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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Who's Ulricardo?" interrupted Crosby, with assumed eagerness, followed by a "hush!" from the ladies. "Perhaps I should have anticipated our friend's humorous question," said Senor Perkins, with unassailable good-humor. "Ulricardo, though not my own name, is a poetical substitute for it, and a mere figure of apostrophe.
And, for Heaven's sake, tell me if you had the least suspicion before of anything that has happened." "Not in the least. The man is mad, my dear, and I really believe driven so by that absurd Illinois woman's poetry. Did you ever see anything so ridiculous and shameful, too as the 'Ulricardo' business? I don't wonder he colored so." Miss Keene winced with annoyance.
When we look back upon our concerts and plays, our minstrel entertainments, with the incomparable performances of our friend Crosby as Brother Bones; our recitations, to which the genius of Mrs. 'When idly Life's barque on the billows of Time, Drifts hither and yon by eternity's sea; On the swift feet of verse and the pinions of rhyme My thoughts, Ulricardo, fly ever to thee!"
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