The Life of Duty, volume II | Page 7

pulling oar over the bright waters of Gennesareth. What memories must
have come of that Gracious Presence which one day appeared among
the fisher folks, and opened a new world and a new life to S. John and
his companions. How every word and act of Him, who spake as never
man spake, and went about doing good, must have been engraved on
the memory of the beloved disciple! He had doubtless heard words
spoken which no other ear had heard; he who was nearest to the heart
of Jesus, must have listened to mysteries which the rest could not hear.
Day by day as the old Bishop lies in the dim religious light of the
minster, he looks back and sees, as in a vision, the story of the vanished
years. What sees he? He looks in memory upon a marriage feast, far
away in Cana of Galilee. He sees the giver of the feast anxious and
troubled. The wine is exhausted. He hears the Master give the answer
to the Virgin Mother's request, and His command to the servants. He
recalls the astonishment of all present when "the conscious water saw
its God, and blushed;" and he learns from that first miracle of the
Master a lesson of love. Many another loving act of mercy comes back
to his memory. He seems to see once more the impotent man, lying
sadly at the pool of Bethesda. Again he looks on the multitude
thronging the mountain by the Lake of Galilee; and in the broken bread
which feeds the crowd, S. John sees a lesson of love. Once more he
looks upon the trembling, sinful, sorrowful woman, whom the Jewish
rulers drag to condemnation. Once more he sees the Master's
hand-writing upon the ground, and hears this gentle sentence, "Go, and
sin no more." Once more he hears the wondrous lessons of the Light of
the World, and the True Vine, and the Good Shepherd, which his own
hand had written from the Master's mouth. Once more he seems to
stand beside the grave of dead Lazarus, and as he sees the dead alive
again, he learns another lesson of love, and whispers, "We know that
we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren."
After all that lapse of ages, the old man seems to see the sparkle of

Mary's tears, and to smell the perfume of her precious gift.
Then, too, there comes the memory of Palm Sunday, with its glad
procession, its waving branches, its joyful shouts, in which S. John,
then young and vigorous, had delighted to take part. Then the
beginning of sorrow, the days of wonder, and of terror, and of gloom,
begin to darken round the old man's sight. The night comes back to him
when the dear Hands of Jesus washed his feet, and when, at that sad
and solemn parting feast, he had lain close to the loving Heart of the
Master. Once more he sees Judas go forth on his dark errand; once
more he sees the gloomy shadows of Gethsemane, and hears the clash
of arms as the soldiers enter, Then all the confusion and horror of that
dreadful night come back to him. He hears S. Peter's denial, and marks
his bitter tears. Presently he seems to stand again beneath the Cross,
amid the awful gloom of Calvary, and anon he is leading the Virgin
Mother tenderly to his own home. She has been buried long since in
that very city of Ephesus, but the old days come back to him. He is
running once more, young, and lithe, and active, to the garden
sepulchre, and outrunning the older S. Peter. And in all these visions of
the past, S. John sees one lesson--love, the love of Jesus teaching men
to love each other. Still the beloved Apostle looks back along the ages,
and thinks of that scene on the Mount, when Jesus ascended up, and
appeared for the last time to nearly all eyes but his. He was to see the
Master again, though in a very different place, and under widely
different circumstances. Now his thoughts fly to the lonely, rock-bound
isle of Patmos, whither the Roman tyrant had banished him. How often
he had watched the sun rise and set in the purple sea; how often in his
cavern cell he had pondered over the Master's teaching, and the lesson
of love. And one day he saw a light brighter than the sun, and a door
was opened in Heaven. S. John seemed to be no longer in lonely
Patmos, but amid a great multitude which no man can number, with
whom he was treading the shining streets of the Heavenly city. His
eyes looked on the gates of pearl, and the