It was fitting that Munkacsy's (Moon-catch-y's) great picture should open its exhibition, at the old Old South, on Good Friday, — the accepted anniversary of Jesus' death. A wonderful picture it is, greater than his Christ before Pilate, which Boston enjoyed last season.
In it are many figures,—priests, pharisees, soldiers,—set in relief against the lowering sky, which prepares itself for the awful events said to have followed the crucifixion. There are about Jesus no supernatural indications. He hangs there like a criminal, — as should be the case; since like a criminal, and as a criminal, he was put to death. At the foot of his cross are the three Marys,—his mother, the Magdalen, and the other Mary, the mother of James and Joses; and behind the cross you see a fourth woman, his aunt Salome, the wife of Zebedee or of Cleopas, as she is differently called in the four gospels.
You can see the cynics sneering: "He saved others; himself he can not save. Let him save himself, and come down from the cross!" You can see the centurion, who declares, "Certainly, this was a righteous man!" You can see one malefactor looking at him more kindly than the other, who only regards Jesus as one of his own mischievous class. You can see the rich Hebrew riding away, his servant going before his horse, to clear the pathway. The light centres upon Jesus, as he hangs there in agony. The nails pierce his hands, but his wrists are also roped to the cross.
