He had been extremely occupied at Rio with the objects of his mission, and probably neglected those precautions observed by coons in a torrid zone. He was seized with a malady beyond the sagacity of the profession, and which suddenly unrove his life line. This evening he was silently consigned to the deep, by the boatswain’s mate, who committed a great breach of propriety in not piping him over. But he probably thought that one who had been so honored in his life could dispense with ceremony at his death. My Ariel, however, who loved the coon, and will long lament his loss, has penned the following:
ELEGY ON THE COON.
Thou meek and melancholy moon!
Smile sweetly on yon curling wave,
For ’neath its foam our gentle coon
Is in his grave.
No more he’ll leave his woodland hole
To frolic with the fox,
Or meet the Whiggies, cheek by jowl,
At ballot-box: