HIGH-HANDED OUTRAGE AT UTICA

In the fall of 1856 I showed my show in Utiky, a trooly grate sitty in the State of New York.

The people gave me a cordyal recepshun.  The press was loud in her prases.

1 day as I was givin a descripshun of my Beests and Snaiks in my usual flowry stile, what was my skorn & disgust to see a big burly feller walk up to the cage containin my wax figgers of the Lord’s Last Supper, and cease Judas Iscariot by the feet and drag him out on the ground.  He then commenced fur to pound him as hard as he cood.

“What under the son are you abowt?” cried I.

Sez he, “What did you bring this pussylanermus cuss here fur?” & he hit the wax figger another tremenjus blow on the hed.

Sez I, “You egrejus ass that air’s a wax figger—­a representashun of the false ’Postle.”

Sez he, “That’s all very well fur you to say, but I tell you, old man, that Judas Iscariot can’t show hisself in Utiky with impunerty by a darn site!” with which observashun he kaved in Judassis hed.  The young man belonged to 1 of the first famerlies in Utiky.  I sood him and the Joory brawt in a verdick of Arson in the 3d degree.

Copyrighted by G.W.  Dillingham and Company, New York.

AFFAIRS ROUND THE VILLAGE GREEN

And where are the friends of my youth?  I have found one of ’em, certainly.  I saw him ride in a circus the other day on a bareback horse, and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence in green and blue and red and yellow letters.  Dashington, the youth with whom I used to read the able orations of Cicero, and who as a declaimer on exhibition days used to wipe the rest of us boys pretty handsomely out—­well, Dashington is identified with the halibut and cod interests —­drives a fish-cart, in fact, from a certain town on the coast back into the interior.  Hurburtson—­the utterly stupid boy—­the lunkhead who never had his lesson, he’s about the ablest lawyer a sister State can boast.  Mills is a newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major General down South.  Singlingson, the sweet-faced boy whose face was always washed and who was never rude, he is in the penitentiary for putting his uncle’s autograph to a financial document.  Hawkins, the clergyman’s son, is an actor; and Williamson, the good little boy who divided his bread and butter with the beggar-man, is a failing merchant, and makes money by it.  Tom Slink, who used to smoke Short Sixes and get acquainted with the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be the proprietor of a cheap gaming establishment in Boston, where the beautiful but uncertain prop is nightly tossed.  Be sure the Army is represented by many of the friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good account of themselves.