o a
natural enjoyment of life."

"Do you want a wife who would be sparing and saving; who, by her
frugality, would increase your wealth; who, by her social seclusion,
would not molest your cash-box?"

"No; I want no wife," answered the young man, somewhat pettishly. "And
I am not alone in this. The young men are beginning to awaken. A sound,
natural feeling revolts against the vitiated taste of the women.
Alliances are forming everywhere. The last paper announced that, at
Marseilles, six thousand young men have, with joined hands, vowed never
to marry until the women renounce their ruinous costumes and costly
idleness, and return to a plain style of dress and frugal habits. I
object to this propensity to ease and pleasure--this desire of our
women for finery and the gratification of vanity. Not because this
inclination is expensive, but because it is objectionable. Every
creature has an object. But, if we consider the women of our day, we
might well ask, for what are they here?

"For what are women here, foolish man?" interrupted Herr Frank. "Are
they to go about without any costume, like Eve before the fall? Are
they to know the trials of life, and not its joys? Are they to exist
like the women of the sultan, shut up in a harem? For what are they
here? I will tell you. They are here to make life cheerful. Does not
Schiller say,

"'Honor to woman! she scatters rife
Heavenly roses, 'mid earthly life;
Love she weaves in gladdening bands;
Chastity's veil her charm attires;
Beautiful thoughts' eternal fires,
Watchful, she feeds with holy hands.'"

Richard smiled.

"Poetical fancy!" said he. "My unhappy friend Emil Schlagbein often
declaimed and sang with passion that same poem of Schiller's. Love
had even made a poet of him. He wrote verses to his Ida. And now,
scarcely three years married, he is the most miserable man in the
world--miserable through his wife. Ida has still the same finely carved
head as formerly; but that head, to the grief of Emil, is full of
stubbornness--full of whimsical nonsense. Her eyes have still the same
deep blue; but the charming expression has changed, and the blue not
unfrequently indicates a storm. How often has Emil poured out his
sorrows to me! How often complained of the coldness of his wife! A ball
missed--missed from necessity--makes her stupid and sulky for days. In
vain he seeks a cheerful look. When he