e, creeping low on his belly, passed the drowsy sentinels, and
gained his home, and saw what for many a day he had been hungering for--a
sight of his wife and bairns. It was a selfish act to do, and he and his
fellow-villagers paid dearly for it. Three days after he had entered his
house he and all his family lay dead, and the plague was raging through
the valley, and nothing seemed able to stay its course.

"When human means fail, we feel it is only fair to give Heaven a chance.
The good people who dwelt by the side of the Ammer vowed that, if the
plague left them, they would, every ten years, perform a Passion Play.
The celestial powers seem to have at once closed with this offer. The
plague disappeared as if by magic, and every recurring tenth year since,
the Ober-Ammergauites have kept their promise and played their Passion
Play. They act it to this day as a pious observance. Before each
performance all the characters gather together on the stage around their
pastor, and, kneeling, pray for a blessing upon the work then about to
commence. The profits that are made, after paying the performers a wage
that just compensates them for their loss of time--wood-carver Maier, who
plays the Christ, only receives about fifty pounds for the whole of the
thirty or so performances given during the season, to say nothing of the
winter's rehearsals--is put aside, part for the temporal benefit of the
community, and the rest for the benefit of the Church. From burgomaster
down to shepherd lad, from the Mary and the Jesus down to the meanest
super, all work for the love of their religion, not for money. Each one
feels that he is helping forward the cause of Christianity."

"And I could also speak," I add, "of grand old Daisenberger, the gentle,
simple old priest, 'the father of the valley,' who now lies in silence
among his children that he loved so well. It was he, you know, that
shaped the rude burlesque of a coarser age into the impressive
reverential drama that we saw yesterday. That is a portrait of him over
the bed. What a plain, homely, good face it is! How pleasant, how
helpful it is to come across a good face now and then! I do not mean a
sainted face, suggestive of stained glass and marble tombs, but a rugged
human face that has had the grit, and rain, and sunshine of life rubbed
into it, and that has gained its expression, not by looking up with
longing at the stars, but by looking down with eyes full of laught