will make the bestest kind of wives. It sets my Buzzum on
fire to look at 'em.

Be still, my sole, be still,
& you, Hart, stop cuttin up!

I like your skool houses, your meetin houses, your enterprise,
gumpshun &c., but your favorit Bevridge I disgust. I allude
to New England Rum. It is wuss nor the korn whisky of
Injianny, which eats threw stone jugs & will turn the stummuck
of the most shiftliss Hog. I seldom seek consolashun in the
flowin Bole, but tother day I wurrid down some of your Rum.
The fust glass indused me to sware like a infooriated trooper.
On takin the secund glass I was seezed with a desire to break
winders, & arter imbibin the third glass I knockt a small boy
down, pickt his pocket of a New York Ledger, and wildly
commenced readin Sylvanus Kobb's last Tail. Its drefful
stuff--a sort of lickwid litenin, gut up under the personal
supervishun of the devil--tears men's inards all to peaces and
makes their noses blossum as the Lobster. Shun it as you
would a wild hyeny with a firebrand tied to his tale, and
while you air abowt it you will do a first-rate thing for
yourself and everybody abowt you by shunnin all kinds of
intoxicatin lickers. You don't need 'em no more'n a cat needs
2 tales, sayin nothin abowt the trubble and sufferin they
cawse. But unless your inards air cast iron, avoid New
England's favorite Bevrige.

My frends, I'm dun. I tear myself away from you with tears in
my eyes & a pleasant oder of Onyins abowt my close. In the