I knew your grandfather well, sir. Sum 16 years ago, while I was
amoosin and instructin the intellectoal peple of Cape Cod with my
justly pop'lar Show, I saw your grandfather. He was then between
96 years of age, but his mind was very clear. He told me I looked
like George Washington. He said I had a massiv intellect. Your
grandfather was a highly-intelligent man, and I made up my mind then
that if I could ever help his family in any way, I'd do so. Your
grandfather gave me sum clams and a Testament. He charged me for
the clams but threw in the Testament. He was a very fine man.

I therefore rite for you, which insures your respectability at once.
It gives you a moral tone at the word go.

I found myself the other night at Niblo's Garding, which is now, by
the way, Wheatley's Garding. (I don't know what's bcum of Nib.) I
couldn't see much of a garding, however, and it struck me if Mr.
Wheatley depended on it as regards raisin things, he'd run short of
gardin sass. [N.B.--These remarks is yoomerous. The older I gro,
the more I want to goak.]

I walked down the isle in my usual dignified stile, politely tellin
the people as I parsed along to keep their seats. "Don't git up for
me," I sed. One of the prettiest young men I ever saw in my life
showed me into a seat, and I proceeded to while away the spare time
by reading Thompson's "Bank Note Reporter" and the comic papers.

The ordinance was large.

I tho't, from a cursiry view, that the Finnigan Brotherhood was well
represented.