“Oh now let us in, that’s a sweet man,” sed several femailes, puttin thare arms rownd me in lovin stile. “Becum 1 of us. Becum a Preest & hav wives Sealed to you.”
“Not a Seal!” sez I, startin back in horror at the idee.
“Oh stay, Sir, stay,” sed a tall gawnt femaile, ore whoos hed 37 summirs must hev parsd, “stay, & I’ll be your Jentle Gazelle.”
“Not ef I know it, you won’t,” sez I. “Awa, you skanderlus femaile, awa! Go & be a Nunnery!” That’s what I sed, jes so.
“& I,” sed a fat chunky femaile, who must hev wade more than too hundred lbs., “I will be your sweet gidin Star!”
Sez I, “Ile bet two dollers and a half you won’t!” Whare ear I may Rome Ile still be troo 2 thee, Oh Betsy Jane! [N.B. Betsy Jane is my wife’s Sir naime.]
“Wiltist thou not tarry hear in the Promist Land?” sed several of the miserabil critters.
“Ile see you all essenshally cussed be 4 I wiltist!” roared I, as mad as I cood be at thare infernul noncents. I girded up my Lions & fled the Seen. I packt up my duds & left Salt Lake, which is a 2nd Soddum and Germorrer, inhabitid by as theavin & onprincipled a set of retchis as ever drew Breth in any spot on the Globe.
Artemus Ward.