Matters now are hurried on with great rapidity, and as the end comes nearer and nearer, the hush which all along has pervaded that vast concourse grows more and more profound, and the tension to which the peoples’ nerves are strung reaches its climax, when in the fifteenth act you see the long procession winding its way up to Calvary, with the white-faced, worn-out Saviour tottering under the weight of his heavy cross, while the brutal soldiery urge him to greater speed, and the infuriated mob rend the air with their shouts of hatred and derision. Then the tears which have so long been kept back overflow, and the heart throbs with a keen sense of love and pity and sympathy, not for _Joseph Maier_, but for the man Christ, to whom this, which now is only acting, was once a terrible reality, and who really trod the weary road to Calvary, and bore not only the ponderous cross but the sins of the whole world. Every one was more or less affected, and the silence of the audience was almost painful in its intensity, though broken occasionally by a suppressed whisper or low cry, as the crowd increased and the boisterous shouts grew louder and the mob hurried the Saviour on, until from sheer exhaustion he fell upon the ground, and the cross was finally laid upon the shoulders of Simon of Cyrene, who conveniently appeared with a carpenter’s basket on his arm. This ascent to Calvary is, I think, more effective and affecting than the crucifixion, which is, however, a most marvelous piece of acting, and seems terribly real as you gaze at the central figure upon the cross, and fancy you see the death struggle from the beginning, until the white, worn face drops downward, and you are glad with a great gladness that all is over.