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We now come to John, the brother of James the elder, and the last named, though certainly not the last in merit, of those four friends and partners, the fishermen of Bethsaida. The particulars of his call to be an apostle of Christ, have already been related, together with some other circumstances respecting him, in the lives of Peter and James. We have seen that he ardently loved his Master; that he was distinguished by that Master's peculiar regard; and that, although he was sometimes betrayed into unworthy expressions of ambition and anger, for which he was justly reprimanded, his disposition was remarkably amiable, gentle, and affection


There is not much told of him, individually, till towards the closing scenes of our Saviour's ministry and life. At the last supper, which he and Peter had been sent to prepare, we are told that "there was leaning on Jesus' bosom one of

his disciples whom Jesus loved." This disciple
was John himself; who was so fond of the dis-
tinction which his Master's attachment conferred
on him, or, to speak more properly, was so grate-
fully sensible of the value of the attachment
itself, that he continually speaks of himself, in
his history, as the disciple whom Jesus loved; a
title which he surely would not have assumed,
unless it had been really conferred on him. His
place at the supper is an evidence that he was
high in the favor of Jesus. He was leaning or
lying on his bosom; that is, he was the next
below him, and as it was the custom of the an-
cients to recline at their meals, his head was
brought in contact with his Master's breast; a
situation which used always to be reserved by the
host at an entertainment, for the person whom he
most honored or esteemed. It was while he was
thus leaning, that Simon Peter beckoned to him
that he should ask of Jesus who it was who should
betray him. John did as he was requested, and
Jesus showed him who the traitor was by giving
Judas a sop.
All this seems to have been done
in private, and apart from the knowledge of the
other disciples, and proves the great measure
of condescension and confidence which was ex-
ercised by the Master toward this his favorite

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After Jesus was betrayed and seized, John is supposed to have been that other disciple, who went with Peter to the palace of the high priest, and gained him admittance there by means of his acquaintance with that dignitary.* However this may be, he was the only one of the twelve who had the fortitude to attend his beloved Master to the cross. How touchingly is it manifested on this awful occasion, that the softest natures are often the noblest and most fearless too; and that those which are apparently the most daring and masculine, may yet shrink away in the time of peril and distress. Who, in that hour of darkness darkness in the heavens and in the hearts of men; who, in that hour of abandon

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*"That disciple was known unto the high priest." John xviii. 15. The early writers busy themselves to find out in what manner John became acquainted with Caiaphas. Jerome says that he belonged to some order of nobility; which, however, seems to be very inconsistent with the occupation of his father. Nicephorus relates, that he sold his paternal estate in Galilee to the high priest, and with the money purchased a fair house in Jerusalem, and so became intimate with him. These stories seem to me, like many other similar ones, to prove two things; one, that the early Christian writers were exceedingly anxious to explain the slightest hints in the gospel histories; the other, that they were much too apt to write down the first report which came to their ears, glad to catch something, and not careful to sift the truth, or, rather, too ready to sacrifice truth to the gratification of a minute and inordinate, though not perhaps absolutely idle, curiosity. Hence the contradictory statements with which their works are full.

ment, when even the Son of God cried out that he was forsaken; who, of all his followers, were with him then, to support him by their sympathy, and prove to him their love? In the midst of scoffing soldiers, and brutal executioners, under the lowering sky, and just below the frightful cross, we behold four weeping females,* and one disciple, the youngest and the gentlest of the twelve, braving the horrors of this place of blood, braving the anger of those in authority and the insults of those who do their bidding, determined to be near their friend and Master in his agonies, and ready, on the spot and at the moment, to share them. And what is it that braces up the nerves of this feeble company to such a singular pitch of fortitude and daring? The simple, but unconquerable strength of affection; the generous omnipotence of their attachment and gratitude. In the might of their love they ascend the hill of Calvary, and take their station beneath the cross; hearing nothing amidst all that tumult, but the promptings of their devoted hearts; seeing nothing but their dying Lord; remembering nothing

* They were Mary the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James the Less and of Joses, and Salome the mother of James the Greater and of John. There were other women in company with them, but these four probably stood nearer the cross than the rest.

but that he was dear to them, and that he was in misery. Oh! how loftily does courage like this, rise above that ruder and earthly courage which rushes to the battle field, and is crowned with the applauses of the world! It calls for none of those excitements and stimulants from without which goad rough spirits into madness, but relies on those resources that are within, those precious stores and holy powers which are the strength of a single and faithful breast. That is the courage of the animal; this is of the soul. It is pure; it is divine. To say all in one word, it was such as moved the complacent regard of the Saviour himself, even in the height of his sufferings. Hanging on the cross, bleeding and exhausted, yet when he saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he was touched by their constancy; his thoughts were recalled to earth; the domestic affections rushed into his bosom; and with a tender care which provided at once a protection for his parent and a reward for his friend," he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son! Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother!" Where was there ever so affecting a bequest as that which was then made, when love and filial piety triumphed over suffering? Where was there ever so affecting an

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