'My daughter is even now dead, but come and lay Thy hand upon her and she shall live." And Jesus arose and followed him, and so did His disciples.

And now once more an extraordinary scene unfolds itself. Through the narrow streets of Capernaum the whole concourse pours to the house of the afflicted ruler. Even as it passes wonders happen. A poor woman, wrought into an ecstasy of faith, touches the hem of Christ's garment in the throng, and is made whole. The evening is now falling. At the door of the ruler's house the paid mourners are assembled, chanting the beauty or grace of the dead child in a melancholy paan; the flute-players pour shrill music on the evening air; within the house, amid tears not mercenary but real, already the body of the child is washed and anointed, and wrapped in the finest linen for the last journey to what the Hebrew exquisitely described as, "The house of meeting," or "The field of weepers." To this crowd of mourners Christ addresses one word "The maid is not dead, but sleepeth." Whether the child was indeed dead as the father supposed, or asleep in some deep trance which simulated death, as the words of Jesus would certainly imply, is a question that need not be discussed. The beauty of the scene is not in the restoration of the child, but in the pity and humanity of Christ. Upon the bed of death the fair child lies, with folded hands: Christ unlocks these rigid palms, and takes her by the hand, and calls upon her to arise; and behold the closed lids lift, the eyes are fixed on Him in a glance of happy awe; and, fresh and composed as one awakened from a wholesome slumber, the child arises, in all the glow of youth and health.

With this act the day closes; for the further incidents related in this chapter cannot be definitely identified as happening on this day of Matthew's call. But how wonderful

is the impression of benignant energy produced by the mere recital of these events! Within the brief compass of a winter's day we have three gracious deeds of healing: two acute controversies, first with the Pharisees and then with John's disciples, each in turn producing expositions of Christ's thought of the highest value and significance; and finally we have an act involving the gravest of responsibilities, the choice of an apostle. Not one selfish thought or act intruded on it; it was a day lived utterly for others. Nor was it a day apart; save in its close sequence of miraculous acts, it is but a sample day in the working life of Christ. Perhaps we should not even treat it as exceptional in respect of miracles. If we are prepared to trust the Gospel records at all, we cannot but perceive that the unreported life of Christ must have been even more crowded with acts of healing than the reported. "When the even was come," says St. Matthew-it was an evening in this same town of Capernaum-"they brought unto Him many that were possessed with devils, and He cast out the spirits with His word, and healed all that were sick." What a life of strain and infinite activity was this, which found itself always in contact with human misery, always ready to respond to the instinct of pity, and amid these toils of an infinite benignity still able to conduct a hundred controversies and to enunciate supreme truths, for the discovery of one of which an ancient sage would have counted an entire life of meditation an easy price. But such was the daily life of Christ, and it is small wonder that those who can reflect on these things see on these illumined shores and fields of Galilee the footprints of One whom they must needs call Divine. All questions of what may justly constitute a miracle fade before such a vision; the true and ever-living miracle is the Divine Benignity of Christ.

CHAPTER XII

THE PRIVATE LIFE OF JESUS

In the meantime, amid this constant stress of public work, there was a private life of Jesus, which was lived apart from the world and was uninvaded by its tumults. Completely as Christ lived for others, yet He reserved those rights in Himself, which are among the most sacred and important since they guard the secret and guarantee the growth of personality. He often sought to be alone. He sometimes fled from the multitude He had attracted. The company of His disciples was not always agreeable to Him. A passion for retirement sometimes led Him into solitary places, at other times to the houses of adoring friends. The public man too often cherishes a passion for publicity, which is barely distinguishable from vanity, though it may possibly be an almost noble form of vanity; but of such a passion Jesus shows no trace. His conduct is a striking lesson in that kind of self-reservation which is absolutely necessary to all men, but especially to the public man, because without it character deteriorates, and the springs of thought are unconsciously impoverished. The private life of Jesus may be traced in the nature of His friendships. Though He called twelve apostles it would appear that He did not admit them to an equal intimacy. This distinction of favor in a small society essentially democratic was a source of much heart-burning and jealousy. Perhaps it did something to alienate the loyalty of the one Judean apostle of the group, Judas of Kerioth, and in doing this laid the train for that violent explosion of revenge in the

heart of a disappointed man, which culminated in treachery and betrayal. But it was a course of action inevitable in the nature of the case. There were thoughts and hopes in the mind of Christ which could scarcely be confided to the entire group of apostles. The general relation of Christ to His apostles was that of a master to his scholars, a prophet to his neophytes. He explained to them His parables, and opened to them the mysteries of the Kingdom of God. His chief aim was to prepare them as missionaries of His truth. But the original thinker needs a warmer atmosphere than this in which his thought may expand. He needs the quick and sympathetic comradeship of minds that will discern his thoughts almost before they are clear to himself. The gulf which divides an admiring from an intimate friendship is very wide. The intimate friend is he to whom a man can disclose himself with entire freedom, with a happy consciousness that love will make good the lacunce of his speech, and will even permit him that sociable silence which is more interpretative than speech. Such intimate friends Jesus found in Peter and John, and, in a less degree, in James. For Peter especially He cherished a warm affection, which even the greatest faults of character were powerless to dissolve. When He had anything of importance to communicate it was His custom to take these three disciples apart, and talk the matter over with them. He permitted them great freedoms. Peter felt no scruple in rebuking his Master for what seemed to him sad and foolish fears about the future. He also accorded them special privileges. They alone were admitted into the chamber where the child of Jairus lay dead. They alone were with Him on the snow-clad brow of Hermon when He was transfigured. And in all these episodes we see Jesus very conscious of His need of friendship, sensitively eager to avail Himself of its peaceful pleasures, and constantly with

drawing from the clamor of a public life to taste its consolations.

Christ's friendship with women was even more remarkable. We have already seen that in Capernaum and its neighborhood there was a group of women "who ministered unto Him of their substance." Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod's steward, was the chief of these; an unknown woman, bearing the lovely Jewish name of Susanna, or "the lily," was another. It has been suggested that Chuza may have been the centurion who besought Jesus in Cana of Galilee to heal his son, in which case Joanna would have abundant cause to show the liveliest gratitude to Christ. But deserving as these names are of immortal recollection, there is one other name which eclipses theirs in interest-that of Mary of Magdala. Magdala lies in a bend of the lake upon the green plain of Gennesaret, at a distance of about two miles from the town of Tiberias, and at about double that distance from Capernaum. In the days of Christ it was wealthy and prosperous, the home of springs which were much valued for dyeing processes, the haunt of doves which were bred for the purposes of Temple offerings. Many boats anchored in its placid bay; and in the little town the sound of the loom was never still. The shell-fish found around the shores of Magdala were especially valued for the purple dye they yielded—“the whelk's pearlsheeted lip" which gave the famous Tyrrhene dye used in the rich dresses of the great was of the same species. Mary was, perhaps, the daughter of some wealthy dyer or manufacturer of Magdala. She appears at least to have been the mistress of her own movements, and able to follow Jesus to Jerusalem. Until the day when Jesus entered Magdala her life had been a misery, and a torture. She was afflicted with some obscure form of hysteric disease, which the popular phrase of the time, applied to all mental derangements, de