Today’s CLWED (no one can steal this acronym now!), comes from Zabek Shaak (rumoring@premierex.com), with the subject mother and son adored each o. It’s from, according to Google, Rienzi, the last of the tribunes, by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton. That sounds like a fake name to me, but read on:

Ible elements of dyspepsia,–the L. S. D.” As he spoke, Mr. Squills set
his foot significantly upon mine. “But,” resumed my father, mildly,
“though I thank you very much, Squills, for your kind offer, I do not
recognize the necessity of accepting it. I am not so bad a philosopher
as you seem to imagine; and the blow I have received has not so deranged my physical organization as to render me unfit to transact my affairs.” “Hum!” grunted Squills, starting up and seizing my father’s pulse; “ninety-six,–ninety-six if a beat! And the tongue, sir!” “Pshaw!” quoth my father; “you have not even seen my tongue!” “No need of that; I know what it is by the state of the eyelids,–tip scarlet, sides rough as a nutmeg-grater!” “Pshaw!” again said my father, this time impatiently. “Well,” said Squills, solemnly, “it is my duty to say,” (here my mother entered, to tell me that supper was ready), “and I say it to you, Mrs. Caxton, and to you, Mr. Pisistratus Caxton, as the parties most nearly interested, that if you, sir, go to London upon this matter, I’ll not answer for the consequences.” “Oh! Austin, Austin,” cried my mother, running up and throwing her arms round my father’s neck; while I, little less alarmed by Squills’s serious tone and aspect, represented strongly the inutility of Mr. Caxton’s personal interference at the present moment. All he could do on arriving in town would be to put the matter into the hands of a good lawyer, and that we could do for him; it would be time

And there you have it. I now have a name for my first son: Pisistratus.