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Updated: June 24, 2025
"His own mother ought to know what he was baptized, and here is a letter from her which the postmaster and I opened this morning. Look! 'My dear Aminadab." "Don't believe it, Saccharissa," said I, faintly, "It is only one of those tender nicknames, relics of childhood, which the maternal parent alone remembers." "Silence, culprit!" exclaimed Judge Pyke.
My Saccharissa and myself are both persons of a romantic and dreamy nature. Often for hours we would sit and gaze upon each other with only occasional interjections, "How warm!" "How sleepy!" "Is it not almost time for lunch?" As Saccharissa was not in herself a beautiful object, I accustomed myself to see her merely as a representative of value.
Do you know I think you are a little too severe in calling her a mean, spiteful, slipshod, vulgar, dumpy little flirt?" "Read that again!" shrieked Saccharissa. "You are beginning to find out your Aminadab!" says Plickaman. I moved my lips to deny my name; but the pistol of Billy Sangaree was at my right temple, the pistol of Major Licklickin at my left.
Having consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her perfumed couch, and the companionship of Waller's sweet and sonorous strains, we leave her to determine whether the high and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the Poet's Saccharissa, or the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous Amoret of his idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously bestowed on both.
"Continue, Colonel," said Judge Pyke, severely. Plickaman resumed the reading of my friend's letter. "Well, Bratley," Deblore went on, "I hope you'll be able to stand Bayou La Farouche till you're married. I couldn't do it. I roar over your letters. But I swear I respect your powers of humbug. I suppose, if you didn't let out to me, you never could lie so to your dear Saccharissa.
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.
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.
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