"Only me!" says the good
woman, soliciting him to leave his companions and accompany her.
Oh, you, is it?" he replies, grumblingly, rising on his right elbow,
and rubbing his eyes with his left hand. Wildly and vacantly he
stares round the hall, as if aroused from a trance, and made
sensible of his condition.
"Yes, me-simply me, who, lost to your affections, is made most
unhappy-" Franconia would proceed, but is interrupted by her
muddling swain.
"Unhappy! unhappy!" says the man of southern chivalry, making sundry
irresistible nods. "Propagator of mischief, of evil contentions, of
peace annihilators. Ah! ah! ah! Thinking about the lustre of them
beggared relations. It always takes fools to make a fuss over small
things: an angel wouldn't make a discontented woman happy."
Franconia breaks out into a paroxysm of grief, so unfeeling is the
tone in which he addresses her. He is a southern gentleman,--happily
not of New England in his manners, not of New England in his
affections, not of New England in his domestic associations. He
thinks Franconia very silly, and scouts with derision the idea of
marrying a southern gentleman who likes enjoyment, and then making a
fuss about it. He thinks she had better shut up her
whimpering,--learn to be a good wife upon southern principles.
"Husbands should be husbands, to claim a wife's respect; and they
should never forget that kindness makes good wives. Take away the
life springs of woman's love, and what is she? What is she with her
happiness gone, her pride touched, her prospects blasted? What
respect or love can she have for the man who degrades her to the
level of his own loathsome companions?" Franconia points to those
who lie upon the floor, repulsive, and reeking with the fumes of
dissipation.
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