Cassell's illustrated readings

THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.

The devil spitting fire with might and main,
Enough to make St. Michael half afraid;
He splashing holy water till he made

His red hide hiss again,

And the hot vapour fill'd the little cell.

This was so common, that his face became
All black and yellow with the brimstone
flame,

And then he smelt-O dear! how he did smell!

"Then, sir! to see how he would mortify

The flesh! If any one had dainty fare,
Good man, he would come there,

And look at all the delicate things, and cry,
'Oh, belly, belly!

You would be gormandising now, I know;
But it shall not be so:

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"But," quoth the traveller, "wherefore did he leave
A flock that knew his saintly worth so well? "
"Why," said the landlord, "sir, it so befell
He heard unluckily of our intent

To do him a great honour, and, you know,
He was not covetous of fame below,

And so by stealth one night away he went.”

"What was this honour, then?" the traveller cried. "Why, sir," the host replied,

"We thought, perhaps, that he might one day leave us;

And then, should strangers have

The good man's grave,

A loss like that would naturally grieve us,
For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure.
Therefore we thought it prudent to secure

Home to your bread and water-home, I tell His relics while we might,
ye!""

And so we meant to strangle him one night."

FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance-
Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast,
Like the dead marble, white and motionless.
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips,
And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind,
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes,
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there-
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd
Into his face until her sight grew dim
With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name,
She gently drew his hand upon her lips,
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk
Upon his knees, and in the drapery
Of the rich curtains buried up his face;
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds
Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held
Had ceased its pressure; and he could not hear,
In the dead utter silence, that a breath
Came through her nostrils; and her temples gave
To his nice touch no pulse; and at her mouth
He held the lightest curl that on her neck
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze
Ached with its deathly stillness.

It was night

And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee,
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore,
Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon.
The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach
Their constant music, but the air beside

Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice,
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet,
Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air,
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock,
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow,
He stood and taught the people. At his feet
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell,
And staff-for they had waited by the sea
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd
For his wont teachings as he came to land.
His hair was parted meekly on his brow,
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell,
As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep-
And in his looks the same mild majesty-
And in his mien the sadness mix'd with
power-

Fill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly,
As on his words entrancedly they hung,
The crowd divided, and among them stood
JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe
Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came,
And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew
The twelve disciples to their Master's side;
And silently the people shrank away,
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst
Alone. A moment longer on the face
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze,
And, as the twelve look'd on him, by the light
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear
Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh
Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands
Press'd it upon his lids, and murmur'd low,
"Master! my daughter!"

The same silvery light
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea,
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals,
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in
Jesus and his disciples. All was still.
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam
Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor,
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms,
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps
He trod the winding stair; but ere he touch'd
The latchet, from within a whisper came,
"Trouble the Master not-for she is dead!"
And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side,
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice
Choked in its utterance: but a gentle hand
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low.
"She is not dead; but sleepeth."

They pass'd in.
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns
Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke
Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.
The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds-
Not even a tassel stirring in the air-
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed,
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came
A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face;

And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved
The silken curtains silently apart,
And look'd upon the maiden.

Like a form

Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay-
The linen vesture folded on her breast,
And over it her white transparent hands,
The blood still rosy in her tapering nails.
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips,
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,
The breathing curve was mockingly like life:
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin
Ran the light branches of the azure veins;
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay,
Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow.
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears
In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said,
"Maiden! Arise!"-and suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips
And through her cheek the rallied colour ran:
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirr'd in the linen vesture; and she clasp'd
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes
Full on his beaming countenance-AROSE!

His hat it was broad and all
drab were his clothes,

For he hated high colours-
except on his nose;
And he met with a lady, the
story goes.

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.
The damsel she cast him a beamy blink,
And the traveller nothing was loth, I think.
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the Quaker he grinned-for he'd very good
teeth-

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"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim,"

quoth she,

"To take all this filthy temptation from thee,
For Mammon deceiveth-and beauty is fleeting.
Accept from thy maaid'n a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting."
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

"And hark! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye.
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one that you met on the heath;
Her name's Jimmy Barlow-I tell to your teeth!"
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen

to me,

For thou canst confer a great favour, d'ye see; And he asked, "Art thee going to ride on the The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,

heath?"

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid,
"As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't for anything' I should be found,
For-between you and me-I have five hundred
pound."

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

"If that is thee own, dear," the Quaker he said,
"I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow,
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew,
"Your offer I'll take-though I'll not take you."
A pistol she held at the Quaker's head-

But my master's-and truly on thee I depend
To make it appear I my trust did defend."
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

"So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and
there,

To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair."
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat,
And then through his collar-quite close to his
throat;

"Now one through my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim,
"I vote."

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.
"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're
spent,

And I won't load again for a make-believe rent."
"Then," said Ephraim, producing his pistols,
"just give

My five hundred pounds back, or as sure as you live

"Now give me your gold-or I'll give you my lead- I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve." "Tis under the saddle I think you said."

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow,
And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now;
And he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride,
His purse borne away with a swaggering stride,
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

Jim Barlow was diddled-and, though he was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,
That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers,
And when the whole story got into the papers,
They said that "the thieves were no match for the
Quakers."

Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

FIRST

[J. FENIMORE COOPER. DEERSLAYER'S attention was first given to the canoe ahead. It was already quite near the dangerous point, and a very few strokes of the paddle sufficed to tell him that it must touch

BLOOD.

See Page 106, Vol. II.]
before he could possibly overtake it. Just at this
moment, too, the wind inopportunely freshened,
rendering the drift of the light craft much more
rapid and certain. Feeling the impossibility of

• By kind permission of Messrs. Routledge and Sons.