[I]n my exile and irkeſome diſcontented abandonment, the ſillieſt millers thombe, or contemptible ſtickle-banck of my enemies, is as buſie nibbling about my fame, as if I were a deade man throwne amongeſt them to feede vpon.
[…]he wrote to me last week telling me about an incredible bitch of a row blazing there on account of someone having been and gone and produced an unofficial magazine called Raddled, full of obscene libellous Oz-like filth. And what I though, what Sammy and I thought, was—why not?
a nonpiloted probe
One Brooklynite sought to mail an umbrella and was told that it could not be sent with a tag, but must be wrapped up in a parcel, which would have made a London postoffice man laugh. Another Brooklynite seeking to mail a wooden box of cigars was told that he must find some place where he could buy corrugated paper, and wrap the cedar box with that before it could be sent through the mails.
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