Wall, it is, sir, full as big as Seth Widrigses tarvern. I won’t compare it to a meetin’-house, no, you can’t make me; the idee would be too sacrilegious to me.
It wuz as big as Seth Widrigses tarvern, barrooms, parlor, dinin’-room, bedrooms, ruff and all. It holds two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles of wine.
The idee! it’s a burnin’ shame! How many fights can be shet up in it at one time—broken hearts, broken heads, murders, etc., etc., etc.!
I won’t talk about it another minute.
Wall, Martin sed that he spozed that it would be expected of him to go and see the Righi.
(I spozed that he thought that in his high, prominent position in society he ort to see some of the most riz-up places, so he settled on that.)
Mont Blanc he sed he should not endeavor to ascend, which wuz, indeed, a comfort to me; for how I wuz a-goin’ to git up on that steep, icy pinnakle with my heft and my rumatiz, to say nothin’ of my umbrell and my pardner, wuz more’n I knew. But if Martin had put his ultimatum on that we must go, I knew that we should have to make the venter.
But he gin up the idee. He is a-gittin’ kinder short-winded himself, though he don’t own up to it. So we clumb the Righi. We rid up on that.
Josiah wuz all carried away with the idee of goin’ up that mountain, because the engine that took us up, instead of bein’ hitched on ahead to pull us up, wuz tackled on behind a-pushin’ us.
Sez he, “Samantha, it will be sech a uneek ride. What will Uncle Sime Bentley say to it, and the other Jonesvillians, when they hear on’t?”