Mr. Kimball's son so jealous--that he shot himself with a
horse pistuel.

The doctor who attended him--a very scientific man--informed
me that the bullet entered the inner parallelogram of his
diaphragmatic thorax, superinducing membranous hemorrhage in
the outer cuticle of his basiliconthamaturgist. It killed
him. I should have thought it would.

(Soft music.) (Here Artemus Ward's pianist [following
instructions] sometimes played the dead march from "Saul."
At other times, the Welsh air of "Poor Mary Anne;" or
anything else replete with sadness which might chance to
strike his fancy. The effect was irresistibly comic.)

I hope his sad end will be a warning to all young wives who
go out walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son
is now no more. He sleeps beneath the cypress--the myrtle--
and the willow. This music is a dirge by the eminent
pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of
me while I was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there--and seventeen young
widows--the wives of a deceased Mormon--offered me their
hearts and hands. I called on them one day--and taking
their soft white hands in mine--which made eighteen hands
altogether--I found them in tears.