can see the spear pierce the
flesh, but we cannot see that the blood flows from the spear-point
itself, and not from the Master's body. The soldiers fall back with a
feeling of awe. Then, one by one, as the darkness falls, we see them
file away on the road to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man is left in
silence.

Then follows the descent from the cross, which suggests comparison with
Rubens' famous painting in the Cathedral at Antwerp, but here shown
with a fineness of touch and delicacy of feeling which that great
painter of muscles and mantles could never attain. We see Nicodemus
climb the ladder leaned against the back of the cross. He takes off
first the crown of thorns. It is laid silently at Mary's feet. He
pulls out the nails one by one. We hear them fall upon the ground.
With the last one falls the wrench with which he has drawn it. Passing
a long roll of white cloth over each arm of the cross, he lets the
Saviour down into the strong arms of Joseph of Arimathea, and, at last,
into the loving embrace of John and Mary. No description can give an
idea of the all-compelling force of this scene. A treatment less
reverent than is given by these peasants would make it an intolerable
blasphemy. As it is, its justification is its perfection.

And this is the justification of the Passion Play itself. It can never
become a show. It can never be carried to other countries. It never
can be given under other circumstances. So long as its players are
pure in heart and humble in spirit, so long can they keep their
well-earned right to show to the world the Tragedy of the Cross.

[1] The word "passion," as used in the term "Passionspiel," signifies
anguish or sorrow. The Passion Play is the story of the great anguish.

THE CALIFORNIA OF THE PADRE.[1]

There is something in the name of Spain which calls up impressions
rich, warm, and romantic. The "color of romance," which must be
something between the hue of a purple grape and the red haze of the
Indian summer, hangs over everything Spanish. Castles in Spain have
ever been the fairest castles, and the banks of the Xenil and the
Guadalquivir still bound the dreamland of the poet.

"There was never a castle seen
So fair as mine in Spain;
It stands embowered in green,
Overlooking a gentle slope,
On a hill by the Xenil's shore."

It has been said of Spanish rule in California, that its history was
written upon sand, only to be washed a