Produced by Al Haines
THE STORY OF THE INNUMERABLE COMPANY, AND OTHER SKETCHES
BY
DAVID STARR JORDAN
PRESIDENT OF LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY
SAN FRANCISCO
THE WHITAKER & RAY COMPANY (INCORPORATED)
1896
COPYRIGHT, 1896,
BY
DAVID STARR JORDAN
TO MY WIFE,
JESSIE KNIGHT JORDAN.
PREFATORY NOTE.
This volume is made up of separate sketches, historical or allegorical,
having in some degree a bond of union in the idea of "the higher
sacrifice."
I am under obligations to Professor William R. Dudley for the use of a
photograph of a record of Father Serra. This was secured through the
kindness of the late Father Casanova, of Monterey.
PALO ALTO, CAL., June 1, 1896.
CONTENTS.
THE STORY OF THE INNUMERABLE COMPANY
THIS STORY OF THE PASSION
THE CALIFORNIA OF THE PADRE
THE CONQUEST OF JUPITER PEN
THE LAST OF THE PURITANS
A KNIGHT OF THE ORDER OF POETS
NATURE-STUDY AND MORAL CULTURE
THE HIGHER SACRIFICE
THE BUBBLES OF SÁKI
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Peter Rendl as Saint John
Johann Zwink as Judas
Rosa Lang as Mary
"Ecce Homo!"
A Record of Junípero Serra
Mission of San Antonio de Pádua
Mission of San Antonio de Pádua--Interior of Chapel
Mission of San Antonio de Pádua--Side of Chapel,
with the Old Pear-trees
The Great Saint Bernard
Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard
Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard--in Winter
Jupitère (Great Saint Bernard Dog)
Monks of the Great Saint Bernard
Saint Bernard and the Demon
John Brown
The John Brown Homestead, North Elba, N. Y.
John Brown's Grave
Ulrich Von Hutten
Ulrich Zwingli
_Men told me, Lord, it was a vale of tears
Where Thou hast placed me, wickedness and woe
My twain companions whereso I might go;
That I through ten and threescore weary years
Should stumble on beset by pains and fears,
Fierce conflict round me, passions hot within,
Enjoyment brief and fatal but in sin.
When all was ended then should I demand
Full compensation from thine austere hand:
For, 'tis thy pleasure, all temptation past,
To be not just but generous at last._
_Lord, here am I, my threescore years and ten
All counted to the full; I've fought thy fight,
Crossed thy dark valleys, scaled thy rocks' harsh height,
Borne all the burdens Thou dost lay on men
With hand unsparing threescore years and ten.
Before Thee now I make my claim, O Lord,--
What shall I pray Thee as a meet reward?_
_I ask for nothing. Let the balance fall!
All that I am or know or may confess
But swells the weight of mine indebtedness;
Burdens and sorrows stand transfigured all;
Thy hand's rude buffet turns to a caress,
For Love, with all the rest. Thou gavest me here,
And Love is Heaven's very atmosphere,
Lo, I have dwelt with Thee, Lord. Let me die.
I could no more through all eternity._
THE STORY OF THE INNUMERABLE COMPANY.
There was once a great mountain which rose from the shore of the sea,
and on its flanks it bore a mighty forest. Beyond the crest of the
mountain were ridges and valleys, peaks and chasms, springs and
torrents. Farther on lay a sandy desert, which stretched its
monotonous breadth to the shore of a wide, swift river. What lay
beyond the river no one knew, because its shores were always hid in
azure mist.
Year by year there came up from the shore of the sea an Innumerable
Company. Each one must cross the mountain and the forest, faring
onward toward the desert and the river. And this was one condition of
the journey--that whosoever came to the river must breast its waters
alone. Why this was so, no one could tell; nor did any one know aught
of the land beyond. For of the multitude who had crossed the river not
one had ever returned.
As time went on there came to be paths through the forest. Those who
went first left traces to serve as guides for those coming after. Some
put marks on the trees; some built little cairns of stones to show the
way they had taken in going around great rocks. Those who followed
found these marks and added to them. And many of the travelers left
little charts which showed where the cliffs and chasms were and by what
means one could reach the hidden springs. So in time it came to pass
that there was scarcely a tree on the mountain which bore not some
traveler's mark; there was scarcely a rock that had not a cairn of
stones upon it.
In early times there was One who came up from the sea and made the
journey over the mountain and across the desert by a way so fair that
the memory of it became a part of the story of the forest. Men spoke
to each other of his way, and many wished to find it out, that haply
they might walk therein. He, too, had left a Chart, which those who
followed him had carefully kept, and from which they had drawn help in
many times of need.
The way he went was not the shortest way, nor was it the easiest. The
ways that are short and easy lead not over the mountain. But his was
the most _repaying_ way. It led by the noblest trees, the fairest
outlooks, the sweetest springs, the greenest pastures, and the shadow
of great rocks in the desert. And the chart of his way which he left
was very simple and very plain--easy to understand. Even a child might
use it. And, indeed, there were many children who did so.
On this chart were the chief landmarks of the region--the mountain with
its forest, the desert with its green oases, the paths to the hidden
springs. But there were not many details. The old cairns were not
marked upon it, and when two paths led alike over the mountain, there
was no sign to show that one was to be taken rather than the other.
Not much was said as to what food one should take, or what raiment one
should wear, or by what means one should defend himself. But there
were many simple directions as to how one should act on the road, and
by what signs he should know the right path. One ought to look upward,
and not downward; to look forward, and not backward; to be always ready
to give a helping hand to his neighbor: and whomsoever one meets is
one's neighbor, he said.
As to the desert, one need not dread it; nor should one fear the river,
for the lands beyond it were sweet and fair. Moreover, one should
learn to know the forest, that he might choose his course wisely. And
this knowledge each one should seek for himself. For, as he said, "If
the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch."
There were many who followed his way and gave heed to his precepts.
The path seemed dangerous at times, especially at the outset; for it
lay along dizzy heights, through tangled underwood, and across swollen
torrents. But after a while all these were left behind. The way
passed on between cleft rocks, into green pastures, and by still
waters; and in the desert were sweet springs which gave forth
abundantly.
But some who tried to follow him said that his Chart was not explicit
enough. Every step in the journey, they contended, should be laid out
exactly; for to travel safely one should never be left in doubt.
Now, it chanced that on the slope of the mountain there was a huge
granite rock, which stood in the midst of the way. Some of the
travelers passed to the right of it, while others turned to the left.
Strangely enough, the Chart said nothing concerning this rock. No hint
was given as to how one should pass by it.
When they came to the rock, many of the travelers took counsel one of
another, and at last a great multitude was gathered there. Which way
had he taken? For in the path he took they must surely go. Many
scanned the rock on every side, to find if haply he had left some
secret mark upon it. But they found none; or, rather, no one could
convince the others that the hidden marks he found were intended for
their guidance.
At nightfall, after much discussion, the old men in the council gave
their decision. The safe way led to the right. So he who kept the
Chart marked upon it the place of the rock, and he wrote upon the Chart
that the one true path leads to the right. Henceforth each man should
know the way he must go.
Moreover, those who bore the records showed that this decision was
justified. They wrote upon the Chart a long argument, chain upon chain
and reason upon reason, to prove that from the beginning it was decreed
that by this rock should the destiny of man be tested.
But in spite of argument, there were still some who chose the left-hand
path because they verily believed that this was the only right way.
They, too, justified their course by arguments, line upon line and
precept upon precept. And each band tried to make its following as
large as it could. Some men stood all day by the side of the rock,
urging people to come with them to the right or to the left. For,
strangely enough, although each man had his own journey to make, and
must cross the river at last alone, he was eager that all others should
go along with him.
And as each band grew larger, its members took pride in the growth of
its numbers. In the larger bands, trumpets were blown, harps were
sounded, and banners were waved in the wind. Those who walked shoulder
to shoulder under waving flags to the sound of trumpets felt secure and
confident, while those who journeyed alone seemed always to walk with
fear and trembling. It was said in the old Chart that where two or
three were gathered together on the way, strength and courage would be
given them. But men could not believe this, and few had the heart to
test whether it were true or no.
So the bands went on to the right or to the left, each in its chosen
path. But after they had passed the first great rock, they came to
other rocks and trees and places of doubt. Other councils were held,
and at each step there were some who would not abide by the decision of
the elders. So these from time to time went their own ways. And they
made new inscriptions on the Chart, and erased the old ones, each
according to his own ideas. And there was much pushing and jostling
when the bands separated themselves one from another.
At last one of the oldest travelers in the largest band--a man with a
long white beard, and wise with the experience of years--arose and said
that not in anger, nor in strife, should they journey on. Discord and
contention arise from difference of opinion. Let all men but think
alike, and they will walk in peace and harmony. Let each band choose a
leader. Let him carry the Chart, and let him night and day pore over
its precepts. No one else need distress himself. One had only to keep
step on the road, and to follow whithersoever the leader might direct.
So the people chose a leader--a man grave and serious, wise in the lore
of the forest and the desert. He noted on the Chart each rock and
tree, drawing in sharp outlines every detail in the only safe path.
Moreover, all deviating trails he marked with the symbol of danger.
And it came to pass that day by day other bands followed, and to them
the Chart was given as he had left it. And these bands, too, chose
leaders, whose part it was to interpret the Chart. But each one of
these added to the Chart some better way of his own, some short cut he
had found, or some new trail not marked with the proper sign of warning.
And with all these changes and additions, as time went on, the true way
became very hard to find. At one point, so the story is told, there
were twenty-nine distinct paths, leading in as many directions; each of
these, if the Chart be true, came to its end in some frightful chasm.
With these there was a single narrow trail that led to safety; but no
two leaders could agree as to which was the right trail. One thing
only was certain: the true way was very hard to find, and no traveler
might discover it unaided.
And some declared that the Chart was complicated beyond all need.
There was one who said, "The multiplication of non-essentials has
become the bane of the forest." Even a little meadow which he had
found, and which he called the "Saints' Rest," was so entangled in
paths and counterpaths that once out of sight of it one could never
find it again.
All this time there were many bands that wandered about in circles,
finding everywhere cairns of stones, but no way of escape. Still
others remained day after day in the shadow of great rocks, disputing
and doubting as to how they should pass by them. There were arguments
and precedents enough for any course; but arguments and precedents made
no man sure.
And it came to pass that most travelers followed the band they found
nearest. At last, to join some band became their only care. And they
looked with pity and distrust upon those who traveled alone.
But the bands all made their way very slowly. No matter how wise the
leader, not all were ready to move at once, and not all could keep step
to the sound of even the slowest trumpet. There was often much ado at
nightfall over the pitching of the tents, and many were crowded out
into the forest. At times also, in the presence of danger, fear spread
through the band, and many of the weaker ones were trampled on and
sorely hurt.
Then, too, as they passed through the rocky defiles, some of them lost
sight of the banners, and then the others would wait for them, or
perchance leave them behind, to struggle on as best they might without
chart or guide.
And there were those who spoke in this wise: "Many paths lead over the
mountain, and sooner or later all come to the desert and the river. It
does not matter where we walk; the question is, How? We cannot know
step by step the way he went. Let us walk by faith, as he walked. If
our spirit is like his, we shall not lack for guidance when we come to
the crossing of the ways." And so they fared on. But many doubted
their own promptings. "Tell me, am I right?" each one asked of his
neighbor; and his neighbor asked it again of him. And those who were
in doubt followed those who were sure.
So it came to pass that these who walked by faith likewise gathered
themselves into great companies, and each company followed some leader.
Some of these leaders had the gift of woodcraft, and saw clearly into
the very nature of things. But some were only headstrong, and these
proved to be but blind leaders of the blind.
Then one said, "We must not be filled with our own conceit, but must
humbly imitate him. We must try to work as he worked; to rest as he
rested; to sleep as he slept. The deeds we do should be those he did,
and those only. For on his Chart he has told us, not the way he went
past rocks and trees, but the actions with which his days were filled."
Then those who tried to do as he had done, moved by his motives and
acting through his deeds, found the way wonderfully easy. The days and
the hours seemed all too short for the joy with which they were filled.
But, again, there were many who said that his directions were not
explicit enough. The Chart said so little. "That we may make no
mistake," they said, "we must gather ourselves in bands and choose
leaders. We cannot act as he acted unless there is some one to show us
how."
Thus it came to pass that leaders were chosen who could do everything
that he had done, in all respects, according to his method. And they
added to the Chart the record of their own practices--not only that "He
did thus and so," but also, "Thus and so he did not do." "Thus and
thus did he eat bread, and thus only. Thus and thus did he loose his
sandals. In this way only gave he bread and wine. Here on the way he
fasted; there he feasted. At this turn of the road he looked upward
thus, shading his eyes with his hand. Here he anointed his feet; there
his face wore a sad smile. Such was the cut of his coat; of this wood
was his staff; of such a number of words his prayer." And many were
comforted in the thought that for every turn in the road there was some
definite thing which he had done, and which they, too, might perform.
Thus the duties of every moment were fixed. But as the days went on
these duties grew more and more difficult. No one had time to look at
the rocks or trees; no one could cast his eyes over a noble prospect;
no one could stop to rest by the sweet fountains or in the refreshing
shadows. One could hardly give a moment to such things, lest he should
overlook some needful service.
Then many lost heart, and said that surely he cared not for times and
observances, else he would have said more about them. When he made the
journey, it was his chief reproach that he heeded not these things.
With him, ceremony or observance rose directly out of the need for it,
each one as the need was felt. To imitate him is to feel as he felt.
With him feelings gave rise to word and action. "So will it be with
us. It is not for us to imitate him in the fashion of his coat or the
cut of his beard. He went over the road giving help and comfort, as
the sun gives light or the flowers shed fragrance, all unconscious of
the good he did." And in this wise did many imitate him. They turned
aside the boughs of the trees, that the sunshine of heaven might fall
upon their neighbors. And behold, the same sunshine fell upon them
also. They removed the stones from the road, that others might not
stumble over them. And others removed the stones from their way also.
But many were still in doubt and hesitation. The record, they said,
was not explicit enough. They counseled together, and gathered in
bands, and chose leaders who should tell them how to feel. And the
leaders gave close heed to all his feelings and to the times and
seasons proper to each. Here he was joyous, and at a signal all the
baud broke into merry laughter. Here he was stern, and the multitude
set its teeth. There he wept, and tears fell like rain from
innumerable eyes.
As time went on, repeated action made action easy. The springs of
feeling were readily troubled. Still each one felt, or tried to feel,
all that he should have felt. No one dared admit to his fellows that
his tears were a sham, his joy a pretense, his sadness a lie. But
often, in the bottom of their hearts, men would confess with real tears
that they had no genuine feeling there.
Then the people asked for leaders who could bring out real feelings.
And there arose leaders, who, by terrible words, could fill the hearts
with fear; by burning words, could stir the embers of zeal; by the
intensity of their own passions, could fill the throng with pity, with
sorrow, or with indignation. And the multitude hung on their lips; for
they sought for feelings real and not simulated.
But here again division arose; for not all were touched alike by those
who had power over the hearts of men. Some followed the leader who
moved them to tears; others chose him who filled them with fear and
trembling. Still others loved to linger in the dark shadow of remorse.
Some said that right emotions were roused by loud and ringing tones.
Some said that the tones should be sad and sweet.
Then there were some who said that feelings such as all these were idle
and common. When he trod the way of old, it was with radiant eyes and
with uplifted heart. He saw through the veil of clouds to the glory
which lay beyond. We follow him best when we too are uplifted. Now
and then on the way come to us moments of exultation, when we tread in
his very footsteps. These are the precious moments; then our way is
his way. In the rosy mists of morning, we may behold the glory which
encompassed him. In moments of silent communion in the forest, we may
feel his peace steal over us. In the gentle rain that falls upon the
just and the unjust, we may know the soft pity of his tears. When the
sun declines, its last rays touch with gold the far-off mountain tops
beyond the great river.
And the uplifting of great moments, filling the souls of men with peace
that passeth understanding, came to many. As they went their way, this
peace fell upon their neighbors also. And no man did aught to make
them afraid. And others sought to go with these, and thus they became
a great band.
So they chose as their leaders those whose visions were brightest. And
they made for themselves a banner like the white mist flung out from
the mountain-tops at the rising of the sun. They spoke much to each
other concerning the white banner and the peace which filled their
souls.
But as they journeyed along, the dust of the way dimmed the banner, and
the bright visions one by one faded away. At last they came no more.
Then the people murmured and called upon the leaders to grant them some
brighter vision, something that all could see and feel at once--some
sign by which they might know that they were still in his way. "Cause
that a path be opened through the thicket," they said, "and let a white
dove come forth to lead us on; or, let the mists beyond the river part
for a moment, that we may behold the far country beyond."
And one of the leaders standing at the head of the column, clothed in
the morning light as with a garment, raised his staff high in the air.
The sun's rays fell upon it, touching the morning mists with gold, and
threw across them the long shadow of the upraised staff. The shadow
fell far out across the plains, and about it was a halo of bright
light. And all the band looked joyfully at the vision. Adown the
slope of the mountain and out into the plain they followed the way of
the shadow. And all the time the white banner waved at the head of the
column. The people said little to one another, but that little was a
word of praise and rejoicing.
But it came to pass, as the day wore on, that the sun rose in the sky,
and drew the mists up from the valley. With them vanished the long
shadow of the staff, and in its place appeared the sandy plain. The
feet of the people were sore with the rocks and stones. The air was
thick with dust. Their hearts were uplifted no longer. Instead they
were filled with doubt and distress.
And the people repined and murmured against their leader. But the
leader said that all was well; even in the way he went there had been
stones and hindrances. More than once had he carried a heavy burden
along a dusty road. But he never doubted nor complained, and so the
radiance round about him never faded away.
But all the more the people clamored for a sign. Let the bright vision
of the morning appear to us again. At length, worn with much entreaty,
the leader raised once more his staff above his head. The sun at noon
fell upon it. But as the people gazed they saw no long line of
radiance stretching out across the plains amid a halo of shining mist.
The shadow of the staff was a little shapeless mark upon the sand at
their very feet.
Then the leader cast his staff away and went by himself alone, sad and
sorrowful. That night, as he lay by the roadside, he looked upward to
the clear, calm, honest stars. They seemed to say to him, "See all
things as they really are. This was his way. 'In spirit and in truth'
means in the light of no illusion. Not all the visions of mist or of
sunshine can make the journey other than it is."
So he came to look closely at all things on the road. Day by day he
read the lessons of the desert and the mountain. He learned to know
directions by the growth of the trees. By the perfume of the lilies,
he sought out the hidden springs. By the red clouds at evening, he
knew that the sky would be fair. By the red light in the morning, he
was warned of the coming storm. And there were many who followed him
and his way, though he did not will it so.
And he taught his companions, saying: "We must seek his way in the
nature of the things that abide. To learn this nature of things is the
beginning of wisdom. For day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto
night showeth knowledge. The way of nature is solid, substantial,
vast, and unchanging. He who walks in it stands secure, as in the
shadow of a high tower or as if encompassed by a mighty fortress. The
wisdom of the forest shall be granted to him who seeks for it with calm
heart and quiet eye."
But among his followers there were many who were eager and would hasten
on, and although they spoke much of the Nature of Things and of the Law
of the Forest, they were contented with speaking. "The road is long,"
they said to themselves, "and the hours are fleeting." They had no
time to contemplate the glory of the heavens. The beauty of the lilies
fell on unobservant eyes. For all these things they trusted to the
report of others. The words passed from mouth to mouth, losing ever a
little of their truth. And in this wise the voice of wisdom was turned
to the language of folly. For the nature of things is truth. But no
man can find truth except he seek it for himself. And so they fared
on, each well or ill, according to the truth to which his way bore
witness.
Meanwhile those who bore the white banner remained long in council. At
last one remembered that it was written, "Faith without works is dead,
being alone." And it was written again, "Those who follow me in spirit
must follow me in truth." The essence of truth lies not in thought or
feeling, but must be expressed in deeds. Right feelings follow right
actions. Thus it was with him; thus will it be with us.
Then they went their way together, doing good to one another. And each
called his neighbor "brother"; and some bore cups of cold water, and
some balm for healing; some carried oil and wine and pots of precious
ointment. To whomsoever they met they gave help and comfort. The
hungry they fed. The thirsty were given drink. He who had fallen by
the wayside was lifted up and strengthened, and the blessing of
cleanliness was brought to him who lay in filth and shame. The
blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon them, and the heart
of the widow sang for joy.
But soon those who were filled with zeal for good works were gathered
together in great bands, and each band wished to magnify its work. In
every way, to all men who asked, help was given. They searched out the
lame and the blind, and brought them that they might perforce be
healed. Cup after cup of cold water was given to the little ones, even
to those who might bring water for themselves. They cared for the
wounded wayfarer long after his wounds were made whole. It was their
joy to bathe his limbs in oil and wine, or to swathe them in fragrant
bands. And the wayfarer ceased to bear his own tent or to seek his own
raiment. What others would do for him, he need not do for himself.
And those who did not help themselves lost the power of self-help. And
those who had helped others overmuch came themselves to need the help
of others.
At last the number of the helpless became so great that there was no
one to serve them. Many waited day after day for the aid that never
came, and they grew so weak with waiting that they could not take up
their burdens. The little ones were thrust aside by the strong, and as
the band went on many of them were forgotten and left behind. They
fainted and fell by the healing springs, because there was no one to
give them drink, and they could not help themselves.
And the burden of the way grew very hard and grievous to bear. Then
there were those who said that one cannot help another save by leading
him to help himself. All that is given him must he repay. Sooner or
later each must bear his own burden. Each must make his own way
through the forest in such manner as he may.
So they turned back to the old Chart. They would read his words again,
that they might be led to better deeds. In these words they found help
and cheer. These words spake they one to another. They came like rain
to a thirsty field, or as balm to a wound, or as good news from a far
country. And there was wonderful consolation in the thought that for
every step of the way he had spoken the right word.
So those who knew his words best were chosen as leaders, and great
companies followed them. And as band after band passed along, his
message sounded from one to another. His words were ever on their
lips. Those who could run swiftly carried them far and wide, even into
the depths of the forest. To those who were in sorrow they came as
glad tidings of great joy, and beautiful upon the mountains seemed the
feet of those who bore them. Wherever men were weary and heavy laden,
they were cheered by his promise of rest.
But there were some who turned to his message only to gratify sordid
hopes or vain desires. He who was lazy sought warrant for sleep. He
who was covetous looked for gain. He who was filled with anger sought
promise of vengeance. There were many who repeated his words for the
mere words' sake. And there were some who used them in disputations
about the way. And the words of help on the Chart they turned into
words of command. Each one took these commands not to himself alone,
but sought to enforce them upon others. "For it is our duty," they
said, "to see that no word of his shall be unheeded of any man." And
many rose in resistance. And the conflicts on the way were fierce and
strong; for with each different band there was diversity of
interpretation. Thus the words of kindness became the voice of hate.
And it came to pass that all along the way the green sward was red with
the blood of wayfarers. Everywhere the leaves of the forest were
trampled by struggling hosts. And "In his name" was the watchword of
each warring band. And each band called itself "his army." And
whosoever bore the sword that was reddest, they called the "Defender of
the Faith." They placed his name upon their battle-flags, and beneath
it they wrote these fearful words, "In this sign, conquer." And each
went forth to conquer his neighbor, and the wayfarer fled from the
sight of their banners as from a pestilence. But "Conquer, conquer,"
was no word of his. He spoke not of victory over others; only of
conquest of oneself. He had said, "Resist not, but overcome evil with
good." And till all men ceased to resist and ceased to conquer, no one
found himself in the right way. Then some one said: "By words alone
can no one truly follow him. His words without his faith and love are
like sounding brass or tinkling cymbal. Out of the abundance of the
heart the mouth speaketh. When the heart is empty the speech of the
mouth is idle as the crackling of thorns beneath a pot."
And there appeared other bands from the number of those who had passed
to the right of the first great rock; and seeing the tumult and
confusion of the others, they said to themselves: "These are they who
followed not us. We have chosen the better part. Our leader bears the
only perfect Chart. All other charts are the invention of men. In the
right Chart there can be nothing false; in the others there can be
nothing true. Those who have not the true Chart can never go right,
not even for a moment. For even good deeds done in the paths of evil
must partake of the nature of sin. Straight is the way and narrow is
the gate, but there is no safety except ye walk therein."
So they went on, stumbling ever along the rocky road, never resting,
never murmuring. "For the way at best is a vale of tears," said they,
"and no one would have it otherwise. He found it thus in his time. He
was ever a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. More than all
others had he suffered. It was his glory to be despised and rejected
of men. For the greater the abasement the greater the exaltation in
the land beyond the river." So day by day they walked in the hardest
part of the road. But they spoke often together of a land of pure
delight, of sweet fields beyond the swelling floods, and of turf soft
as velvet that rose from the river's bank.
If perchance on the way they came to green pastures, they would hasten
on, lest they should be tempted to rest before the day of rest was
come. From sweet springs they turned aside, that theirs might be the
greater satisfaction when they came to the sweetest springs of all.
They shut their eyes to beauty and their ears to music, that the light
and music of the unknown shore might burst upon them as a sudden
revelation. They looked not at the stars, lest perchance these should
declare a glory which was reserved for other days. Dreary and harsh
was the way they trod. But in its very dreariness they found safety.
They sought no pleasure, they fought no battles, they wasted no time.
In the pushing aside of all temptation, the scorn of all beauty and
idleness, they found delight. Against the strength of granite rock
they set the force of iron will. Withal, at the bottom their hearts
were light with the certainty of coming joy. Even the multitude of
conflicting paths gave them a peculiar satisfaction; for whatever way
they took was always the right way.
But there were some among them who lost all heart. And they threw
their charts away and set forth in disorder through the forest and up
the mountain. Some of them came safely to the river, far in advance of
the bands they had left behind. But to most the way was strange, and
harder than of old. And as the journey wore on they began to hate the
forest and all its ways.
So they fared on, together or apart, in ever-deepening shadow. They
distrusted their neighbors. They despised the joyous bands who trooped
after their leaders with mouthing of verses and waving of flags. They
were stirred by the sound of no trumpet. They were deceived by no
illusion of sunshine or of mist. They said: "We know the forest; no
one knows it but ourselves. There is no future; there is no way; there
is no rest; there is no better country. The azure mists are shadows
only, hiding some dreary plain, if haply they hide anything at all.
Evil is man; evil are all things about him. Love and joy, hope and
faith, all these are but flickering lights that lure him to
destruction. Vultures croak on the rocks. The fountains flow with
ink. Danger lurks in the desert. The name of the river is Death."
And when they came to the shore of the river they saw no rift in the
clouds above it, for their eyes were filled with gloom.
But as time passed on, the way of man grew brighter, whether he would
or no. No day nor hour was without its joy to him who opened his heart
to receive it. And men saw that most of the difficulties and dangers
of the way were those which they unwittingly had made for themselves or
for others. Thus, as the road became more secure, it no longer seemed
dreary or lonely.
And so it came to pass at last that men ceased to gather themselves in
great bands. Nor did they longer set store on the sound of trumpets or
the waving of flags. The men who were wisest ceased to be leaders of
hosts. They became teachers and helpers instead.
And with all this a sure way was from day to day not hard to find. Men
fell into it naturally and unconsciously. And the ways which are safe
are innumerable as the multitude of those that may walk therein.
And those who had gone by diverse paths came from time to time
together. Each praised the charms of the path he had taken, but each
one knew that in other paths other men found as great delight. And as
time went on many wise men passed over the way, and each in his own
fashion left a record of all that had come to him.
But the old Chart men kept in ever-increasing reverence. They found
that its simple, honest words were words of truth, and whoso sought for
truth gained with it courage and strength. But they covered it no
longer with their own additions and interpretations. Nor did any one
insist that what he found helpful to himself should be law unto others.
No longer did men say to one another, "This path have I taken; this way
must thou go."
And some one wrote upon the Chart this single rule of the forest:
"Choose thou thine own best way, and help thy neighbor to find that way
which for him is best." But this was erased at last; for beneath it
they found the older, plainer words, which One in earlier times had
written there, "_Thy neighbor as thyself._"
THE STORY OF THE PASSION.
The Alps are not confined to Switzerland. They fill that little
country full and overflow in all directions, into Austria, Italy,
Germany, and France. Beautiful everywhere, these mountains are nowhere
more charming than in Southern Bavaria. Grass-carpeted valleys, lakes
as blue as the sky above them, dark slopes of pine and fir, over-topped
by crags of gray limestone dashed by perpetual snow, the Bavarian
Oberland is one of the most delightful regions in all Europe. When
Attila and the Huns invaded Germany fifteen centuries ago, it is said
that their cry was, "On to Bavaria--on to Bavaria! for there dwells the
Lord God himself!"
In the heart of these mountains, shut off from the highways of travel
by great walls of rock, lies the valley of the little river Ammer. Its
waters are cold and clear, for they flow from mountain springs, and its
willow-shaded eddies are full of trout. At first a brawling torrent,
its current grows more gentle as the valley widens and the rocks
recede, and at last the little river flows quietly with broad windings
through meadows carpeted with flowers. On these meadows, a couple of
miles apart, lie the twin villages of the Ammer Valley--the one
world-famous, the other unheard of beyond the sound of its
church-bells--Ober and Unter Ammergau.
Long, straggling, Swiss-like towns, these villages on the Ammer meadows
are. You may find a hundred such between Innsbruck and Zürich. Stone
houses, plastered outside and painted white, stand close together, each
one passing gradually backward into woodshed, barn, and stable. You
may lose your way in the narrow, crooked streets, as purposeless in
their direction as the footsteps of the cows who first surveyed them.
Oberammergau is a cleaner town than most, with a handsomer church, and
a general evidence of local pride and modest prosperity. Frescoes on
the walls of the houses here and there, paintings of saints and angels,
bear witness to a love of beauty and to the prevalence of a religious
spirit. These pictures, still bright after more than a century's wear,
go back to the time when the peasant boy, Franz Zwink, of Oberammergau,
mixed paints for a famous artist who painted the interior of the Ettal
Monastery and the village church. The boy learned the art as well as
the process, and when his master was gone, he covered the walls of his
native town with pictures such as made men famous in other times and in
other lands. The spirit of the Italian masters was his, and the work
of Zwink at Oberammergau has been called "a wandering wave from the
mighty sea of the Renaissance which has broken on a far-off coast."
The Passion Play at Oberammergau has been characterized as a relic of
medieval times--the last remains of the old Miracle Play. This is
true, in the sense of historical continuity, and in that sense alone.
The spirit of the times has penetrated even to this isolated valley,
and its Passion Play is as much a product of our century as the poetry
of Tennyson. Miracle Plays were shown at Oberammergau and in the town
about it more than five hundred years ago, but the Passion Play of
to-day is not like them. The imps and devils and all the machinery of
superstition are gone. Harmony has taken the place of crudity, and the
Christ of Oberammergau is the Christ of modern conception. The Miracle
Play, dead or dying everywhere else, has lived and been perfected at
Oberammergau.
It has been pre-eminently the work of the Church of Rome to teach the
common people, and to train them to obedience. In its teaching it has
made use of every means which could serve its purposes. Didactic
teaching is not effective with tired and sleepy peasants. Sermons
soothe, rather than instruct, after a week of hard labor in the fields.
Hence comes the need of object-teaching, if teaching is to be real.
Images have been used in this way in the Catholic Church--not as
objects to be worshiped, but as representations of sacred things.
Paintings have served the same purpose. The noblest paintings in the
world have been wrought to this end. It was in such lines alone that
art could find worthy recognition. In like manner, processions and
"Passion[1] Plays" have served the same purpose.
The old Miracle Plays were grotesque enough--made by common people for
the instruction of common people. Even amid the pathos of divine
suffering the peasants must be amused. Care was taken that the
character of Judas should meet this demand. So Judas was made at once
a traitor and a clown. His pathway was beset by devils of the most
ridiculous sort. And when at last he hung himself on the stage, his
body burst open, and the long links of sausages which represented
intestines were devoured by the imps amid the laughter and delight of
the peasant audience. Now all this has passed away. Wise and learned
men have taken the play in hand, and have left it a monument to their
piety and good taste. Everything grotesque, or barbarous, or
ridiculous has been eliminated. All else is subordinated to a faithful
and artistic representation of the life and acts of Christ. Stately
prose and the language of the Gospel narratives have been substituted
for doggerel verse. As a work of art, the Passion Play deserves a high
place in the literature of Germany.
One striking feature of the Passion Play is the absence of
superstitious elements. Beyond the dominating influence of the purpose
of God, which is brought into strong prominence, there is almost
nothing which suggests the supernatural or miraculous. That little
even is forgotten in the intensity of human interest. The Devil and
his machinations have vanished entirely. One sees in the religious
customs of the people of Oberammergau few of the superstitions common
among the peasant classes of other parts of Europe. In his little
book, "Oberammergau und Seine Bewohner," Pastor Daisenberger says:
"Superstitious beliefs and customs one does not find here." Even the
ordinary ghost-stories and traditions of Germany are outworn and
forgotten in this town.
In 1634, so the tradition says, the black death came to Oberammergau,
and one-tenth of the inhabitants died. The others made a vow, "a
trembling vow, breathed in a night of tears," that if God should stay
the plague, they would, on every tenth year, repeat in full, for the
edification of the people, the Tragedy of the Passion. Other
communities might build temples or monasteries, or could undertake
pilgrimages; it should be their duty to show "The Way of the Cross."
When this vow was taken, the pestilence ceased, and not another person
perished. This was regarded by the people as a visible sign of divine
approval. Thus every tenth year for nearly three centuries, ever since
the time when the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, with varying
fortunes and interruptions, the Passion Play has been represented in
Oberammergau.
The play in its present form is essentially the work of Josef Alois
Daisenberger, who was for twenty years pastor of the church at
Oberammergau. In this town he was born in the last year of the last
century, and there he died, in 1888, revered and beloved by all who
came near him.
"I wrote the play," Pastor Daisenberger said, "for the love of my
Divine Redeemer, and with no other object in view than the edification
of the Christian world."
The first aim of the Passion Play has been the training of the common
people. To its various representations came the peasants of Bavaria,
Würtemberg, and the Tyrol, on horses, on donkeys, on foot, a long and
difficult journey across mountain-walls and through great forests. It
was the memory and inspiration of a lifetime to have seen the Passion
Play.
About forty years ago the tourist world discovered this scene; and
since then, on the decennial year, an ever-increasing interest has been
felt, an ever-growing stream of travel has been turned toward the Ammer
Valley. All, prince or peasant, are treated alike by the simple,
honest people, and the same preparation is made for the reception of
all. The purpose of the play should be kept in mind in any just
criticism. To have the right to discuss it at all, one must treat it
in a spirit of sympathy.
We came into Oberammergau on Friday, the 1st day of August, 1890, to
witness the performance of the Sunday following. The city of Munich,
seventy miles away, was crowded with visitors, all bound to the Passion
Play. The express-train of twenty cars which carried us from Munich
was crowded with people from almost every part of the civilized world.
At Oberau, six miles from Oberammergau, at the foot of the Ettal
Mountain, we left the railway, and there took part in a general
scramble for seats in the carriages. The fine new road winds through
dark pine woods, climbing the hill in long zigzags above wild chasms,
past the old monastery of Ettal, and then slowly descends to the soft
Ammer meadows. The great peak of the Kofel is ever in front, while the
main chain of the Bavarian Alps closes the view behind.
Arrived in the little village, all was bustle and confusion. The
streets were full of people--some busy in taking care of strangers,
others sauntering idly about, as if at a country fair. Young women, in
black bodices and white sleeves, welcomed the visitors at the little
inns or served them in the shops. Everywhere were young men in
Tyrolese holiday attire--green coats, black slouch hats, with a feather
or sprig of Edelweiss in the hat-band, and with trousers, like those of
the Scottish Highlanders, which end hopelessly beyond the reach of
either shoes or stockings. Besides the rustics and the tourists, one
met here and there upon the streets men whose grave demeanor and long
black hair resting on their shoulders proclaimed them to be actors in
the Passion Play.
On Sunday morning we were awakened by the sound of a cannon planted at
the foot of the Kofel, a sharp, conical, towering mountain, some two
thousand feet above the town, and bearing on its summit a tall gilded
cross. It was cold and rainy, but that made no difference with the
audience or the play. At eight o'clock, when the cannon sounds again,
all are in their places, and the play begins. It lasts for eight
hours--from eight o'clock in the morning to half-past five in the
afternoon, with a single interruption of an hour and a half at noon.
The stage is wide and ample. Its central part is covered, but the
front, which represents the fields and the streets of Jerusalem, is in
the open air. This feature lends the play a special charm. On the
left, across the stage, over which the fitful rain-clouds chase one
another, we can plainly see the long, green slope of Ettal mountain,
dotted from bottom to top with herdmen's huts or _châlets_, and on the
summit a tall pine-tree, standing out alone above all its brethren. On
the other side appear the wild crags of the Kofel, its gilded cross
glistening in the sunshine above the morning mists. Swallows fly in
and out among the painted palm-trees, their twitter sounding sharply
above the music of the chorus. The little birds raise their voices to
make themselves heard to each other.
As the play progresses the intense truthfulness of the people of
Oberammergau steadily grows upon us. For many generations the best
intellects and noblest lives in the town have been devoted to the sole
end of giving a worthy picture of the life and acts of Christ. Each
generation of actors has left this picture more noble than it ever was
before. Their work has been wrought in a spirit of serious
truthfulness, which in itself places the Oberammergau stage in a class
by itself, above and beyond all other theaters. Everything is real,
and stands for what it is. Kings and priests are dressed, not in
flimsy tinsel, but in garments such as real kings and priests may have
worn. And so no artificial light or glare of fireworks is needed to
make these costumes effective. And this genuineness enables these
simple players to produce effects which the richest theaters would
scarcely dare to undertake; and all this in the open air, in glaring
sunshine or in pouring rain. The players themselves can scarcely be
called actors. In their way, they are strong beyond all mere actors,
and for this reason--that they do not seem to act. From childhood they
have grown up in the parts they play. Childish voices learn the solemn
music of the chorus in the schools, and childish forms mingle in the
triumphal procession in the regular church festivals. All the effects
of accumulated tradition, all the results of years of training tend to
make of them, not actors at all, but living figures of the characters
they represent. And we can look back over the history of Oberammergau,
and see how, through the growth of this purpose of its life, it has
come to be unique among all the towns of Europe.