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Updated: June 29, 2025
We were betrothed, Saccharissa Mellasys and I. In vain did Mellasys Plickaman glower along the corridors of the Millard. I pitied him for his defeat too much to notice his attempts to pick a quarrel. Firm in the affection of my Saccharissa and in the confidence of her father, I waived the insults of the aggrieved and truculent cousin. He had lost the heiress. I had won her.
Mellasys was also considered a very unscrupulous person in financial transactions, indeed, what would be named in some communities a swindler; and I have heard it whispered that the estimable, but somewhat obese and drowsy person who passed as his wife was not a wife, ceremonially speaking. The dusky hues of her complexion were also attributed to an infusion of African blood.
And Mellasys held up a highly colored caricature, covering one whole side of my friend's sheet. Saccharissa rose from the sofa where she had been sitting during the whole of my trial. She stood before me, really I cannot deny it, a little, ugly, vulgar figure, overloaded with finery, and her laces and ribbons trembled with rage.
Saccharissa never looked so sweet; Mr. Mellasys never so little like pardon the expression a cross between a hog and a hyena; and I began to fancy that my mother-in-law's general flabbiness of flesh and drapery was not so very offensive. After breakfast, Mr. Mellasys left us. It was, he said, the day of the election for President.
Canaan was cursed with religious rigor on the Mellasys plantation at Bayou La Farouche. All this time Mellasys Plickaman had been my bête noir. I know nothing of politics. Were our country properly constituted, I should be in the House of Peers. The Chylde family is of sublime antiquity, and I am its head in America.
He conducted me toward the banks of Bayou La Farouche. On our way, we were compelled to pass not far from the Mellasys mansion. There was a sound of revelry. It was night. I crept cautiously up and peered into the window. There stood the Reverend Onesimus Butterfut, since a prominent candidate for the archbishopric of the Southern Confederacy.
I resolved to repeat them again, on our arrival there, at my bride's expense. My reading and my reverie were interrupted by the tramp of horses without. Six persons in dress-coats rode up, dismounted, and approached. All were smoking cigars with the lighted ends in their mouths. Mellasys Plickaman led the party. I recognized also the persons who had questioned me as to my politics.
Mellasys would probably go off early with an apoplexy, and the husband of Miss Mellasys would inherit without delay. "And now," continued the planter, "let me introduce you to my daughter." I felt that my fortune was made. I knew that she would speedily yield to my fascinations. And so it proved. In three days she adored me. For three days more I was coy. In a week she was mine.
Sachary Mellasys was, as I was well aware, the great sugar-planter of Louisiana, and Saccharissa his only child. I am an imaginative man. I have never doubted, that, if I should ever give my fancies words, they would rank with the great creations of genius. At the dulcet name of Mellasys a fairy scene grew before my eyes.
The complexion of Miss Mellasys announced a diet of alternate pickles and pralines during her adolescent years, the pickles taken to excite an appetite for the pralines, the pralines absorbed to occupy the interval until pickle-time approached. Neither her form nor her features were statuesque. But the name glorified the person.
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