CHAPTER XVI.

JOHN.

THERE is, or was till lately, extant a vulgar Bibliolatry, which would hardly admit of any preference being given to one Scripture writer over another, or of any comparison being instituted between its various authors. This was absurd, even on the ground which the doctrine of mechanical inspiration took. Suppose that the whole Bible came from God, in the same way in which nature is derived from him; yet, who ever was afraid of preferring the Alps to the Apennines, or of comparing the Pacific with the Atlantic deep? So comparisons were inevi-* table between writers of such various styles as Isaiah and the author of Ruth, the Psalms and the Historical Books; and preferences to all but the mere slaves of a system, were as inevitable as comparisons.

Now, we need not be afraid to avow, that we have our favorites among Scripture writers, and that a leading favorite is John. There was 66 one disciple whom Jesus loved ;" and we plead guilty to loving the writer supremely too. It has been supposed by some, that there was a certain resemblance between the countenance of John, and that of Jesus. We figure the same sweetness in the smile, the same silence of ineffable repose upon the brow, the same mild luster in the eye. And, as long as John lived, he would renew to those who had known the Savior the impressions made by his transcendent beauty, for transcendently beautiful he surely was. But the resemblance extends to the features of his composition, as well as of his face. It seems Jesus who is still speaking to us. The

babe-like simplicity, the artlessness, the lisping out of the loftiest thoughts, the sweet undertone of utterance, the warm female-like tenderness and love, along with a certain divine dogmatism, of the Great Teacher, are all found in an inferior measure in the writings of his apostle. He has, too, a portion of that strange familiarity with divine depths which distinguished his master, who speaks of them always as if he were lying in his Father's bosom. So John seems perfectly at home in heaven, and the stupendous subjects and scenery thereof. He is not like Paul, "caught up to Paradise," but walks like a native through its blessed clime. His face is flushed with the ardors of the eternal noon, and his style wears the glow of that celestial sunshine. He dips his pen in love-the pure and fervid love of heaven. Love-letters are his Epistles—the mere artless spillings of the heart-such letters as Christ might have written to the family at Bethany. Jesus is the great theme of John. His name perpetually occurs; nay, he thinks so often of him, that he sometimes speaks of, without naming, him. Thus, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him." "Because that for his name's sake they went forth, taking nothing of the Gentiles." In his Epistles, occurs the sentence of sentences, "God is love." Why is not this sentence sown in our gardens in living green; framed and hung on the walls of our nurseries; taught as the first sounds to little ones? Why not call God Love? Why not change the name of our Deity? Why not instruct children to answer, when asked who made you? Love, the Father. Who redeems you? Love, the Son. Who sanctifies you? Love, the Holy Ghost? Surely, on some day of balm did this golden word pass across the mind of the apostle, when, perhaps, pondering on the character, and recalling the face of Jesus, looking up to the glowing sky and landscape of the East, and feeling his own heart burning within him, he spread out the spark in his bosom, till it became a flame, encompassing the universe, and the great generalization leapt from his lips-" God is love."

Complete as an epic, and immortal as complete, stands this poem-sentence, insulated in its own mild glory, and the cross of Jesus is below.

Imagination, properly speaking, is not found in the Epistles of John. They are full of heart, of practical suggestion, of in tuitive insight, and of grave, yet tender dignity. You see the aged and venerable saint seated among his spiritual children, and pouring out his rich simplicities of thought and feeling, while a tear now and then steals down his cheek. That passion for Christ, which was in John as well as in Paul, appears in the form of tranquil expectation. We shall soon see him as he is." The orator is seen as he is, when he has shot his soul into his entire audience, and is ruling them like himself. The warrior appears as he is, when lifting up his far-seen finger of command, and leading on the charge. The poet is seen as he is, when the fine frenzy of inspiration is in his eye. So Jesus shall be seen as he is, when he comes garlanded and girt for the judgment; and when, blessed thought, his people shall be like him, for the first look of that wondrous face of his shall complete and eternize the begun similitude, and the angelic hosts, perceiving the resemblance, seeing millions upon millions of reflected Christs, shall take up the cry, "Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation may enter in.”

In his Gospel, John takes a loftier and more daring flight. He leaps at once into the Empyrean, and walks with calm, majestic mastery beside its most awful gulfs. How abruptly it begins! "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." This emulates, evidently, the first sentence of Genesis, and ranks with it, and the first word, "God," in the Hebrews, as one of the three grandest introductions in literature. Our minds are carried back to the silent and primeval abyss. Over it there is heard suddenly a sound, which swells on and on, till to its tune that abyss conceives, labors, agonizes, and brings forth the universe, and the harmony dies away in the words-"It is very good." Or, hear a true poet

"A power and a glory of silence lay,
O'erbrooding the lonely primeval day,
Ere yet unwoven the vail of light,

Through which shineth forth the eternal might;
When the Word on the infinite void went forth,
And stirred it with pangs of a godlike birth;
And forth sprung the twain, in which doth lie,
Enfolded all being of earth and sky.

Then rested the Word, for its work was done."

To follow the history of the "Omnific Word"-the Logos, and darling thought of Plato-till he traced him entering into a lowly stable in Bethlehem, and wedding a village virgin's son, is John's difficult but divine task. Great, indeed, is the mystery of godliness, but not too great to be believed. The center of this creation is now supposed by many to lie, not in one orb vaster than his fellows, but in some obscure point. Thus, the God of it was found in fashion as a man, in the carpenter's son-the flower of man, and fellow of Jehovah-but with his glory disguised behind a robe of flesh, and with a cross for his death-place. Who has not at times been impressed with an intuitive feeling, as he walked along with a friend, of the exact magnitude of his mind, and of his true character, which came rushing upon him, and could not be gainsayed or disbelieved? John, too, as he lay on the bosom of the Savior, and listened to his teaching, seems to have felt the burning impression, that through those eyes looked Omniscience, and that below that bosom was beating the very love of God, and said, "This is the true God, and Eternal Life." "The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us; and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth." No mere logical deduction could have led him to such a conclusion, apart from his profound intuitive persuasion; and that once formed, no catena of ten thousand links could have dragged him back from it. "Flesh and blood hath not revealed it, but my Father which is in heaven."

Full to Christ, in his highest estate, from the very beginning

of his Gospel, does this Evangelist point. The others commence with recounting his earthly ancestry, or the particulars of his birth. John shows him at once as the "Lord, high and lifted up," descending from this eminence to wed his own body, and to save his people's souls. 'Tis the only complete history of Christ. It traces his connection with the Father, not through the blood of patriarchs and kings, but though the heavens, up directly to Jehovah's bosom. How grand this genealogy -"No man hath seen God, at any time; the only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared him!" And after announcing his true descent, he sets himself through the rest of the book, as if acting under the spell of a lover's fascination, to record every word which he could catch from those heavenly lips, as well as to narrate some of the tenderer and more private incidents in the life of the "Man of Sorrows."

To Samaria's well, and to the last sayings of Christ, we have alluded in a former chapter. But we can not refrain from referring to one or two scenes, exclusively related by John, of an intensely poetical character: one is, the visit of Nicodemus to Jesus by night. Meetings of interesting and representative men, especially when unexpected and amid extraordinary cir cumstances, become critical points in the history of mankind. Such was the meeting of Wallace and Bruce: the one representing Scotland's wild patriotic valor-the other, its calmer, more collected, and regal-seeming power. Such was that of old Galileo and young Milton in the dungeon--surely a theme for the noblest pencil-the meeting of Italy's old savant, and England's young scholar-the gray-haired sage, each wrinkle on his forehead the furrow of a star; and the "Lady of his College," with Comus curling in his fair locks, and the dream of Eden sleeping on his smooth brow; while the dim twilight of the cell, spotted by the fierce eyes of the officials, seemed the age too late, or too early, on which both had fallen-a meeting like that of Morning, with her one star, and coming day, and of Midnight, with all her melancholy maturity, and hosts of