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VOL. I.
LINES.
BY REV. ABRAM 3. BYAX.
I.
Go, down where the pea waves are kissiug the shore,
. And ask of them why do they sigh ?
The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er—
But they’re kissing the shore as they’ve kissed it
before—
And they’re sighing to-day, and they’ll sigh evermore ;
Ask them what ails them ?—they will not reply,
But they’ll sigh on forever, and never tell why.
“ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?”
The waves will not answer you—neither shall I.
ii.
Go, stand on the beach of the broad boundless deep,
When the night stars are gleaming on high,
And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep,
On tne low-lying strand by the surge-beaten steep
They are moaning forever wherever they sweep ;
Ask them what ails them ? they never reply ;
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why.
“ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh V”
The billows won’t answer you—neither shall I.
hi.
(io, list to the breeze at the waning of day,
When it passes and murmurs good-bye
The dear little breeze! how it wishes to stay
Where the flowers are in bloom—where the singing
birds play ;
How it sighs when it flics on its wearisome way!
Ask it what ails it? it will not reply ;
Its voice is a sad one—it never told why.
“ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?”
The breeze will not answer you—neither shall I.
IV.
Go. watch the wild blasts, as they spring from their lair,
When the shout <4 the storm rends the sky ;
They rush o’er the earth, and they ride through the
air,
And they blight with their breath ail that’s lovely and
fair ;
And they groan like the ghosts in “ the land of despair;”
Ask them what ails them ? they never reply ;
Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why.
“ Why docs your poetry sound like a sigh?”
The blasts will not answer you—neither will I.
v.
Go, stand on the rivulet’s lily-fringed side,
Or list where the rivers rush by ;
1 he streamlets, which forest trees shadow and hide,
And the rivers, that roll in their oceanward tide,
Are moaning forever, wherever they glide ;
Ask them what ails them ? they will not reply ;
On, sad-voiced, they flow, but they never tell why.
“• Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?”
Earth's streams will not answer you—neither shall I.
vi.
When the shadows of twilight arc grey on the hill,
And dark where the low valleys lie,
Go, list to the voice of the wild whippoorwill,
i hat sings when the songs of its sisters are still,
And wails through the darkness and shrill ;
Ask it what ails it ? it will not reply ;
It wails sad as ever—it never tells why.
“ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?”
The bird will not answer you—neither shall I.
VII.
Go, list to the voices of earth, air, and sea,
And the voices that sound in the sky ;
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me
There’s a sigh in each chord . and a sigh in each key,
And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody ;
A’ l * them what ails them? they will not reply ;
They sigh—sigh forever—but never tell why.
“ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?”
Tiie voices won’t answer you—neither will I.
TMUTB.
“ What do you want ?”
, 1,1 wished to see my husband. But I
b °£ pardon, for I perceive he is not here.’”
the question was curt, rude, rough
even ; the reply impetuous, cuttingly sar
castic, and with a dash of anger in its
tones lon would never have thought
mat ax well Maillard, gentleman, as lie
called himself and the world called him,
„oum have spoken so to his sweet young
wife, as any coarse, fiery man might in
an imperious mood to an intrusive servant
»r an annoying beggar. Nor would you
have thought either that lovely Alice
Maillard could have become so flushed
and disturbed or have made such a replv
to the husband she loved better than life
itself, and then have turned and walked
away with such a queenly step from his
presence.
Jt certainly was an unpleasant and un
fortunate mood the merchant was in that
evening. r lhe close of the year was near
at aand, and all day long he had been
perplexed by a thousand cares incident
to his large business ; besides he had dis
covered a gross error iri the books, the
result of an incompetent book-keeper’s
blunder, and had taken thorn home with
him that evening to endeavor to trace its
source and rectify it.
Tt was while in this mood, his brows
knitted with perplexity, that his girl
wife came to him in the quiet little li
brary whither he had retired after dinner,
and stealing softly up behind him bad
playfully blinded his eyes with one of her
white hands, at the same time pushing
away the thick ledger over the green baize
covered table. In an instant the quick,
rough question that betokened annoy
ance, burst from his lips, and in an in
stant more the white hand was snatched
away, the little graceful head tossed, high,
a red spot appeared on both cheeks, and
the cutting, sarcastic answer was given.
And in a few moments more the mer
chant was left alone, his handsomely
shaped head, covered with thick iron-grey
locks, was bent again over his books, but
with a compression of his lips and a glitter
in his eye one seldom saw there, while
the girl-wife was sitting iu the parlor
quiet as a statue, but with that same high
color and excited mien with which she
had left the library.
For some minutes Alice Maillard sat
thus, perfectly motionless, looking straight
before her; then her countenance soft
ened—a grieved, wounded look came in
to her eyes ; her lips relaxed and quiv
ered with feeling, and she burst into tears
and sobbed as though her very heart
would break.
The sobs increased, and the tears
rolled down the cheeks now pale with
emotion ; but after a time site grew
calmer.
“ I am, sorry I spoke so,” she said, con
fessing her fault to herself with as much
earnestness as though her husband were
a listener. “I am sorry. If Max were
rough” (here the lips trembled again),
“ I was hasty. I suppose those tiresome
books troubled him ; I will go and
apologize.”
And, rising, she left the room, and
walked along the hall to the rear of the
house where the little library was situated.
But laying her hand on the knob of the
door, she was surprised to find it fastened.
The lock was fastened.
“ Unkind,” she said now, the red spot
deepening again on her cheek ; and as
noiselessly as she had come she returned
to the parlor.
Two, three hours passed away ; lone
some enough felt the solitary Alice,
striving to pass the time with her sewing,
upon which, now and then, a tear dropped
silently.
All that time, howevei, thoughts were
busy ; and she clung to her first resolve
not to sleep until she had made peace
with her husband. For it was anew
thing to this lovely young creature—the
pet of her girlhood home, and the bride
of less than a year—to hear a harsh word
or utter an unkind one ; and all that long
evening, while she sat there in tears,
seemed an age to her. Ah, little Alice,
can such exquisitely keen suffering ever
come again !
Nine, ten, eleven o’clock struck, and
then she heard the library door open and
her husband’s footsteps along the hall.
But they did not pause at the parlor,
though the door was partially ajar ; they
passed on, and he ascended the staircase
to their chamber.
This was too much. Tears again
swelled in the large, sensitive eyes ; and
womanly indignation prompted her to re
main below until she was calm; and
when she went up to her room her hus
band was, or pretended to be fast locked
in sleep.
Next morning, at breakfast, the young
wife was prepared to expect the way
might be easier for the establishment of
peace between them, but there was a re
serve and iciness in Mr. Maillard’s manner
which quite frustrated this intention. He
-AUGUSTS, GA, MAY 16, 1868.
hurried through the meal, went to the
library for his books, looked into the
breakfast-room again for a courteous
ki good-morning,” but did not unbend to
bestow the customary parting kiss.
Alice felt more than ever grieved, thus
thrown back upon herself. All dav long
she was most unhappy, and could not
settle herself about her usual employ
ments.
The feelings she suffered were so new
toiler; it was something she had never
thought could happen—to speak a quick,
angry word to one who was all the world
to her ; and, though she had been be
trayed into the utterance, she never could
be happy again till it had been explained
and forgiven.
She would speak to her husband before
sleep again sealed her eyelids; although
very sound, indeed, had not been the
slum l >er that visited her last night.
When evening arrived, and Mr. Mail
lard came to dinner, Alice met him as
usual with an affectionate greeting, and
put up her lips for the customary kiss,
but very icy was the salutation, and such
a tone of restraint pervaded his manner,
that she found herself deterred from utter
ing a word.
At table Mr. Maillard was politely at
tentive, and led the conversation to sub
jects of general interest, keeping it up so
I skillfully that not an opening appeared
i for the introduction of any reference to
the particular subject that engrossed his
wife’s mind ; and when he arose he
said :
“ 1 have ( an engagement at the club to
night, Mrs. Maillard, and it will probably
be late when I return,” and went out.
“ Why did T not speak ? T won’t let
it pass so ! He is as cold as an ice-berg.
I will have an explanation before I sleep
to-night,” said Alice, passionately. “He
shan’t treat me like a child any longer.”
i It was late when Mr. Maillard returned,
and lie did not expect to find the watcher
who sat in the parlor, and a little surprise
was in his glance when he entered, but
he made no comment.
“It is past twelve, I know, Maxwell,
but I sat up for you. The truth is I
wanted to speak to you about—about—”
but here she paused.
“ Well ?”
There was hut little encouragement in
the cool monosyllable that Mr. Maillard
uttered, and the eyes upon which his wife’s
were t urned appealingly evinced no glance
of tenderness to lure her on in ihe path
that was now growing painful to her, al
though he very well knew what was
going on in her mind. Was this man a
hardened boor ?
Society, as I said, called him a gentle
man. lie had many excellent traits, and
he had not really felt comfortable himself
! since that affair in the library ; but he
had a strong, passionate nature and an
iron will that had never been subdued,
and, like many of his proud and imperious
type, he would neither b?nd to acknow
ledgements himself nor seem to encourage
by any tenderness of maimer his wife’s.
So he sat, stately and frigid, in the seat
he had taken by the register.
Meantime, Alice, affectionate and sen
sitive, with her whole heart in her eyes,
and those eyes eagerly beseeching Ids,
stood near him, where she had advanced
as she spoke. At first it had been easy
for her to utter those words, but that one
unimpassioned monosyllable checked fur
ther utterance and froze her lips; but
at length she burst out, passionately :
“ I will speak ! Maxwell, you know
what 1 want to say ! I am very un
happy !” and the hot tears thickened her
voice.
“ What makes you unhappy, Mrs.
Maillard ?”
Yes, the man actually asked that ques
tion—he who knew how that noble, sen
sitive and affectionate girl was suffering.
Not an embrace, no opening of his arms
to draw her to his breast, no kiss on her
quivering mouth, no tremor in his own
tones, but instead that passive question ;
“ What makes you unhappy, Mrs.
Maillard?”
I or an instant the ice thus driven into
the gulf stream of feeling checked its
current; then it came on again, but not 1
to warm as before.
“ I am unhappy because I have suf
fered—am still suffering ; and I want a
reconciliation. You know, Maxwell, those
words spoken in the library the other
night. I was sorry the very minute
afterward.”
“ And I was sorry also, Mrs. Maillard.
Any exhibition of impetuousness—tem
per, I might say—disgusts me. 1 think
any wife ought to know that, and avoid
such things 15ut I forgive you ”
Mr. Maillard said this as sternly as
though he were a judge pronouncing sen
tence—as if he, himself, were not the
cause of it all. A chill ran through poor
Alice’s veins. She had read of lovers’
quarrels and trifling estrangements be
tween the married —hut here was anew
phase. She had expected to be taken to
her husband’s heart and restored to hap
piness again.
She never dreamed of thus being
thrown off, baffled by the power of that
cruel will—she, who was all heart and
affection. If he was only downright an
gry with her—would even scold her—
then the tempest would pass; but no,
there was only this lofty assumption of
superiority. Site was cast back on her
self, and could say nothing.
Chilled, amazed, humiliated, and half
stunned by the turn the matter had
taken, the poor girl-wife went to her
chamber.
Maxwell Maillard sat for perhaps half
an hour <*rc he left the parlor, buried in
a reverie. But his thoughts were not of
a gentle character. One could have
seen that by the lips that were still close
ly shut, and the expression of triumph
that shone in his bright blue eyes. Had
this man a heart, and did it hold one throb
of love for his wife ?
Yes, he thought so. He had been a
most ardent wooer ; he unbent, to enslave,
subdue, and win ; and no lover of younger
years ever could have so completely over
powered the sensitive, impulsive, Ligli
souled, beautiful Alice Amiable as this
stately, handsome, middle-aged gentleman.
Yes, he loved her with a strong, im
perious love, such as men of his type
! feel—a selfish love, in that she ministered
to his pride of possession ; but he loved
himself more. And, as he sat there after
she had left him, the expression of his
eyes fully showed this thought :
“1 intended to let her suffer. And I
intend that she shall suffer more. It is
not a man’s place to yield. A wife’s
spirit should be broken to her husband’s.
When I think she is sufficiently punished
I shall take her back to my heart again.”
And the poor girl above was taking
her first lesson in that bitterest knowledge
that ever comes to woman’s heart —the
feeling that she is treated unfairly and
unkindly. Bhe half doubted if she had
heard her husband speak at all. Had
he even answered her? she asked herself.
How very far apart they seemed still.
Was this the reconciliation to which she
had been looking forward ? Sheshuther
eyelids hard to press back the hot tears ;
and murmured, with a little sob, “ And
yet, when one loves, it is so easy to for
give.”
Poor Alice ! “ The mills of the gods
grind slowly, but they grind exceeding
ly small.” One day that proud, imperi
ous man will weep bitterer tears than he
is now causing you.
Days, and weeks, and months, followed
that first rupture between Maxwell Mail
lard and his wife ; and though to all out
ward appearances they were attentive to
each other, and, in society, as happy as
ever, vet Alice felt that the gulf between
them had never been bridged. She had,
indeed, often essayed to fling across it the
rosy bands of affection ; but in that chill,
icy air they had withered speedily ere
they reached him standing on the other
side. And yet had any one come to that
man, and said to him, “ You are to blame,
and are daily adding to your sin,” he
would have indignantly denied it.
The truth was, his imperious will,
pampered by that first entire submission
on the part of his wife, had grown with
what it fed upon until it overshadowed
his whole nature. Had Alice been a
different woman —less submissive, less
impulsive, more persistent of her rights
—even had she, in acknowledging her
error, thrown a portion of it where it just
ly belonged, on his head, angry though
lie might have been, be would eventually
have found a will that matched his own ;
but she was not of that class. High
spirited she certainly was, but most affec
tionate, and with the greatest sense of
honor and delicacy for the feelings of
others ; and it was offer?, a marvel to her
self how she had been betrayed into that
reply.
Situated as she now was, Alice grew
daily more unhappy. Week after week,
month after month went by; and she
hungered after the word of love that never
came. Sometimes, goaded almost to
agony by this slow torture, she grew
irritable; but the cool eyes, the lofty
manner, and that steady negative course
of her husband—neither repellant nor in
viting—only added to her sorrow. “Her
spirit is not broken yet,” Mr. Maillard
said to himself; and so lie kept up his
system of wifely training.
It was at this time that a summons
came from Allice’s girlhood hoirm.* Her
widowed mother, long an invalid, was
rapidly failing ; and the elder sister—
good, kind, motherly Hester—and her
high-browed, studious twin-brother Hor
ace, whom she had loved with a stronger
affection than sisters usually bestow,
since, up to the time of her marriage,
they had shared the same studies, and
lived in each other’s hearts, united by
that closest tie of twin birth, sent Tin ur
gent message for her presence. She de
parted in haste—so hastily that the train
was reached within an hour after the le
ceipt of the telegram ; and she traveled
alone, as Mr. Maxwell’s business engage
ments were of that nature to detain him
at home at that season.
When the merchant, evening after
evening, returned to his handsome house,
deserted save by the servants, he began
to grow more dissatisfied with its cheer
less aspect than he thought could he pos
sible, or would have acknowledged to an
other. Entering the drawing-room, so
dreary and empty-looking, cue evening
atter he had visited his club, he paused
before an exquisitely crayoned portrait
on the wall, and said, with more feeling
than he had shown for many a month,
“ Home is lonely without you, Alice 1”
Ah, if he had only bethought himself to
i write such a sentence to her!
| The days went by; and, in her girl
hood home, the trio watched around the
bed of their dying mother The summer
vines clambered up against the walls ;
the roses reddened in the garden ; the
| June grass grew tall, and waved in the
warm south winds ; while the hectic
deepened on the consumptive’s cheek,
and the life tide ebbed more faintly
through her heart.
At the close of one of those pleasant
days when the last red sunset arro.v
slanted through the windows, the end
came ; the earth-life lapsed into the better;
and the meek eyes, closing with maternal
love lingering last in their gaze, opened
again to look upon the glories of that
beautiful land where illness never comes
nor Death’s dark pinion droops.
On the day following the funeral Mr.
Maillard bore his wife back to her home
again. At the parting Alice wept unre
strainedly upon the bosom of her twin
brother, then turned to receive her sister's
farewell kiss.
“ I must be mother to you now,” said
Hester—faithful, devoted woman, ten
years older than the weeper she held in
her arms—and then she whispered, “ In
No. 0.
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