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I take my Pen in hand to inform yu that I'm in
good helth and trust these few lines will find yu injoyin
the same blessins. I wood also state that I'm
now on the summir kampane. As the Poit sez—

Bizness is scacely middlin, but Sirs I manige to
pay for my foode and raiment puncktooally and without
no grumblin. The barked arrers of slandur has
bin leviled at the undersined moren onct sins heze
bin into the show bizness, but I make bold to say no
man on this footstule kan troothfully say I ever
ronged him or eny of his folks. I'm travelin with
a tent, which is better nor hirin hauls. My show
konsists of a serious of wax works, snakes, a

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paneramy kalled a Grand Movin Diarea of the War in
the Crymear, komic songs and the Cangeroo, which
larst little cuss continners to konduct hisself in the
most outrajus stile. I started out with the idear of
makin my show a grate Moral Entertainment, but
I'm kompeled to sware so much at that air infurnal
Kangeroo that I'm frade this desine will be flustratid
to some extent. And while speakin of morrality,
remines me that sum folks turn up their nosis at
shows like mine, sayin they is low and not fit to be
patrernized by peple of high degree. Sirs, I manetane
that this is infernul nonsense. I manetane that
wax figgers is more elevatin than awl the plays ever
wroten. Take Shakespeer for instunse. Peple
think heze grate things, but I kontend heze quite
the reverse to the konrtary. What sort of sense is
thare to King Leer who goze round cussin his darters,
chawin hay and throin straw at folks, and larfin
like a silly old koot and makin a ass of hisself
ginerally? Thare's Mrs. Mackbeth—sheze a nise
kind of woomon to have round aint she, a puttin
old Mack, her husband, up to slayin Dunkan with a

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cheeze knife, while heze payin a frendly visit to their
house. O its hily morral, I spoze, when she larfs
wildly and sez, “gin me the daggurs—Ile let his
bowels out,” or wurds to that effeck—I say, this is
awl strickly propper I spoze? That Jack Fawlstarf
is likewise a immoral old cuss, take him how ye
may, and Hamlick is as crazy as a loon. Thare's
Richurd the Three peple think heze grate things, but
I look upon him in the lite of a monkster. He kills
everybody he takes a noshun to in kold blud, and
then goze to sleep in his tent. Bimeby he wakes up
and yells for a hoss so he kan go orf and kill sum
more peple. If he isent a fit spesserman for the
gallers then I shood like to know whare you find um.
Thare's Iargo who is more ornery nor pizun. See
how shamful he treated that hily respecterble injun
gentlemun, Mister Otheller, makin him for to beleeve
his wife was two thick with Casheo. Obsarve how
Iargo got Casheo drunk as a biled owl on corn
whisky in order to karry out his sneekin desines.
See how he wurks Mister Otheller's feelins up so that
he goze and makes poor Desdemony swaller a piller

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which cawses her deth. But I must stop. At sum
futur time I shall continner my remarks on the
dramer in which I shall show the varst supeeriority
of wax figgers and snakes over theater plays, in a interlectooal
pint of view.

p482-103

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