content to find new joys in the passing days, and to welcome, year by year, with unfailing serenity, the placid monotony of fair days and foul, the coming and the flying of the swallows, the springing and the falling of the leaf.

And it was with the sad farewells of the summer that my mother bade me good-bye. With Ler falling to sleep the world in some dim fashion was changed to me. Strange and sombre tints 'sobered the autumn; the birds piped a softer note of melancholy; the dawn came but to prophesy the twilight. In

the wish to rid myself in some degree of a growing distaste for my fellows, an ever-increasing moodiness of mien, I set out from my haven of rest into the busy tideways of the world. "Surely,' thought I, "friends are many, and welcome will be freely given me. I will die laughing, and die then of over-ripeness." But soon I found that men forget and seldom wish to remember; that friends once so charming and so flattering see the world through keener eyes; that tongues once mellifluous taste the bitterness of life, and that ready hands have too great labor to wave greetings to one risen from the silence of the past. Vexed and disappointed, with sore heart and ill at ease, I bethought myself of Basil. Thank God, cross-roads sometimes have the same goal. I was full of hot enthusiasm to meet him face to face. What a medley of wit and philosophy his name recalled to me! One who would choose a path of thistles to flout the gardener of roses. A fellow at whom death winked, of eternal youth and heartiness. "I will go to him; he will understand," thought I.

Hopeful as a child I set out to find him. Nor was I greatly disturbed to find his place empty. I made my way to the village whither report was that my friend had fled, and come to a sleepy place of ancient cottages, of silent, de serted streets, and of calm weather. I asked lodging of the grey landlord of the inn. He considered me with filmy eyes. He was a man shrunken and weak-kneed, with open toothless jaws. The days of summer he spent sunning himself in his garden of vegetables, and trembling over the log fire in his brickfloored hall in days of wintry weather.

"Ay, if Janie be within," said he. "The streets be damp, and, mebbe, a mouldy stench, but God a' mercy, thou'lt sleep no' the worse."

"What of the waking, my friend?" said I gaily.

"Ay, what of the waking," said he, "if the slumbering be quiet and easy? Who'll heed the fret of the day? The graveyard for a', the graveyard for a'." I eyed him askance this echo of a man-and rallied him with a loud laugh and in bluff manner.