Frprvary 21, 1874.] BELLES AND BHAUX. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. BY M. R. C. You want to know if I love him? Well, look in my eyes and see If there isn’t an answer ready, At least—whether he loves me? Are they shiny, and bright as jewels? He often says they are; And you see, it’s because his presence Looks out—a reflected star! You want to know why I love him? As if I (or for that matter, you) Could help it, after he’d kissed you, And said, ‘Darling, I love you!” I never ask why I love him, But sometimes, with bated breath, I look at him, listen and wonder How he can love me, till death. T have sat all alone, for hours, And thought over what I had done To deserve such a wealth of affection As he gives me, *bove every one. And then, you ask, do I love him? Oh, I'd lay down my life for his! You want to know why? oh, because! I can’t give any reason but this. THE EVENING BEFORE THE WEDDING. (FROM THE GERMAN.) 66 \ J E shall certainly be very happy to- gether!” exclaimed Miss Louise, to her aunt, the evening previous to her mar- riage; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled with inward delight. Every one may easily imagine when a bride*says ‘‘ we,” whom, in the whole world, she means. “T don’t doubt it, dear Louise,” replied the aunt; ‘‘only take care you remain happy to- gether.” ‘Whoever can doubt our remaining happy? I know myself, and if Iam not quite perfect, yet my lové to him will surely make me s0; and as long as we love each other we can not be unhappy. Our love shall never grow old.” ‘“‘Dear me!” sighed the aunt; ‘‘ you talk just like a young girl of nineteen will talk on the eve of her wedding, ina paroxysm of charming hopes and expectations. My dear girl, remem- ber what I say. Even the heart grows old. There are days in which the charm of the senses must die away, and that delusion once gone, then only it becomes manifest whether we are truly amiable or not. When habit makes what is most captivating an everyday affair, when youthful vigor fades, when more and more troubles crowd among the pleasures of domestic life, then, Louise, and not before that time, is the wife able to say of her hus- band, ‘ He is amiable,’ and the husband of his wife, ‘Her gracefulness is imperishable.’ But really, on the eve of your marriage, such as- sertidhs seem, to my thinking, ridiculous.” “T understand you, dear aunt. You mean to say we shall only learn the value of our mutual virtues in future years. But he to whom I belong, is he not the noblest, worthiest of all young men in the whole town? Does he not show, in all his doings, that goodness and no- bility which always procure happiness?” ‘Dear Louise,” replied the aunt, ‘‘ you are right: and I may say, without flattery, that you both certainly have virtues. But, my darling, they are but blooming, and will take some time yet before they have ripened under sunshine and showers. No blossoms deceive more than these. It is never known in what soil they take root. Who knows the secrets of the heart?” ‘Qh, dear aunt, you frighten me indeed!” “‘So much the better, Louise; it is well that you should be wakened to such reflections on the eve of your marriage. You know I love you sincerely, and therefore I tell you my thoughts. Iam not yet an old aunt. At the age of thirty-seven one still hopes and looks joyfully toward the future. Nor am I a bigot. T have an excellent husband; I am happy; and therefore I think I havea right to speak to you thus, and to draw your attention to a secret of which pretty young girls know little or noth- ing, and young gentlemen trouble but little about; but nevertheless it is of the greatest importance in every household, and can alone produce enduring love and indestructible hap- piness.” Louise took her aunt’s hands in her own. “Darling aunt,” said she, ‘you know I be- lieve every thing you say. You mean to tell me thatconstant happiness and everlasting love are not insured to us by mere casualties, by passing charms, but by the virtues of our souls which we bring each other as the best dowry, and which never grow old.” “That depends, Louise; virtues also grow old, and with old age become like the charms of the body, unattractive.” “Dear aunt, you don’t say so. Pray tell me a virtue that can grow ugly with old age.” ‘‘When once they have become so we no longer call them virtues, the same as with a pretty girl, who is no more spoken of thus when Time has turned her into a shriveled old woman,” “But, dear aunt, virtues are not temporal or perishable.” “That depends,” “How can good-nature become ugly?” ‘The very Moment it changes into effemi- nate laxness.” “And manly courage?” . “‘ Becomes rough insolence,” “ And modesty?” “Changes into servility.” “ And noble pride?” “To mean haughtiness.” “ And politeness?” _ “ Acting the parasite.” “No, dear aunt, no. You make me almost angry. Thus my future husband can never degenerate, He has one virtue which will keep him from all wrong paths: he has asound mind and an indelible passion for all that is great, good, and beautiful. And this tender senti- mentality for all that is noble liyes in me as well asin him. Thus there is within us a born guarantee of happiness.” “And should it grow old with you, it would become unpleasant susceptibility, which is the arch-destroyer of matrimonial felicity. Sensi- bility I do not wish to deny you; but God for- bid that my graceful girl should become, in advanced life, a fastidious and querulous wo- man. You know the Countess Stammern?” “Who, about a year ago, was divorced from her husband?” “You know the true cause of her divorce?” “There are many different reports about it.” “The countess herself told me the whole af- fair, and now I will tell it to you. It is in- structive as well as ludicrous, and may, indeed, be serviceable as an example.” Louise being very anxious to hear the story, her aunt straightway related it: Count Stammern and his wife passed for the most amiable, the most enviable of couples. Their union resulted from mutual inclination of affection after several years’ acquaintance. They loved each other with enthusiasm. Each appeared to have been created for the other— handsome, kind, and regardful—of perfect agreement in graces, sentiments, and ideas. I remember well the scenes that occurred when they were first formally betrothed, and the parents, happening to disagree, desired the union to be annulled. The countess fell dan- gerously ill, and the enthusiastic lover threat- ened to terminate his life like Goethe’s Wer- ther. To save, however, the life of the young and beautiful countess, and to prevent the count committing so rash an act, the parents were obliged, nolens, volens, to become, at least apparently, reconciled. The reconciliation pre- vented the untimely end of the betrothed pair. Scarcely, however, was the countess out of danger, when the parents again flew out at each other, and endeavored to postpone the marriage for two years. But this did not suit our young couple; so one fine night they elop- ed, passed the frontier, got married, returned as man and wife, and forthwith established for themselves a paradise on earth. From this moment the union of that couple was looked upon as one of the happiest, and as a model pattern of harmony and peace. From morn- ing to night they seemed to think of nothing else but how to please each other. They ad- dressed poems the one to the other, and the other to the ene, the most amiable, the most affectionate, imaginable. Winter as well as summer each embellished the other’s rooms with the most beautiful flowers. Each sepa- rate piece of ‘furniture became endeared to them by some sweet reminiscence or other. The second year these excesses of sentimental- ity became a little relaxed, and they went abroad. But at all parties, balls, and places of amusement they saw but themselves, looked but for each other, cared only for each other. It became almost offensive. The third year they gave up the amiable naughtiness in pub- lic. At home, however, they remained much the same. The fourth year they seemed to re- cover from this paroxysm of love, and, so far as they were able to separately—he, here; she, there—passed an evening, and sometimes a whole day, in company, without feeling home- sick. Thus time went on, and each succeeding twelve months reduced the egotism of their affection ; until, in the tenth year, they were like ourselves, or rather like all good and ex- cellent people who have been married ten years. Now they had become ten years older, so had their love, and, alas! their virtues also, Their sentimentality had made them the pro- verb of the whole town, and everybody liked them for it, and sympathized with them. The seventeenth year misunderstandings oc- curred, and nothing was easier than to make one suspect the expressions of the other ; but this they ascribed to the sincerity of their affec- tion, for no wound is so poisonous as the dark look of a beloved person. During the eight- eenth year frequent disputes took place, but without serious consequences—and such hap- pen in the best regulated families. They looked cold for a day or two, and then smiled again. The nineteenth year their mutual sus- ceptibility made them resolve to avoid too fre- quent contact. ‘You are susceptible,” said the count, “and irritable. So am I—sometimes. That won’t do. You may become violent; so may I. I think, however, it will be best for me to let you do as you like, while I do as I like. Thus we can live happily together without worrying each other. We love each other, of course; we must not, however, allow our love to tor- ment us to death.” The countess thought the same. Thencefor- ward they kept a double household, and only met at dinner. One evening, during the nineteenth year, after returning from the theater, they supped together, chatting before the fire. They were yet full of emotion produced by one of Iffland’s splendid dramas. The happiness of conjugal and domestic life, the description of which de- lighted them so much on the stage, seemed to be vivified and advanced to actuality now they were at home. ; “Dear me!” said the countess. ‘It’s all very well, if you could but remain young.” ‘‘T am sure you have no reason to complain. Where is there a woman looking so well as you do? I cannot see the least difference be-. tween my wife of ae and my wife of twenty years ago. ew whims, perhaps; but these one must submit to. Our union is, nevertheless, one of the most enviable on earth. Were I a single man, and happened to see you, . You may depend upon that. upon my word to none other would I offer my hand and heart.” “Very polite, I must confess,” said the countess, sighing. ‘‘ But, my dear friend, con- sider, Already twenty years! What am I now? what was I then?” “Now a pretty wife—then a pretty little girl. I would not exchange the one for the other!” And he kissed her fondly. ““We should be happy—quite happy, but for one thing, my dear, dear friend. One bless- ing, which completes the happiness of marriage, is denied us—” “‘T understand you; you mean an heir or heiress—a being to inherit thy gracefulness and virtue; but,” added the count, kissing his wife’s hand, ‘‘ you are only thirty-eight, and I a few years past forty: who knows? Per- haps—” “Oh! how happy I should be! _ Although one child gives not less care and trouble than joy. The least mishap may take it from us.” “Therefore two children, You are right. And not only two, but three; because, with two, if one should die, you are still in the same dilemma. I am sure heaven will hear our prayers, and three children will yet play around us.” “Dear friend,” said the countess, smiling; “it is almost too much. If they happen to be boys?” ‘ “Well, we have an ample fortune—enough for us and for them. The eldest shall enter the army; the second shall be a diplomatist: expensive professions, but they will rise in rank. ‘You know we have relatives and influ- ence—” ‘‘You forget the youngest, my dear Charles.” “The youngest?) Not atall! We'll prepare him for the church—so there is a good prospect in store for him.” ‘What did you say? My son a priest! No, never! That shall never be—never !” “Will you allow me to ask—why not? He may become a bishop.” ‘“Never—never, I say! I will never be the mother of a priest. Of what are you thinking? If I had a hundred sons I would never consent to it.” ‘CA strange whim of yours, dear wife. In spite of all and every aversion to priests, you would not, certainly, oppose yourself to his hap- piness and ours ?” ‘*T declare, most solemnly, it shall never be! Call it bad temper, whim, or anything you please. I know that you have a whim—which is the love of having everything your own way. Don’t forget, however, that a mother has cer- tain rights.” } ‘Not in affairs of this kind, The father has judgment—” “Tf such judgment should not, however, suffice ?” “Tf mine should not suffice, miladi, yours would certainly be the last I should ask for. Should such be the case, I shall know how to make my will re- spected.” “Dear me! Iam aware that you are my husband and master; but certainly I have not the honor to be your servant-maid.” i “Nor I your fool, miladi. I have always showed you indulgence in everything—perhaps too much so; but, willingly as I bear with your caprice, pardon me for thinking there are some- times ideas which are rather too ridiculous.” ‘Much obliged to you for the moralization, —of which you have yourself given me this very moment so convincing and practical a proof. Whoever may have been the most in- dulgent, I know that for many years I have submitted silently to your caprices, and par- doned them generously—ascribing them to want of reflection and breeding rather than to the absence of a good heart—but you tire out the most divine patience—” “With regard to that, you are certainly in the right, miladi. Your whims and vagaries have tried my patience most severely, and you may call it good luck that I have endured them so long; for believe me that I speak sincerely when I say it has been by no means pleasant to make one’sself the obedient servant of your flights. I must tell you so, once and for all.” “Tf I had only determined to speak my mind,” rejoined the countess, ‘‘I could have told you years ago of your being a proud, self- sufficient egotist, with whom it is really diffi- cult to get on in any fashion.” “Indeed! That accounts for your talking so much about discernment and delicacy. You may deceive others—thank Heaven! I am un- deceived. The more perfectly I become ac- quainted with you, the more disgusting do I find your affectations; and, upon my word, were it not that I had compassion upon you, I would long ago have sent you back to your friends, in order that I, at least, might live in peace.” “You only anticipate my wishes. A clumsy and tiresome egotist like yourself is not created to make the happiness of a sensible woman, and after such an explanation you may easily im- agine that no greater pleasure or relief can be in store for me than to be quit of you as soon as possible.” “ Delightful indeed! All comes aboveboard now. Itake you at your word, and wish for nothing better. Good-night, madam! pleasant dreams to you! To-morrow we will see all this settled.” ‘The sooner the better, milord.” Thus they separated. On the morrow a no- tary was called in. Witnesses were procured, the act of divorcee written out, and signed on both sides, in spite of the entreaties, expostula- tions, and scolding of friends, relatives, and even persons of high rank. Thus a long and apparently happy union was abruptly broken off, The ridiculous quarrel about the future destination of three song not yet born broke up, betwixt two persons, that happiness which was expected to last forever. And really the count and countess were among the most agreeable persons in the world, Nothing can be preferred against them except weakness—and to that, however, we are all liable.” “Ludicrous and amusing you call this tale!” said Louise to her aunt, with a sad look. “I am quite low-spirited about it. I comprehend now how very excellent people will make their union turn out unhappily. You ought to con- sole and comfort me, because you know you have done much toward making me wretched. I should never be able to look my future hus- band in the face without fear for our future state! Only think! what a misfortune—” “What do you mean ?” asked the aunt. “Oh, dear aunt, if I could only remain young, I could then be certain of my husband’s everlasting attachment,” “You are very much mistaken, dear child. If you were to preserve your freshness and beauty forever, long habit would be sure to make your husband indifferent toward it. Habit is the greatest necromancer in the world as well as one of the most benevolent household gods. Handsome as well as ugly, all become alike. If one is youmg and grows old, habit prevents the husband from observing it, and vice versa. If she remained young while he became old, it might lead to consequences— the old gentleman might become jealous. It is better as itis. Only imagine yourself an old matron, and your husband a blooming young man! What would your thoughts be then ?” Louise blushed, and said, “‘I don’t know.” “But,” continued the aunt, ‘I'll tell you a secret, which—” : “That’s it!” interrupted Louise, eagerly. “That’s just what I should like to hear,” “Now listen to me,” resumed the aunt. “Take heed of all I’m going to tell you now. I have experience. It consists of two parts. The first part relates to the sources of a happy union; prevents, in itself, all possibility of dis- cord; would, at last, make spiders and flies the very best friends, The other and second part gives the surest and safest method to preserve female gracefulness.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Louise. “Now, then, for the first part. Almost im- mediately after the wedding, take your hus- band, and demand of him a solemn promise, offering to take the same yourself. Vow to each other that you will never, even for a mere joke, tease or quarrel with each other. Never; I tell you, never. Because teasing and quarrel- ing in fun may change, at length, to teasing and quarreling in good earnest. Take this as a warning. Then you must promise each other, sincerely and solemnly, never to have any secrets between you, whatever reason or excuse you may have for them. You must know each other thoroughly, and if either of you should have committed a mistake, it should be in- stantly confessed, without a moment’s hesita- tion; even should it be with tears in your eyes, only confess it, And, in the same manner as there are no secrets betwixt you, endeavor to keep your domestic, matrimonial, and other ‘matters in secret from your father, mother, sister, brother, aunt, and all the world, God and yourselves are sufficient to be acquainted therewith, Every third person you include would side with either the one or the other, and create mischief. This must never be. Promise this faithfully to each other; renew your promise with every temptation, and you will find that all will be well. Thus you will unite hearts and souls and become one. Many a young couple, if they had but known on their wedding-day this simple recipe of pru- dence, and practiced it, would be happier than they unfortunately are.” Louise embraced and kissed her aunt ar- dently, saying, ‘‘My dear aunt, I easily per- ceive it must be so; and wherever this com- plete confidence does not exist, the wedded couple remain but as strangers, not knowing each other, even after their union. It shall be so, for otherwise there can be no happiness. And now, my dear aunt, something about the best means to preserve female beauty?” The aunt smiled and said: ‘You know, my dear girl, we cannot deny that a handsome man pleases us a hundred times more than a plain one, and men like very much to see us handsome. What, however, we really like in men, and men in us, is not mere skin, hair, features, figure, etc., as with a statue, but the prime source of delight is in the heart, and the sentiment which, thence arising, gives signifi- cance and eloquence to every look, every word, and every action, to earnestness, to joy, and sadness. Men adore us the more they suppose us to be possessed of virtues of the heart which our exteriors promise, and, on our part, we find a malicious’ man loathsome, however handsome he may be. A young woman, there- fore, who wishes to preserve her beauty, must endeavor to cherish the same mind, the same excellent qualities of the heart, and the same virtues, by which she attracted her lover; and the finest agency by means of which virtue may be kept from growing old, and enshrined in perennial youth, is religion. Preserve an innocent and pious heart, trusting constantly in God, and you will always have that beauty of soul for the sake of which thy lover adores thee at present. Iam no Pharisee, nor am I a bigot. I am your aunt of seven-and-thirty years. I am fond of dancing, I am fond of dressing myself, and I like to joke. So you cannot take it amiss that I speak to you thus. Be, and continue to be, a good and sincere Christian, and take my word for it you will be handsomer when a mother—still handsomer “— a grandmother!” uise, with tears upon her ha ace, em- braced her aunt tenderly, — “T thank zm,” said she, “my dear, dear, angelic aunt|”