University of Virginia Library

A VERY MOURNFUL CHAPTER.

DEATH AND SPIRIT RESURRECTION OF SQUIBOB.
[Reported by his friend Skewball.]

Editor Herald—It becomes my melancholy duty to inform
you of the decease, under most painful circumstances,
of your friend and contributor, the unfortunate “Squibob.”
It has been evident to the public for some days past that his
faculties were becoming much impaired, and his friends had
noticed, with regret, growing evidences of imbecility, evinced
by a disposition to make unnecessary and inappropriate puns,
and a tendency to ridicule the Board of Aldermen, the code
of duelling, and other equally serious subjects and sacred
institutions. Hopes were still entertained of his rallying,
and many believed that he would yet be spared to us; but,
on the 13th instant, he was seized with a violent attack of
the Evening Journal—a species of intermittent epidemic,
which made its appearance regularly at four o'clock each

afternoon, and under the influence of which he rapidly sunk.
He sent for me late yesterday evening, and I had the
mournful satisfaction of being with him in his last moments,
and of closing one of his eyes. I say one of his eyes, for
the other persisted in remaining partly open, and his interesting
countenance, even in death, preserves that ineffable
wink of intelligence which so eminently characterized him
while among the living. I found him suffering much from
physical and mental prostration, but evidently well aware of
his approaching end, and calm and resigned in the contemplation
of that event. Some idea may be formed of his
condition “from a remark that he made:” “I sent to the
cook for a broiled pork chop,” he feebly articulated, “and he
sent me a fried one. It is satisfactory, in one's last moments
thus to receive the consolations of religion from a San Franciscan
Friar.” I could not resist an expression of horror
at this sad evidence of the alarmingly low state to which he
had been brought. He smiled sadly, and said, with ineffable
sweetness, “Never mind—it's better so. My friends have
all advised me to die, and it is my safest course. If I had
continued in the papers, some bellicose individual would have
`called me out,' and the Herald would have been `rifled of
its sweets.”' He was here seized with an alarming paroxysm,
during which his hands were extended in a right line from
the tip of his nose, the fingers separated and “twiddling”
(if I may be allowed the expression) in a convulsive manner.
On recovering, his eye fell on a copy of the Evening Journal.
He shuddered, and muttering, in an incoherent manner,
“I am done Brown,” turned away. I then gave him a glass
of “Bimbo,” which appeared to arouse his energies, and he
requested that his daguerreotype of “Greene,” in his great
character of Sir Harcourt Courtly, might be shown him.
As I held before him the representation of that artist, a
barrel organ in the street below struck up his favorite tune,
“The Low-Backed Car.” As the well-known sound struck
on his ear, a light spread over his countenance. Sitting up
in bed, he seized the miniature and clasped it to his breast.
“Where is M. W.?” he screamed. “Give it me quick!
quick!!” I hastily handed him yesterday's Herald. His
eye fell on the lines. Gazing alternately on them and the
miniature, and eagerly listening to the organ—“Poetry!
Music! and the Drama!” he exclaimed—“Farewell! farewell,
for ever!” The light passed from his visage, his eye
glazed, and falling back upon his pillow, his gentle spirit
passed away without a struggle.

I had left the room to give directions to the weeping
Nancy, with reference to the disposal of the body, when returning,
judge of my surprise at finding him sitting up in bed.
“Look here, old fellow,” said he, “By George! I quite
forgot my last words—“This is the last of earth!—I still
live!!—I WISH THE CONSTITUTION TO BE PRESERVED!!!—
HERE'S LUCK!!!!” Then lying down, and closing one
eye, with a wink, the intense meaning of which beggars all

description, he expired—this time “positively without reserve.”

P. S.—The funeral ceremonies will take place to-morrow,
at 11 o'clock, at “Patty and Barren's,” when the public generally
are invited to attend (with rifles). The “Tangarees”
(of which association the deceased was a member), and the
“Moral Reform Society,” will form around the bier (lager),
and accompany the body to its last resting place.

Winn is now busily engaged in the melancholy duty of
modelling his features in soft gingerbread. A copy of the
bust in candy he promises shall be sent to the offices of the
Herald and the Evening Journal.

A Spiritual Medium (one of the tipping ones) has just
been experimenting in the room with the remains. The
following questions were put, eliciting the following answers—

Question.—“Is the spirit of Squibob present?”

Answer.—“Slightually.”

Question.—“Are you happy?”

Answer.—“Rather.”

The Spirit here asked, through the Medium, the following
question—

“Are the public generally glad I am dead?”

A regard for veracity compelled every person in the room
to reply: “Very!”—when the table on which the experiments
were being conducted was violently capsized, and the
remains, sitting up in bed, threw a boot at the Medium,
which broke up the meeting—the Medium very properly

remarking, that “it would be bootless to prosecute the inquiry
farther.”

Should any thing further of interest transpire, I will
take much pleasure in informing you.