 | Phœnixiana; or, Sketches and burlesques |  |
MELANCHOLY ACCIDENT.—DEATH OF A
YOUNG MAN.
Mr. Mudge has just arrived in San Diego from Arkansas;
he brings with him four yoke of oxen, seventeen American
cows, nine American children, and Mrs. Mudge. They have
encamped in the rear of our office, pending the arrival of the
next coasting steamer.
Mr. Mudge is about thirty-seven years of age, his hair is
light, not a “sable silvered,” but a yaller, gilded; you can
see some of it sticking out of the top of his hat; his costume
is the national costume of Arkansas, coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons
of homespun cloth, dyed a brownish yellow, with a
decoction of the bitter barked butternut—a pleasing alliteration;
his countenance presents a determined, combined with
a sanctimonious expression, and in his brightly gleaming eye
—a red eye we think it is—we fancy a spark of poetic fervor
may be distinguished.
Mr. Mudge called on us yesterday. We were eating
if so, he knows how difficult a thing it is to speak, when the
mouth is filled with the luscious fruit, and the slippery seed
and sweet though embarrassing juice is squizzling out all
over the chin, and shirt-bosom. So at first we said nothing,
but waved with our case knife toward an unoccupied box, as
who should say sit down. Mr. Mudge accordingly seated
himself, and removing his hat (whereat all his hair sprang
up straight like a Jack in the box), turned that article of
dress over and over in his hands, and contemplated its condition
with alarming seriousness.
Take some melon, Mr. Mudge? said we, as with a sudden
bolt we recovered our speech and took another slice ourself.
“No, I thank you,” replied Mr. Mudge, “I wouldn't
choose any, now.”
There was a solemnity in Mr. Mudge's manner that
arrested our attention; we paused, and holding a large slice
of watermelon dripping in the air, listened to what he might
have to say.
“Thar was a very serious accident happened to us,” said
Mr. Mudge, “as we wos crossin the plains. `Twas on the
bank of the Peacus river. Thar was a young man named
Jeames Hambrick along, and another young feller, he got
to fooling with his pistil, and he shot Jeames. He was a
good young man and hadn't a enemy in the company; we
buried him thar on the Peacus river we did, and as we went
off, these here lines sorter passed through my mind.” So
saying, Mr. Mudge rose, drew from his pocket—his waistcoat
he drew from his coat-tail pocket a large cotton handkerchief
with a red ground and yellow figure, slowly unfolded it, blew
his nose—an awful blast it was—wiped his eyes, and disappeared.
We publish Mr. Mudge's lines, with the remark,
that any one who says they have no poets or poetry in Arkansas,
would doubt the existence of William Shakspeare:
DIRGE ON THE DETH OF JEAMES HAMBRICK.
By Mr. Orion W. Mudge, Esq.
our hearts were very sad
for it was by an awfull accident
we lost a fine young lad
Jeames Hambrick was his name
and alas it was his lot
to you I tell the same
he was accidently shot
on the peacus river side
the sun was very hot
and its there he fell and died
where he was accidently shot
on the road his character good
without a stain or blot
and in our opinions growed
until he was accidently shot
for moments he had not
and only then he seemed to choke
I was accidently shot
we wraped him in a blanket good
for coffin we had not
and then we buried him where he stood
when he was accidently shot
and as we stood around his grave
our tears the ground did blot
we prayed to god his soul to save
he was accidently shot
This is all, but I writ at the time a epitaff which I think is
short and would do to go over his grave:—
here lies the body of Jeames Hambrick
who was accidently shot
on the bank of the peacus river
by a young man
with no stopper for the cock to rest on it was one of the old
fashion kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of heaven.
| Phœnixiana; or, Sketches and burlesques | |