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The others also gave her the best compliments they could, poor fellows! I could have taught them what to say. Here a grinning negro interrupted with, "De tar-kittle's a b'ilin' on de keen jump, Mas'r Mellasys." "Gentlemen of the Jury," said Judge Pyke, "as you had agreed upon your verdict before the trial, it is not requisite that you should retire to consult.
Mellasys, my defeated rival introduced the subject of politics. "I suppose you are a good Democrat, Mr. Chylde?" said one of the strangers. "No, I thank you," replied I, sportively, meaning, of course, that they should understand I was a good Aristocrat. "Who's your man for President?" my interlocutor continued, rather roughly.
Mellasys, rising, "this is truth! this is eloquence! this is being up to snuff! You are a high-toned gentleman! you are an old-fashioned Christian! you should have been my partner in slave-driving! Your hand!" The quality of the Mellasys hand was an oleaginous clamminess. My only satisfaction, in touching it, was, that it seemed to suggest a deficient circulation of the blood. Mr.
Before I did so, however, I took pains, by the exhibition of the "New York Herald" in my hands, to show that my political sentiments were unexceptionable. I lost no time in consulting the books of the hotel for the names and homes of the strangers. I read as follows: Saccharissa Mellasys! I rolled the name like a sweet morsel under my tongue.
There was certainly more curl in her hair than I could have wished; and Saccharissa's wiggy looks waged an irrepressible conflict with the unguents which strove to reduce their crispness. Indeed, why should I not be candid? Mellasys per se was a pill, Mrs. Mellasys was a dose, and Saccharissa a bolus, to one of my refined and sensitive taste. But the sugar coated them.
I have no doubt that she longed to rush out, fling herself at my feet, and pray me to forgive her and reconsider my verdict of dumpiness and vulgarity. Meantime I had been reduced to my shirt and drawers, excuse the nudity of my style in stating this fact. Mellasys Plickaman took a ladle-full of the viscous fluid and poured it over my head. "Aminadab," said he, "I baptize thee!"
Suffice it to say that I had spoken of Mr. Mellasys Plickaman as a person so very ill-dressed, so very lavish in expectoration, so entirely destitute of the arts and graces of the higher civilization, merited. His companions required that he should read his own character. He did so.
They entered the apartment where I sat alone with Saccharissa. "Thar he is!" said Mellasys Plickaman. "Thar is the d d Abolitionist!" Seeing that he indicated me, and that his voice was truculent, I looked to my betrothed for protection. She burst into tears and drew a handkerchief. An odor of musk combated for an instant with the whiskey reek diffused by Mr. Plickaman and his companions.
"Bring the cotton!" now cried Mellasys Plickaman. A bag of that regal product was brought. "Roll him in it!" said Billy Sangaree. "Let the Colonel work his own tricks," Major Licklickin said. "He's an artist, he is." I must admit that he was an artist. He fabricated me an elaborate wig of the cotton. He arranged me a pair of bushy white eyebrows.
My reader is no doubt aware that at the fashionable bar-room the cigars are all of the same quality, though the prices mount according to the ambition of the purchaser. I found Mr. Mellasys gasping with efforts to light a dime cigar. Between his gasps, profane expressions escaped him. "Sir," said I, "allow a stranger to offer you a better article."
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