Oh, my dear Mrs. Crowe, don't speak of it! Isn't it _dreadful_ to think of? It is not only _woe_, but WHOA!! You mustn't _look_ at him, woman alive; nor _think_ of him. Just number over all _Mr._ Crowe's excellencies on your ten fingers; get married over again, (if it will help you any); do anything but think of that '_other self_.' I've no manner of doubt but Satan will send him across your path at every turn and corner. Turn your _head_ away, if you can't your _heart_. The more you like him, the more you mustn't let him see it; but, my gracious! you MUSTN'T like him! of course you understand THAT! Shut your eyes to moonlight and starlight; peruse Euclid and _Walker's Dictionary_, (NOT WEBSTER'S!) and _Lives of the Martyrs_, and the Almanac. Don't make your heart soft, reading poetry, or hearing music. _Live low_ and _look high_; redouble your attention to _Mr. Crowe_; drive round as if you hadn't a minute to live; where you used to put _one_ stitch in your husband's coat, put a _dozen_ now! Take good care of the _little 'Crowes_!' and NEVER let Mr. Crowe go on a journey, in these days of steamboat accidents and railroad collisions! He might _get hurt_, you know! How can you tell? 'TISN'T SAFE!'"
"Sambo, what am your 'pinion 'bout de married life? Don't you tink it de most happiest?"
"Well, I'll tell you 'bout dat ere--'pends altogether how dey enjoy themselves."
"Sambo! Sambo! be quiet! You needn't _always_ tell the truth. White folks don't. Just as sure as you do it, you'll lose every friend you have.
"Don't roll up the whites of your eyes at me that way. It's gospel I'm telling you. I promise you I don't go through creation with my eyes shut; and I've found out that good people always tell the truth _when it don't conflict with their interests_; and they like to hear it from you when it hits none of their peculiaristicks! There's your chart and compass, so shape your course accordingly.
"I hope you don't intend to insinuate that matrimony isn't paradise! Guess you forget how bewitching they look when they stand up before the minister, promising all sorts of pretty things and afraid to look each other in the eye! Orange wreaths and bouquet de humbug--alabaster kid gloves--hair curled within an inch of their lives--Brummel neck-tie, patent boots, satin slippers and palpitating hearts! Oh, Sambo! can't make _me_ believe a cloud ever comes over such a blue sky--no indeed! They're just as contented a twelve month after, as a fly in a spider's web.